Fantasy Iron & Lightning // Grishaverse & Gangs // RP Thread

[Aviator]

Nikita Kozlov // Male // Age 16 // Razorgulls // Ravkan // Alkemi​

Nikita Kozlov’s shoulders slumped in relief when he rolled the carriage to a stop outside of the Blue Olive, a tavern in neutral Barrel territory, allowing its dangerous occupants to disembark. In that moment, he wasn’t sure which of the three women he wanted to be farthest away from: the former Drüskelle with the six-foot wolf companion; the boss who had killed her own brother to claim leadership of the gang; or the quietly simmering ex-girlfriend who had spoken ominously little to Nika all week, making him unsure whether she was privately going through a breakup phase and would eventually come around to talking to him again, or if this state of unspoken hostility was forevermore their new dynamic.
Nika had never seen the Blue Olive so dark before; the orange glow of a gaslamp from a second-story window was the only indication that anyone was inside. The establishment was a tavern with loose ties to all four of the major Barrel gangs and drew enough of a crowd that, had it not served the noble purpose of being the rendezvous site when the gangs’ leaders needed to parley, it would have eventually been forced to declare allegiance to one of them. From the outside, it was a two-story wooden structure with an unassuming air, an assortment of metal tables and chairs arranged outside of its front. Nonetheless, on weekends it was quite the haunt for both tourists and locals alike—or so Nika had heard. Minus the occasional glass of kvas, he tended to avoid taverns.
He nimbly hopped down from his coachman’s perch and opened the carriage door, arranging the short set of stairs for the passengers to descend. The Drüskelle girl—Valeria; Nika usually was better at remembering faces than names, but there was no way he could forget either of hers—was the first to step out. She was followed by Mireli Enache, who appeared to be willfully refraining from so much as glancing in Nika’s general direction, her back straight as she stalked toward the Blue Olive. The last to leave was Giavanna Caballero. Nika was sure to be out of the Razorgulls’ boss’s line of sight when she appeared in the doorway of the carriage, having scrambled back up to his perch at the coach. He would have to descend again to secure the stairs and close up the carriage, but that was all right, a small price for Caballero to slink wordlessly after her subordinates and forget about Nika, praise Ghezen.
But Ghezen was not feeling generous this morning. Nika was fumbling with his jurda pipe and lighter, trying to appear busy as he touched one to the other, counting the footsteps that Caballero took until it was safe to look up. He heard the soft treads of her flats take one step, two, and then silence. Blood was roaring so loudly in Nika’s ears that he barely perceived Caballero clearing her throat. “Put that away, Kozlov; it looks unprofessional.”
Nika’s insides funneled into his toes at the sound of her voice. He had to consciously remind himself that Giavanna Caballero was a thirty-something-year-old woman and not a demon. “Then park the carriage and accompany us inside,” the Razorgulls’ boss said with her usual flat affect, nearly empty of inflection. Nika turned toward her, but the predawn sky was still too dark for him to read her expression and rendered Caballero into a slender outline, her hands thrust into the pockets of her blazer against the winter chill.
His mouth opened and closed repeatedly like a beached fish. “But you never invite me to sit in on meetings,” he stammered at last when he’d regained the ability to speak. Caballero was a creature of habit, resistant to change; Nika thought his best chance of being spared from having to attend this meeting lay in reminding his leader that he’d never attended a past meeting. “I’m just a coachman.”
Caballero almost never smiled, and Nika couldn’t see her face clearly enough to confirm it, but he imagined a humorless quirk of her lips. “Come now, we both know that’s not true,” the woman chided softly. Nika internally shuddered at the allusion to his biggest secret, even though Mireli and Valeria were far out of earshot by now. “I too would prefer Lindner’s company to yours in this instance, but unfortunately he is still convalescing from last week’s skirmish with the Black Tips. That leaves you,” Caballero said not unkindly, but with unflappable matter-of-factness. Actually, Nika was surprised to hear her say that she would prefer her lieutenant’s company to his in this instance, rather than generally speaking.
Not wanting to risk his leader’s ire by further questioning his qualifications for attending the meeting—he was a sixteen-year-old kid, he wasn’t a particularly skilled fighter—Nika reluctantly obeyed, flicking the reins to guide the carriage to a more suitable parking location. He tethered the two Haflinger horses to a post, pausing to muss his fingers through their pale manes and murmur soothingly, then turned back to where Caballero had been standing. But she was gone now, having silently receded into the Blue Olive on her own.
Only two other carriages were waiting at posts when Nika had parked, indicating that most of the attendees at this morning’s meeting—what was it even about, anyway? He had no idea—still had yet to arrive. A stiff wind gusted along the cobbled path leading to the tavern, making Nika tug his coat more snugly around himself. Pain twinged dully in his knee, a souvenir from a rumble between gangs from over a year ago. Nonetheless, Nika thoroughly enjoyed winter, even the Ketterdam variant, where the wind was harsher, the snow flecked black with coal smoke, and everything reeked of salt from the nearby harbor. Winter reminded him of home, a distant time in his life when he had been safe and removed from the daily, life-threatening dangers of the Kerch underworld. Although, if Nika was being honest with himself, it had been so long since he had last seen Ravka that he was coming to think of it less and less as home.
The floor of the Blue Olive was sticky. Nika’s glossy derby shoes made hair-raising squelching sounds as he crossed the room to the staircase, moving slowly and carefully through the darkness. He considered brushing his fingers along the wall for guidance, but decided against it; if the floor was so disgusting, he was loath to take his chances with the walls. Managing to navigate around tables and booths without falling, he ascended the winding iron staircase and arrived at the second floor. Warm light spilled from beneath the crack in the first door to his left. Nika paused to take a deep breath before entering, feeling as if he were gearing up to face a firing squad and desperately wishing that he had taken at least one hit of jurda in advance.
A long mahogany table dominated the room, above which a chandelier dangled from an ornate gold chain. Bookshelves lined the walls, and a comfy-looking armchair rested in one corner. The room smelled sweet but with a bitter edge, like honey and wine. Sure enough, several bottles of dark glass were arrayed along the top of one of the bookshelves, but no one dared drink from them. Nika would have been able to detect whether his own drink or those of his comrades was poisoned at a glance, but no one was supposed to know that. Giavanna Caballero was not the type to ever put all her cards on the table.
Two priests of the Church of Ghezen quietly watched the proceedings from beside the window, their hands clasped before their chest in prayer. Whenever Ketterdam’s major gangs met to parley, it was customary to have the meeting presided over by at least one priest to discourage any attempts at violence. It was said that Ghezen viewed the world through His priests’ eyes, and bloodshed under truce was punished with the eternal damnation of both the perpetrator and their entire family. This irony never failed to amuse Nika; here was a roomful of the Barrel’s toughest, whose livelihoods consisted of assassinations, robberies, and extortion, yet in the presence of Ghezen some of them hesitated to even utter expletives.
Nika took his seat at the table, two to the right of Caballero. She was flanked by Mireli and Valeria to either side, and as the lowest ranking (at least publicly) of the three of them, it was expected of Nika to sit farthest from her. He had no problem with that, of course. Now it came down to a choice between the ex-Drüskelle or his ex-girlfriend. With only a second of deliberation, Nika elected to sit next to Mireli, who he liked to think did not hate him enough to wish him dead in spite of recent events. Valeria, he was not so sure about, especially if she ever caught on to Nika’s secret. But he was determined to ensure it never came to that.
“‘Lo, Darne,” Giavanna Caballero spoke from her seat at the head of the table to the only other boss currently in attendance. Darne of the Dime Lions sat opposite her, more than a dozen feet away, but the room was so deadly silent that Caballero did not have to raise her voice to be heard. She was a rigidly utilitarian woman; her olive complexion bore no makeup, revealing the beginnings of dark circles beneath her eyes as she stared down the length of the table at one of her biggest rivals. “How’s the wife and kids?” From her voice it was plain she was uninterested in Darne’s answer; the question was asked merely as a thin attempt at politeness. While the Dime Lions leader prepared to answer, Nika let his gaze slide curiously to the two subordinates flanking Darne, a young man of Shu heritage and a Zemeni boy who looked only a year or two older than himself. Nika thought he recognized the Shu man from previous gatherings to which he had unwillingly chauffeured Caballero, but the Zemeni boy? Nika focused on him with renewed interest, hyperaware of his slightly crooked nose and the dimple in his jaw.

 

[tanto]

There had been something odd in the air that morning. Some feeling Feroze couldn't quite place a name too at first, even in those undisturbed, earliest moments of day when he'd tried underneath the darkness of his rooms. He didn't exactly get the sufficient time too though as before long his door was cracking opening without invitation. A pale head, bald apart from the tufts of hair on the side of each ear, cautiously made itself known through the fissures of emerging light.

Darne needed him, said baldie-- Clancy-- had insisted between sharp exhalations of breath, get ready. For what exactly the older man had been typically evasive on. But for once it didn't seem like his lack of a proper response was colored by his usual smug reluctance. There was uncertainty in the man's dark eyes, the fearful kind that could come from most anyone in the Dime Lion's when it felt as if Darne was intentionally leaving them in the dark about something. Something big.

Blessing his own good fortune on being one of the fortunate ones this day, Feroze had cast a final glance out of his window into the gloom of the still sun-less day. The feeling was ominous, he decided.

Making quick work of dressing in his usual uniform of dark clothes and concealed steel, Feroze had headed straight to Darne’s usual offices with the expectation that there would be a briefing of sorts. And while there was one, it was a little more lacking in information then Feroze was accustomed too. There was to be a meeting of all Kech’s major gang-lords Darne had started off, speaking so nonchalantly it almost undercut the awe that swelled through the room at that historic fact.

They were escorts, there were to be no visible weapons, and no speaking to anyone apart from those in the chosen group about it. Though that bit of information seemed enough to sate most in the group for now, for Feroze it only piqued his curiosity more. Though Feroze wanted, felt he needed more information, Darne’s mood was so obviously shifting towards irritation that it felt idiotic, frankly, to push on the subject any further. So Feroze took the hint for silence (that was becoming more evident with the menacing glances Darne was sending another of his chattier subordinates), kept it even during that long carriage ride out of Dime Lion territory and into the neutral grounds of the Blue Olive.

And his reward for it came just moments after they’d arrived, disembarked into the empty lot. Darne’s hand closed over his shoulder, pausing him momentarily as the others made their way past the Church of Ghezen priests standing guard over the taverns worn doors. Glancing at the older man, Feroze half-hoped the question in his eyes wasn’t too obvious before abandoning that hope as Darne’s clearly bemused eyes touched over his own—he’d always been easy for the man to read, if no one else.

“If you’re so curious, keep an eye on the Dregs,” Darne murmured. “they called this meeting for a reason. I think it might have to do with why they’ve been so unseen as of late.”

Though the statement offed more questions then it did answers, Feroze managed a sharp nod, falling into pace a step or two behind the man as he headed after his subordinates into the Blue Olive. As they neared the taverns doors, Feroze felt at once the usual swirl of discomfort in his gut that came with being so close to religious figures, particularly these men who were supposedly the eyes of a deity. It always made him feel judged to stand before one of them, like they could see everything that was him with just a glance. Eye contact had never made him feel more naked.

As Darne paused in his steps to acknowledge the priests, Feroze was forced too as well. He nodded a couple of times, lowered his chin, hid his discomfort as best he could with the briskness of his manner. Beside him, Darne went about his usual greeting—the tightly clasped hands, lowered gaze, the usual reverence for the Ghezen deity vocalized in the Dime Lion’s leader’s deep voice. Feroze could only breathe a sigh of relief once it was over and he could finally walk past them and up dark steps.

What few others there amongst the Dime Lions numbers were waiting almost too quietly in the first room up above, only seating themselves once Darne had selected a spot at the head of the table. Said man spread his arms out comfortably on the tables mahogany surface, somehow managed to look confident in spite of the tense energy in the room amongst his subordinates. And his renewed, seemingly good mood spread quickly—As Feroze took a seat the low hum of conversation was already starting, only quieting once the next of the arriving gangs made their way in.

Looking over the new arrivals carefully, Feroze noted the gender demographics seemed to be almost opposite the primarily male group of Dime Lions. The leader of the Razorgulls—Giavanna, his mind helpfully supplanted – was a woman, and it appeared her selected close subordinates were as well.

In the silence that followed their entrance Feroze let his dark eyes play over each person in turn—the brown-haired girl with the dark-lined pale eyes who looked more pretty than threatening (though the fact that she was sitting at the Razorgulls leader’s side kind of invalidated that bit of prejudice), the more dangerous looking if exotic girl two seats from her at Giavanna’s other side. And then one man was—no, a younger boy with light-brown hair and prominent cheekbones –was making his way in last to sit at the pale-eyed girls side.

Tearing his eyes from the Razorgull leader’s rather mismatch group of subordinates as she abruptly spoke, Feroze felt Darne tense almost imperceptibly before he let out a rumble of laughter at her direct addressal.

“The family is fine, Gia. It’s very kind of you to ask. The same be said about what’s left of yours, I hope?”

Faintly recalling how the woman’s bid for power had cost her part of said family, Feroze privately thought not, though he kept his thoughts to himself. They didn’t really seem like they’d be helpful here. Instead, he turned his gaze back towards that unfamiliar group, towards eyes he hadn’t noticed were pine-green, and intensely focused on his. There was something about them, some odd quality they held that briefly kept Feroze’s gaze fixed for a couple of too-long moments, before he remembered himself and forced his eyes away, back towards Darne who was conveniently speaking again.

“I do hope those Dregs won’t keep us waiting for much longer. They are the ones that called this little meeting.”

 

[DaydreamingBookworm9]

Code

Zosime

Amahle

.

The news of the Dregs’ boss death had come as a surprise to Zosime. She hadn’t been expecting anyone to be bold enough to attempt to murder one of Ketterdam’s most notorious gang leaders, let alone successfully complete their endeavour without getting caught. It was clear the assassin knew how to do their job flawlessly. Zosime couldn’t help but admire the murderer.

Admittedly, she couldn’t say she felt sad about her boss’ death, not at all. Even though the man had accepted a desperate young Zosime in his gang, he was still a wretched man and Zo wasn’t a fan of manipulative, cold people. If he ever smiled she might have had a faint affinity for him but his face was permanently stuck to a stony blank expression, similarly to every gang boss in the city. Unoriginal and boring. It goes without saying though that Zo put on an act of adoring her boss every time they met, in hopes of her mom’s debt being paid off sooner, but now that he’d died all that effort had been for nothing. Now, one of his children would take the position. One of his children that probably didn’t have a clue about how valuable an asset Zosime had once been to their father and she would have to build a whole new relationship from scratch.But there was yet another problem to be dealt with.

Their latest boss hadn’t expected to die so young and so hadn’t bothered to specify which of his possible successors would actually take the position. So until that was cleared out, the dregs were at their most vulnerable position practically inviting their enemies to attack them. The worst possible scenario for their leader’s death would be if a rival gang had eliminated him, because such an action would definitely mean war. They would be indirectly challenging the dregs to a fight, laughing at their face at their incapability to figure out who had killed their leader, resulting in them not being able to be wary of just one gang. They’d have to constantly be ready for any eventuality and right now, without an official headman, this was rather improbable. Zosime sincerely hoped that the conference she was about to attend would help sort things out and not be just a fruitless effort, or even worse, evolve into a fistfight.

The carriage she, Indira and Kit were in came to a stop once they reached the Blue Olive, a tavern where the meeting between the gangs would be held. She was grateful for the soft breeze that stroked her cheeks when she exited the vehicle. Cold air always helped her relax and pull herself together. Cigarettes did too though so she had smoked a couple while in the carriage in order to prepare what was to come when the meeting began. During the ride, she had been more quiet than usual, barely speaking since she had been too busy getting drowned in her worries and examine what every possible outcome of this conference could lead to. Most people underestimate Zosi’s intelligence because she loves having fun and makes use of any chance of going out but what they believe her to be is far from the truth. She knows when she needs to be serious and this was one of those times.

Zosime wrinkled her nose slightly as they entered the building and noticed that the floor was sticky. She’d been to this place before but she could recall it being this dirty. “Damn, we haven’t even properly entered the place and you can already tell it stinks” she commented with a slight chuckle, grateful for the room being dimly lit, not wanting to see what was on the floor that made it so disgusting. She kept walking around the tables and booths that occupied the first floor of the building. As she reached the base of the staircase she took a few steadying breaths before slowly starting her ascend. She didn’t dare to look down even for a moment, feeling her fear of heights make its appearance the higher she walked. Normally, she didn’t have a problem climbing staircases but this one was a thin, iron one that had tiny holes in the steps from which you could clearly see the floor. And as if the fact that the blue olive had high ceilings wasn’t enough, the staircase was rusty and faltered ever so slightly with her every step.Why does this thing have to be so wobbly? she thought in frustration, her steps unsure. Fortunately, they made it to the second floor before Zo could start panicking.

Just a moment before they entered the only room on the flight that wasn’t ultimately dark, Zo stretched her back and rolled back her shoulders, drastically improving her hunched posture and ran her hands through her hair that she’d let down tonight. The whole air around her seemed to shift, become more professional. In other words, she put on her serious face. Not that it’s her actual personality, or anything but one would be surprised at how much being a good actor has benefited the girl over the years, especially since joining the gang seeing that her specialty was cheating and lying. “Here goes nothing” she murmured as she placed her hand on the handle of the door.

They walked into the room just about when the Dimelions’ boss made his last comment. “Not to worry Darne, we’re already here” she said, her tone assertive. “Greetings” she then saluted laconically, her voice-tone already becoming more breezy. As Zosime looked around the room, taking in her surroundings her eyes lingered on the two priests present. She had forgotten that the parley would be overlooked by Ghezen’s people. Zosime didn’t worship Ghezen, thinking that believing in a god of commerce and trade didn’t suit her morals. It goes without saying that she respected any religion so she wasn’t here to judge and indeed found it impressive that the presence of the priests was thought to prevent the gangsters in this room from retorting to violence.

Zo took a seat on the table where the representatives of the Dimelions and the Razorgulls already sat. All of the faces were familiar to her as were their names.All of them, apart from a boy that couldn’t be older than 17 and was sitting next to the razorgull named Mireli if her memory didn’t fool her. She stared at him with her chocolate eyes for a brief moment, trying to make eye contact but finally, Zo decided against continuing her pointless wondering about the unknown person since more important issues had to be addressed. Much to her impatience however, they had to wait for the other gangs to arrive before they could begin conversing. An uneasy feeling curled into the bottom of the girl’s stomach. She knew all the faces in the room were turned towards her and the other Dregs, questioning where their leader was. You will all learn soon[\i] she thought bitterly

location

Ketterdam



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[BOKEH.]

INDIRA CHADHA

Death was not an uncommon phenomenon in the city of criminals. Unfortunately, the most recent death did not benefit her in any sort of way. Though she did not care much for the Dreg's former boss, his demise had left the gang in, well, for lack of a better term, a shitty situation.

The boss had had no definite heir to his wicked throne, leaving his ambitious sons to struggle for power and position. In a city like Ketterdam, it was a dangerous game to play. If the other gangs knew what a difficult and vulnerable position they were in—they were sure to capitalize on it. After all, a place of ruins was the perfect subject for a revolution of sorts. Though this meeting was necessary, the three of them who were representing the Dregs today at the Blue Olive would have to exhibit a strong, united front in the wake of their boss's death. Any sort of weakness would be a delicious appetizer to the power-hungry leaders that they were about to face. Even if it meant spilling half-truths and lies, the dark-haired woman was sure to keep her appearance. She hoped that her companions were willing to do the same while they investigated the truth behind their boss's death.

As the carriage rolled to a halt, the young Grisha pulled the heavy window curtains shut. It was time. "Alright, my darlings, let us keep our wits in this meeting." she said with a mixture of exhaustion and irritation edging voice. She waited for the eldest of them, Zosime, to step out of their ride first before she followed suit. After being in that stuffy carriage for longer, the brisk air was much appreciated. Dia adjusted her darkly colored, thick cloak on her shoulders and pushed a few strays hairs away from her face. She examined the exterior of the Blue Olive. The two-story building was nothing special from the outside. To most, it looked like any other tavern that one would find in the city. She supposed its simple nature made it a good place to uphold suspicious activity without drawing too much attention.

The inside was not much better. Much like Zosime, Indira grimaced at its poorer conditions. "It's all part of the charm, Zo." she responded to the other girl's comment as she moved her way through the dimly lit passage, being mindful of her every step.

Upon reaching the designated door for the meeting, she sucked in a deep breath and mentally prepared herself for whatever fate they would meet on the other side of those doors. She was not certain what outcome this gathering would have. Would they get the answers they sought or would they be met with a puzzle to solve? There was also the dreadful possibility of being tossed into a war if their boss's death was connected to one of the other gangs within the city. But there was only one way to find out.

The half-Suli woman followed her dark-haired companion into the room. The atmosphere was tense as she had expected it to be. As she advanced forward to claim her seat amongst the already-gathered, she eyed the Ghezen priests with distaste. Though she had grown up with the belief of the Saints, she had never had been a very religious individual.

Claiming a seat next to Zo, she took a moment to examine her surroundings. Though she was the one who had been with the Dregs for the least amount of time between the three of them, she did recognize some of the faces of the representatives from the Razorgulls and the Dime Lions around her, especially those of power like Caballero and Darne. Both of them had a different ambiance about them that made them stand out amongst their peers. By their body language, however, she knew no more than their subordinates. She was sure that their little minds were attempting to formulate why they had called this meeting and why the Dreg's boss had yet to arrive. Admittedly, the morbid gangster took some pleasure in their evident ignorance.

 

[am3thyst.]

Faughn

kit

In all honesty, Kit was not surprised when, after a long shift in the club, she was woken by a panicked underling of the now deceased Dreg’s boss entering her room in a flurry of panic with the news. Death, which was once the worst thing Kit could imagine was now just a simple fact of life, along with the violence of the Barrel very few things phased the girl anymore. She had calmly put on her boots, told the hyperventilating man to get a drink and gone into damage control. Since then, she had barely caught an hour of uninterrupted sleep and was functioning on a dangerous amount of caffeine and a pouch of jurda she had pilfered from a tourist who had left it resting on the bar. Usually, she hated the stuff but now she was chewing it every time she felt her eyelids drooping.


All that caffeine had left her with jitters and as she sat in the carriage, she noticed the impulse to fidget in her seat. Kit had schooled her body language to be always neutral and calm, but she figured getting out this energy in front of Indira and Zosime was better than doing it in front of the entire network of gang bosses in the Barrel. Especially after being told explicitly that the image they were projecting was one of confidence and authority. Even still, Kit could tell she was not the only one who was feeling the pressure, the trip over was mostly silent and with Zosi’s smoking out the window and Indira’s sage words of advice it was becoming clearer and clearer that everyone was on a knife's edge.


Although Kit was not too concerned about the dead man himself (who she had only spoken to a handful of times and seemed about as personable as any other boss in the Barrel) she was concerned about the consequences of his untimely death. Without a clear line of succession there was little they could do but wait for someone new to be appointed and speculate over the murderer’s identity. That’s what was making Kit particularly anxious, the question of who. If it was somebody inside the gang, a jealous heir or insubordinate henchman it was problem enough, but if it was an outsider, or even worse a member of another gang? Well, that was a disaster, that was the beginning of a war and Kit was certain that the Dregs were in no shape to fight, never mind win, a war. But she wasn’t going to consider that now, confidence and authority was the name of the game.


Kit followed her companions into the Blue Olive, a place she was vaguely familiar with, its only redeeming feature seemed to be its neutrality as she took in the peeling paint and sticky floors while scanning the room for exits and possible blind spots. As they ascended onto the second floor the tension in the air was palpable, Kit bit the inside of her cheek to distract from the uneasy feeling in her stomach. This was only worsened by the presence of the clergy. Even though she wasn’t religious her mother had worshipped the saints, and every time she was stuck with the penetrating gaze of one of those old men, she felt like they were sending correspondence on every awful thing Kit had ever done directly to the Bright Lands or wherever her mother’s soul rested. She took down her hood which had somewhat obscured her face in what she considered to be an act of politeness and ran a hand down her plait, rolling her neck slowly back and forth.


Taking her seat beside Indira, Kit took account of her surroundings. The crowd was dotted with familiar faces, some she knew instantly like the leader of the Dime Lions, the Razor Gulls and their close confidants. Others took her longer to place, people she had passed on the street a few times or spied on from balconies and top floor windows, many faces she could not put a name to. “They look like they’re ready to pounce,'' Kit murmured to the girls beside her as she touched the outline of the concealed blade at her side and the one tucked in the pocket on her calf. “If this goes badly, windows to the left are probably our best bet” she added, before leaning back in her seat, deciding that the most useful thing she could do in this moment was be quiet, observe and try to ensure none of them were killed.

coded by reveriee.

 

[Abendrot]

CODE / SEROBLISS

Willem

Black Tips

Willem sat quietly in the carriage. The windows in the coach were shaded against the early morning fog, and a small lamp hung in the corner, casting the space in shadows. His father, Boss Rikkert Kortenaer, rode in the seat straight across from him -- solemn, his back straight, hands clasped in his lap. Willem was his inverse; he slouched in his seat with his leg crossed over his knee, and picked at his nails. With them were two of Willem's better-trusted soldiers that he'd been meaning to promote to captains with their own squadrons: the woman to his left was the short, muscle-framed Eliza Sagers, a disciplined soldier who was used to working harder than her peers in the gang, which Willem appreciated. The lanky Shu man next to dad was Albert Yul-Chaghan, a Durast who was one of the roughest fighters that he'd ever met, but needed to learn how to take charge if he was to advance.

"You're nervous," Rikkert said to his son, breaking the silence in the coach. "You've been out of sorts since last night."

"Have I?" Willem leaned into the corner of his seat, drumming his fingers against his knee. "Maybe it's just the cold-"
"Tell me," Dad said.

Willem's gaze shot up towards his father's. Dad's stiff manner gave him the air of of a noble merchant, though that was rather misleading. Willem knew the man to have been an indomitable fighter in his day, and that underneath his finery lay a web of scars more storied than his own.

Willem and the others told him about what had happened on his patrols last night in Lelystad, which had seen an uptick in violent crime. He, Albert, and Eliza had found one of the gang's associates -- a grocer -- sitting outside of his ransacked shop, his bloodied head in his hands, while his young daughter swept the broken glass inside the store. Two vandals had smashed the windows and knocked over shelves of merchandise as punishment for the grocer's failure to pay tribute to the Razorgulls. Nothing was stolen, but incidents like these were costing the Black Tips dearly, not just in money to take care of the damages, but in goodwill from businesses in their territory.

“I can’t pay two gangs,” the grocer pleaded.
“We’ll take care of it,” promised Willem. “It won’t happen again.”

Normally, it would have sufficed for Willem to send a few of his own to take care of it, but his forces were stretched thin as it was, and he was sick of the restraint, and the bullshit situation in the Barrel. People needed to know that the Black Tips were strong, now more than ever, and that they were not to be trifled with.

Rikkert listened to his son's thoughts, frowning in thought. Then he sighed, as if he had come to a long-postponed decision. "You're right," he said. "We've been too careful with the other gangs, and now they've come for our throats. I hadn't anticipated that the enemy would act this quickly."
Willem's voice caught in his throat. "The enem-"
Rikkert leaned forward, taking his son by the shoulders.
"You need to start defending our family in earnest now," Dad said, his voice deceptively monotone. "I didn't give you command because I thought you'd be good during peacetime. It's obvious that whatever's happening with the Dregs is hastening the inevitable. If war is to come, then it'll go to the streets, and the streets are yours, son."

The carriage slowed to a halt in front of the Blue Olive , and the four Black Tips stepped out to a small posse of Dreg goons at the door. They were patted down before being brought inside; then they guarded their carriage driver, and the Dregs subjected the coach to a search. No one had brought any weapons, but the tension was so palpable that Willem was surprised there wasn't a more thorough search. There were no objections to any of the Grisha, who Willem surmised could easily kill everyone bare-handed if negotiations broke down.

That wasn't likely to happen, though, not with a priest of Ghezen in attendance, and there were two of them in the meeting room where the four Black Tips were ushered in. Apparently, the Dregs were spooked enough by recent events to double their spiritual insurance.

Willem glanced around the room of gathered bosses and gang representatives. Seated next to his father, they looked like opposite aspects of the same person, flanked by Albert and Eliza. The Dregs' boss had not yet arrived. Dad checked his pocket watch. Willem leaned back casually in his chair and smiled at those in attendance, putting on an image of ease to mask his worries.

“I do hope those Dregs won’t keep us waiting for much longer. They are the ones that called this little meeting.” grumbled Darne whats-his-face from the Dime Lions side of the table.

Willem shrugged. "Maybe they've stopped to dent our carriages." he joked.

 

[Viserion]

mood :

tense

location :

Blue Olive

outfit :

mentions :

@

interactions :

@

Nyhus

Valeria

Valeria squeezed her knees tightly together as she and her dangerous companions jostled around in their carriage. She sat between Mireli and her boss, Giavanna Caballero, a violently delicious woman. On the bench across from them sat Nika and politely next to him perched Oak. She could feel Nika’s unease come off of him in waves. She found it slightly amusing. Luckily enough, their trip to the Blue Olive was short, and she practically burst from the carriage doors. She drew in a deep breath of the crisp morning air as she absorbed the building's facade. It was a homely-looking structure. The paint was chipping away to reveal rotting wood, and the ground was uneven and cracked. The inside was not any better. She was somewhat new to the Razorgulls, so she had spent little time here. But sometimes she had to, and each time after left her feeling like her feet and hands were covered in filth. Oak wasn’t any better. Normally she didn’t bring him to meetings, but today something felt different, and she felt better with her Isenulf with her. They were led down a dark set of stairs to a large hosting area. Unlike most of the building, it was comparatively clean and somewhat inviting. Vale took one look at the Ghezen priests and was immediately uncomfortable after her time as Drüskelle she has seen the way religion could be manipulated in to a weapon to hurt people, she’s avoided it since, and the priests were certainly not exempt from her disgust. She took her seat next to Giavanna, Mereli and Nika taking Gia’s other side. Oak found that the table was perfect resting height and mushed himself between Gia and herself, and placed his big white head on to it and audibly began sniffing the air. She liked the way people regarded the two of them. When someone thinks of her, they think of him. He was one of the very few good things she got out of being Drüskelle. Once she was comfortable, Vale scanned the room, noting anywhere they could escape from or any blind spots she’d have to worry about.

Her eyes left the bookshelf she was admiring and travelled to Darne when Giavanna’s voiced jolted her to attention. She tensed at the nature of her words. It did not surprise her that he then addressed her boss so informally at a formal meeting, but it still caused her to shift in her seat. Oak must have felt the tension because in the very silent room his heavy mouth breathing was welcome, then it halted. His head raised from the table, and he stared Darne down with his primal fury. Vale sat back and watched the exchange. He is a wolf. It is in his nature to protect his pack, hence his warning for Darne. She nudged his butt with her boot, and he returned to his open mouth and side tongue combo. He picked up his head once more when the Dreg’s decided they would show up. Vale took note that their boss wasn’t there, she felt it odd considering they were the ones who had called this damn meeting in the first place. She ran and hand through her braids in thought and began analyzing them. She noticed how tense they seemed, and recognized even more how they tried to hide it. Most people would miss the subtle signs, but she didn’t. Then it came together, something happened to their boss. Obviously she didn’t voice her suspicions. Their leader still had time to show. But the thought didn’t help her from feeling any less uneasy.

coded by reveriee.

 

[StormWolf]

Location: Ketterdam - The West Stave

Interactions: --

Ben Vudkulac​

Picking a nest was like selecting a house. There were a great many details that had to be considered: location, weather conditions, and what the surrounding neighborhood was like. It was Ketterdam, though. There were no good neighborhoods within reach for the likes of him.

Not that he would have needed a Mercher Manse even if he had the means. Too many empty chairs at empty tables for his taste. No, Ben was more than happy with the evening’s boarding: a bell tower in the West Stave overlooking the Barrel. Unglamorous, inconspicuous, and most importantly, still functioning with a grand clock - ringing every hour, on the hour.

Every hawk needed a perch, after all, to watch the little mice scurry in the brush beneath.

Benhamin had been observing one fat rat in particular for the past few weeks. Learning his comings and goings, his habits and his vices. The things that built and broke someone in equal measure. There was a reason Ben’s rates were so steep. Every night, he would go to the Menagerie in his best suit and a roll of kruge, playing the part of the anxious Merchling.

He would ask for a Heartrender, a Tailor, if they had one. The story was simple enough. A paramour under pressure, wanting to get a better grasp of potential spouses arranged for him before he made his decision. It was as pitiable as it was despicable, and common enough in the Barrel to garner little more than a sidelong glance of derision. All that was left was a change of costume and newspapers in one shoe to alter his gait, and he was a different person entirely.

Day by day, he built a deeper understanding of his prey. His rat. Ben knew they liked their first glass of brandy from the bar at three bells, over ice with a twist of lemon, but that he had a decanter in their office they tapped long before lunch. A steady steaming throughout the day which was impressive, even by Kerch standards. Whether he stopped to gather lots or a painted darling, he always made his way back to the villa with a balcony overlooking one of the canals.

From his hawk nest on the opposite side of the Barrel’s rim, Ben could see where his little rat laid himself to rest every night. It was opulent and gouache, glitzed up to look the part of the Mercher’s manse, but ultimately felt like a boy dressed up in his father’s clothNot the most glamorous view, but it was pretty enough through the scope of his rifle.

There was no clean shot at the target from any tangible angle, though. The villa provided almost complete cover, the comings and goings done by carriage and a compliment of guards. The kill would need to be done up close, and the clients wanted the body displayed to send a message. Packing up his things, Benhamin had his plan of attack set.

That evening, Benhamin was dressed in his usual working attire; charcoal pinstripe slacks and vest, black frock coat, slate shirt, dark kerchief, and herringbone page cap. His beard was freshly shaved, and his black-gloved hands held the worn wood of a gondola oar loosely. There would be no need for his rifle on this particular hunt, but Ben came loaded to bear with his revolver and a host of knives and pocket pistols. Approaching the looming balcony of the target’s home, Benhamin timed the twirling of a grappling hook. He snagged the railing in one go and tied off the rope to the gondola itself.

The thick rope groaned its meager protest beneath Ben’s bulk as he ascended, flowing onto the balcony like the wing-shadow of a *volcra*. Through the double-doors, Ben saw the low, warm light of a bedchamber. The covers were rumpled and mussed, clothes and negligee scattered like driftwood from a shipwreck. Bottles of all sorts littered nearly every single surface. The glass-paned doors were ever so slightly ajar to let in the salty sea air, something to vent the stink of sweat, sex, and *jurda* smoke.

Rusted hinges creaked as Ben nudged the door open with the toe of one boot. Inside, he could hear the shameless butchery of a bawdy tavern song coming from the washroom. Ben moved like a panther across the polished floorboards, stepping over and around empty bottles. He noted blood on the bed sheets as he passed.

Violent delights have violent ends.

Slipping a hand into his coat, Ben’s fingers caressed the handle of his pistol, easing it free from his under-arm holster with the faintest creak of leather. The behemoth of a revolver sat in his palm with a familiar weight as Ben moved to the door like a wraith.

A floorboard creaked under one boot, and Ben spared a silent curse for every Saint that came to mind.

“Back already, sweetling?” Croned the rough voice of a habitual smoker of many decades. Even through the stink of the cologne and soap coming from the washroom, Ben could feel the vileness of the man clinging to the roof of his palette. The door opened with a bloom of light, and just for a moment, the two of them locked eyes.

The soul-deep gaze between the tiger and the mouse. The man’s thin lips gaped wide around a large mouth, eyes bulging, ready to scream for his guards. He never got the chance. Ben whipped the bulk of his pistol against the man’s face, the cylinder of the revolver pulverizing the orbital bone and grinding one cheek into gravel. The force of the blow took the Dregs boss off his feet, his balding head rebounding off the mosaic tile of the washroom floor. Thin ribbons of blood trickled and swirled from a split in the man’s scalp and what was probably a ruptured eyeball. He was unconscious, but he was still alive.

The client wanted a show, and that was precisely what they were going to get.

Ben gathered up the bedsheet and bundled his prize like so much dirty laundry, dragging the Dregs boss from the washroom to the balcony. He was about to haul his catch over the rail and into the gondola when the door to the master bedroom creaked open. Benhamin snapped around, hand going to his holster once again. He saw a flash of big, glass-green eyes, bright with a sudden shock of clarity beneath a mess of mousy brown hair. They were thin, young, and terrified. It was enough to make Ben hesitate for one second too long, before they vanished down the hall with the frantic padding of bare feet.

“Shit,” Ben sneered, crossing the bedroom in three long strides, rounding the doorframe to see the demure figure crash into the bulk of a guard. They didn’t stop, rather tumbling and rolling with a shrill cry. “So much for quiet…” Ben mumbled, meeting the guard’s eyes before driving a bullet between them.

The report of the pistol cracked like thunder in the tight space, smearing the far wall with a greasy stain of blood and brains. More cries down the hall - the witness and the rest of the house guard. Five in total, Ben guessed. Stopping by the body in the hall, Ben retrieved a sawed-off shotgun from fat, limp fingers. He checked the breach mid-stride, moving around the corner and down the hall to the villa’s courtyard. Pistols snarled rapidly from the opposite wing, punching holes into the plastered walls a few inches from Ben.

It took a special kind of mettle to be worth a lick in a gunfight. Nerves and adrenaline took over, making hands jittery and placing shots wide. Ben set his jaw in a sour grimace, taking his time to raise his own pistol and time his shot with his breathing. The first shot took one Dregs pistoleer in the neck, crumpling him down with a harsh gurgle. Credit to his wingman, they managed to tag Ben back in the leg. There was no punch of sudden pain, or any real pain at all. Not for Ben. He felt the impact as it drove him back against the wall, and he felt his pant leg cling to bloody skin.

My good slacks? Ben huffed, retaliating with a shot into the other gunman’s guts. Let that one die slow. Shoving off of the wall, Ben didn’t even limp as he moved to the stairs that wound down to the paved stone and manicured plants of the villa center. A glimpse of a dark bowler hat was met with a belch of buckshot, sending the body tumbling down with the top half of his head simply gone. Down, down, down the body tumbled, tangling with another by the sound of it.

Leaning around the corner, shotgun raised, Ben squeezed off the second barrel at point blank into the fourth guard’s chest. With both shells spent, Ben cast the sawed-off aside. At the wrought iron gate to the villa, ever so faintly ajar, Ben saw the last guard with hands raised. A pistol dangled from one finger, a scrap of gossamer cloth clutched in another. A piece of the escaped witness’ gown?

“Hey, I didn’t see shit. She went towards the Barrel, that’s all I know,” the guardsman spoke as slowly as he spoke, showing that he knew the drill. He appeared to be in his middling years, a lifer to this kind of work. The revolver was tossed away with a flick of the old man’s wrist, gnarled fingers crossed at the back of his head.

Benhamin walked past him, peering down the avenue of the Stave, seeing only the mist of early morning. The witness was gone like a specter in the fog. “You don’t know where your boss got his playthings from?” Ben asked.

“No clue. I just keep an eye on the place,” said the guard with a shake of his head. Ben clicked his tongue and returned the gesture, not that the old man could see.

“Tsk. Well, that’s a Saints-damned shame.”

The old man didn’t feel a thing.

* * *​

It was a few minutes before fourth bell that the man awoke. His face had swollen with a grotesque mottling of deep reds and purples, and his shivered naked against the gnawing breeze from the sea. He cast one good eye about, glistening and beady. Was he in some sort of belltower?

“You’ve signed your death warrant, you little shit,” the man spat, thick red drool oozing from his mashed lips. Ben was busy spooling rope to a proper length, tying it off to an iron rung set into the gray stone of the bell tower.

“Do you hear me?! Do you have any idea who I am?!”

“Do you think I would be doing this if I didn’t?” Ben retorted, tightening up the knot around the man’s neck. A noose. Ben saw the realization dawn in that one piggish eye.

“What are they paying you? I’ll double it if you let me go.”

Ben snorted a bitter laugh as he rummaged for a cigarette. “Threats. Bargaining. Begging comes next,” Ben said, his scarred face of stony planes and angles lit by the dancing flame of a match. Tobacco and jurda filled the air.

“Fifty-thousand kruge.”

Ben puffed on his cigarette and checked his pocket watch in silence.

“Eighty!”

“If you are the praying sort, you had best make your case. I don’t see paradise in the cards for you.” Ben snatched the man by the nape of his hair, hauling him to the edge of the belltower. The world seemed to yawn forever all the way down to the cobbled street that ran alongside the Church of Barter.

“Please…”

“Shh,” Ben hissed lowly, “Have some dignity.”

Gong rang the first of Fourth Bell.

“To hell with dignity! I want to live!”

“Gutless it is, then.” A flash of steel, the second gong of Fourth Bell drowned out a scream.

The rope snapped taught with the third ring, spilling the steaming contents of the Dregs’ boss from where his twitching body hung. The client wanted a message to be sent, and Ben delivered it as promised: a gang boss sacrificed on the altar of commerce.

"Eya'st kara."

 

[ThatSassyWeirdo]

​

When Madam Elsa came to wake Mireli up that morning she was met with a murderous stare. How much sleep had she gotten? Two hours? Three hours? Either way the end of sleep came far too quickly for the young Suli girl’s liking, but she’d be lying if she were to say she wasn’t expecting it. She was to meet with the boss before they were to head to an important meeting with the other gangs of the Barrel. There was information she needed to pass along. She only wished it didn’t have to be so damn early in the morning.

The other night Ylena came rushing back into the brothel in what seemed to be a mild panic. Ylena was new to The Nagging Wife and was around the same age as herself. Mireli was quick to feel the panic in the girl’s heart and even quicker to place herself in the young girl's path, curious on what was happening. She was a sobbing mess and Mireli couldn’t get anything audible out of her. So, before Madam Elsa could get to them, Mireli pulled the girl up to her own room. Gentle words and a little influence from her heartrender abilities had Ylena spilling everything to Mireli. She continued to calm the girl, rocking her and promising she was safe until the girl finally fell asleep. It was only then that she sent a message to Giavanna that she needed to meet and speak with her as she had quite the juicy secret.

It was that secret that led her to this cold and miserable morning. She’d gotten dressed in a long black dress with lace details around the skirt and sleeves. On her feet she wore her most comfortable and warm boots, hiding a dagger within them as she always did for extra protection. She then wrapped herself in a heavy cloak and gloves before placing a warm hat atop dark hair she’d opted to leave down. While she liked to look her best at all times, this morning she couldn’t be bothered with doing her hair up all pretty. Besides, she absolutely despised the cold weather and her hair provided an extra layer of warmth.

The carriage ride was a tense one for Mireli. Perhaps it was because she always felt tense when she was in the presence of Giavanna or maybe it was the Drüskelle woman that sat next to her. She knew Vale wasn’t Drüskelle anymore, but it still made Mireli nervous. Though there was also the chance she was tense as Nika was driving this carriage. She’d done all she could to avoid him, yet here she was in a carriage he drove. Pain, anger, and sadness filled her all at the same time and it had her staring out the window of the carriage not saying a word.

The carriage eventually drew to a stop and she was relieved to exit the carriage. Nika had opened the door, but Mireli pointedly refused to look at him as she followed Vale. She told herself she wasn’t going to look back, but just before she was to enter the Blue Olive she couldn’t stop herself from glancing over her shoulder at Nika and Giavanna speaking with him. She figured the boss was giving him some sort of orders. She caught a brief insight into Nika’s racing heart and stared only for a moment longer, mildly confused, before entering the disgusting building.

She’d been here multiple times and hated it more and more each time. The sticky floor always made her stomach churn and, while most of Ketterdam didn’t smell like roses, this place seemed to be the worst of the worst. She only took small breaths, trying her best to ignore the stench until they made it into the meeting room. She glanced at the Ghezen priests briefly, sadness and anger filling her once more. Her mother believed deeply in the Saints and had raised her to do the same, however after the betrayal of her brother she had a hard time believing in any of them. If they were so mighty, why couldn’t they have helped her? Why didn’t they help anyone that was unfortunate enough to end up in her position? It made her very bitter towards the thoughts of the Saints.

She took her seat next to Giavanna and began looking over everyone in the room, subtly trying to read each one's emotions. Did any of the rest of them know why they were here? How was this meeting going to end? She felt mildly ill, unsure if the two Ghezen priests would be enough protection this time around. Would this end in a fight?

She was pulled out of her thoughts as someone sat next to her and she glanced over to see Nika. She rolled her eyes a bit and tensed up ever so slightly. ”It seems congratulations are due. Good job going from work horse to lap dog.” She quietly said to Nika, her voice full of snark. Despite feeling a bit tense and giving him a bit of an attitude, there was a small part of her that actually felt comfort with him being there beside her. It was an odd sensation, feeling uneasy yet also comfort and it only went on to confuse her.

She found herself glancing over at him finally. She stared at him for a long second before she realized she should probably say something to make it look like she had a reason to stare. ”Nika I-” She paused, glancing back at the room and the members of the Dregs who’d just entered and taken their seats. Gia and Darne had been speaking to each other about nothing really important. Then the Black Tips entered and she decided there was enough distraction to continue what she was saying. ”I think we need to be prepared for the worst to happen with this meeting. Something big has happened and things could get hostile.” She whispered so only he could hear. Her hands gripped at the skirts of her dress tightly as she trembled some, obviously worried about things.

 

[BOKEH.]

SEBASTIAN CAI

Nothing was ever unadorned nor conventional in a place like Ketterdam. It was a nexus of complexity and constant wonder of what would happen next. Today, was no exception.

The young gentleman could not say he was particularly thrilled to be making a public appearance at the mysterious meeting being held at the Blue Olive. While he was a rather diplomatic and quick-witted individual, he never cared much for social interactions. But, he supposed his reserved nature is just the reason why Dane, the Dime Lion's current boss, had selected him for such endeavors.

Dressed in his typical, classy attire and wearing his gold-accented mask to cover the brutal scar on his face, Bastian was the last of the Dime Lions to step out of the carriage. The tavern was dark, save for the inkling of light from one of the second-floor windows. The tavern might have been an almost eerie sight to some with its gloomy and worn image, but the Shu scientist was a bit intrigued by its antiqueness.

Soundlessly, he followed closely behind his fellow gangsters as they entered the interior of the building. The inside of the structure was of a similar ilk to its outer counterpart. Bastian tried not to focus on the unpleasant stickiness that coated the floor as he made his way to the iron staircase that would likely lead the party to the classified meeting location. The closer he drew to the room, the tenser the atmosphere seemed to become. Whatever news the Dreg's would convey at the table could not be good, otherwise they would have never called for a meeting in the first place. By Darne's vagueness and irritation, he suspected his boss likely pondered the same.

If Bastian noticed the Ghezen priests, he did not show it (though he probably should have acknowledged them per his boss) as he silently slipped into the room. With an indecipherable expression on his partly-covered face, the dark-eyed man took one of the seats on either side of the Dime Lion's boss. As soon as he was comfortably seated, he let his eyes lazily meander over the others within the room. Characteristically, he did not interact with a single soul though. Instead, he simply observed and took note of their shared confusion.

The Dreg's sudden arrival seemed to suck whatever little air was in the room. He watched as the three young women moved to claim their seats--their boss notably absent. Though he had his own suspicions, Bastian supposed they would all soon find out exactly what cards the Dreg's had been dealt once this meeting officially began.

 

[Aviator]

Nikita Kozlov // Male // Age 16 // Razorgulls // Ravkan // Alkemi
​

Nika was absorbed in studying the Zemeni boy from the Dime Lions, who had the surreal effect of effortlessly blending in with his surroundings, as if his presence in the room were as natural as a piece of furniture, yet simultaneously was impossible not to notice, as if that piece of furniture were a complex and multilayered oil painting. He was dressed sensibly but not pretentiously, in a plain vest and trousers that complemented his copper skin. Nika didn’t draw, but at that moment he was seized by a sudden desire to capture the elegant way that the glaring orange from the gaslamp played over the boy’s face, darkening the hollows beneath his eyes while gleaming on his forehead, and oh, when he moved—
Suddenly a warm gaze, dark and velvety, was trained on his own. First Nika blinked in bewilderment, then felt his face flush uncomfortably hot. He hastily lowered his eyes to the scuffed mahogany tabletop, stewing in sheepish silence at having been caught staring.
While Nika typically disliked both small talk and Giavanna Caballero on a personal level, her idle chatter with Darne came as a welcome distraction. The tall woman’s body remained motionless in her chair, but her head drew up in slow malevolence, neck lengthening like a rearing viper so that she was staring at Darne from beneath a veil of unadorned eyelashes. “Your concern is appreciated,” she said dryly, “but it’s not my family you should be worried about, ludi.”
As Nika understood it, the Zemeni word was a term of address that had originally meant “friend,” but over the last decade had taken on a variety of meanings, some of which he could not begin to guess at. If only Caballero wore a little makeup and lost the perpetual hard edge in her voice, she had the potential to be an alluring mix of ethnicities, predominantly Zemeni and Ravkan.
Rumor had it that in Novyi Zem there were entire settlements of Ravkan families who had sailed across the True Sea in search of a nation that would extend political asylum to their Grisha members. The Ravkan-Zemeni communities stretched back several generations, ultimately culminating in the creation of a new race of people with traditions that combined cultural aspects from both parent countries. After enduring decades of oppression at the hands of Fjerdan Drüskelle and then the occasional bit of racial prejudice from Zemeni who maintained personal views of Ravkan refugees that diverged from the national one, the Razemi had developed a reputation for savage violence. They were a proud, don’t-fuck-with-me race who would stick a knife in your side for looking at them the wrong way, or if they were Grisha, drop you with a sudden heart attack.
Giavanna Caballero was one such Razemi offspring. Whether or not she was Grisha was a topic of public speculation. A witness of one of her many duels had sworn that a bullet she’d shot wide of her opponent had miraculously curved through the air to lodge in his femoral artery. An eerie Razorgulls urban legend claimed that Caballero had also killed her mother in the same bloodbath that had resulted in her brother’s death, and the little old lady who occasionally haunted Ketterdam’s streets was Giavanna herself, wearing a false face that she had Tailored for herself so that she could personally spy on her adversaries. While the stories were innumerable and all of them grisly, no one seemed able to agree on which Grisha order Caballero belonged to—if she was one at all. Nika had his own speculations, which were that Caballero had started most of those rumors herself just so that no one within the Razorgulls would challenge her leadership, and no one had in the six years that she’d been boss. So long as Caballero remained the focal point of Razorgulls gossip, Nika couldn’t care less whether she was Grisha or not. On the one condition that the Saints-damned snake of a woman could still be killed, of course.
Darne seemed outwardly unperturbed by Caballero’s veiled threat, but the shoulders of the Shu man at his side tensed almost imperceptibly. Nika hadn’t noticed it at first because he’d been presented with the right side of the man’s face, but when the Shu gangster turned his head he revealed himself to be wearing a black-and-gold half mask. While Nika greatly enjoyed grand gestures in art and music, he thought the Shu man’s mask was a touch too dramatic for an ordinary conference between gangs. Well, well, he thought sardonically, apparently Giavanna isn’t the only one who likes to circulate lore about herself. It occurred to him that this Dime Lion must be the Masked Phantom who was said to prowl the streets of the Barrel as Darne’s thief of secrets.
Nika suddenly felt more out of place than ever at this gathering of assassins and thugs, charlatans and thieves. He was none of those things. As he’d told Caballero outside of the Blue Olive, he really was just a horseman—albeit one with a knack for chemistry, which his leader put to good use. But still, Nikita Kozlov was outwardly a nobody, a blank state. Unlike the Masked Phantom or the Razorgulls’ own vipress, he had no lofty reputation to fall back on, had accomplished no impossible feats that made rival gangsters think twice before trespassing on Razorgulls territory. That’s not true, Nika reminded himself, shivering at the unbidden memory of beady eyes and furry legs drumming across his skin that clung to his mind like a sticky spiderweb despite his attempts to shake it off. Had he not possessed an Alkemi’s ability to channel venom out of his own body, he would have died in that monstrous arena with hundreds of spectators cheering for his gruesome demise.
A current of laughter went through the room as the newly-arrived Black Tips underboss made some witty joke about the Dregs’ continued absence, but Nika didn’t hear it. He didn’t realize that he was swaying back and forth in his chair in slow oscillations until he stopped. And he only did that when he perceived the steady heat of a gaze trained on him. Nika turned to find Mireli eyeing him with a strange mix of disdain and concern. Meeting her stare was excruciating, like having his nails torn out before execution. He realized belatedly that she must have said something to him, and when he asked, “What?” in utmost bewilderment, Mireli rolled her eyes so dramatically that it was a miracle they didn’t disappear into her skull.
“Oh,” Nika replied lamely upon realizing that Mireli had been idly taunting him. His shoulders sank in disappointment. Nika didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but he had hoped for some genuine expression of emotion from Mireli, even if it was unbridled fury directed at him. Instead, her sarcastic comment dug into his heart like a thorn, and a bitter part of him would have preferred if she ignored him outright instead. Frustration rippled through Nika. He’d wronged Mireli grievously, and guilt ate him alive all over again with each day that passed, yet her immature handling of the situation was doing nothing to repair it—not that things between them could ever be fully repaired, but something was better than nothing. More than anything, Nika desired an honest conversation with her about what had happened, and then when he realized that it was impossible to be honest with her and keep his secret at the same time, he felt frustration at himself for being so impractical and implacably discontented.
I’d rather be a lapdog than a new man’s bitch every night. It was only out of respect for his and Mireli’s former relationship that he clamped his lips shut on the acidic reply. That, and because Nika was aware it would have been deeply hypocritical of himself to call Mireli out when his own mother had been working as a courtesan up until his birth, and he knew it was employment that no woman enthusiastically embraced. Instead, he just looked away from Mireli and directed a smoldering glare down at the table. Nika suddenly scowled, not in resentment but in confusion. That’s funny. Was it just him, or was there a new furrow in the scratched-up tabletop that hadn’t been there before? Of course, it hadn’t been in pristine condition to begin with, having all sorts of water marks and crude words carved into it—
Ty tupitsa! Alarm jolted through him, and Nika stiffened in his chair as if he’d been shocked. In his anger, he had been unconsciously altering the chemical composition of the conference table in a way that caused the wood to rot. Simultaneously horrified at the possibility of his secret becoming public knowledge and mortified by the sheer extent of his own stupidity, Nika jumped a second time when he heard Mireli speak again, certain that it was to level an accusatory question at him. Nika leaned out onto the table with one arm, concealing the new mark in the wood and trying not to focus on the inordinate amount of space he was taking up. Guilty adrenaline made his heart pound like the hooves of a galloping horse. Stay calm, he told himself, arranging his face into a mask of cool neutrality. For once he was able to forget the searing hurt he felt every time he looked at Mireli and watched her attentively, searching for signs that she’d seen the subtle transformation of the table and knew Nika to be responsible. But if she’d witnessed it, she showed no indication as she warned of this conference between gangs ending badly.
Nika forgot all about his short-lived resolve to ignore Mireli. “Whatever makes you say that?” he asked. Initially he had just been feigning interest with the question—anything to direct attention away from himself—but it slowly dawned on Nika that, more than a courtesan, Mireli was a spy for the Razorgulls. That meant she frequently had access to clandestine information that others didn’t know about. If she was portending danger, it would be in Nika’s best interest to heed her words. An icy coldness crept into his veins. He sat forward on the edge of his chair, waiting for her to go on.
But before she could, the Dregs filed into the room. Or more precisely, three young women who looked to be in their late teens or early twenties, unaccompanied by their boss or even his lieutenant. All of the chatter in the Blue Olive ground to an uneasy halt. Outside Nika could hear the first birds ushering in the new day, though the January sky was still dark. A dozen pairs of eyes watched the three Dregs girls take the remaining seats at the table. For a long minute they seemed to be having a silent conversation among themselves, gazes darting and throats bobbing, as if none of them was eager to open the can of worms that awaited them.
Giavanna Caballero was a patient woman when it suited her goals, but she was always an efficient one. She cleared her throat. “If no one else is willing to open the table to discussion,” she began with a pointed look at the Dregs, as if quietly accusing them of cowardice, “then I will.” All of the room’s attention snapped toward her.
Here we go again, Nika thought, stifling a Mireli-level roll of his eyes. Caballero had such a habit of using If… then statements that one would think she was missing her true calling as a mathematician doing proofs all day and night—if only she weren’t such a ruthlessly competent gang boss.
Caballero delayed her oncoming monologue to shoot a glare at Valeria, her eyes as cold and hard as distant stars. The former Drüskelle’s canine companion was resting his head on the conference table and snuffling the air; half the gazes in the room had distractedly strayed to him. Caballero said nothing to Valeria—reprimanding an underling before a waiting audience would be unprofessional—but Nika had been on the receiving end of the Ravzemi woman’s wrath enough times to know that there would be words between them later.
“As I was saying,” Caballero continued, having successfully wrested the room’s attention back to herself, “some important intelligence has come to my attention, which regrettably has to do with the Dregs’ leader. Hence why poor Alard Thyssen is not among this morning’s attendees.
“Late last night a corpse was found suspended from the Church of Barter. That corpse has been identified as Thyssen’s.” At this point, one of the Dregs girls made a small exclamation, as if to forestall Caballero’s next words. The Razorgulls’ boss swung her amber gaze toward the interrupter and silenced her with a lethal look. When Caballero resumed her voice was a sharp blade being drawn delicately across flesh. “To compound the Dregs’ misfortune, Thyssen died without having named a clear successor. As we all know, his legacy falls to twin sons, and rumor has it that they do not like to share.” Caballero typically had all the emotionality of a dead fish, but now her colorless lips quirked up the tiniest bit at the corner. “In other words, one of Ketterdam’s formerly most formidable gangs is indefinitely without a leader.”
Silence flooded the room, thick as lungful of smoke. The acoustics of the Blue Olive’s second floor were expectedly poor, but Nika imagined he could hear her words echoing in the enclosed space. In a flash of understanding, his eyes cut to Mireli, whose expression of foreboding was almost as pronounced as those of the Dregs’ representatives. Caballero masterfully hadn’t paid Mireli so much as a glance throughout her speech, but Nika knew with sickening certainty that the source of intelligence she’d alluded to was none other than the Suli courtesan and spy. So that’s what she meant when she said there’d be danger, he thought numbly. But danger for whom? Now that everyone had fully comprehended Caballero’s implications, eyes alight with hungry glee swung toward the women from the Dregs, as if their incapacitated gang were suddenly a roast dressed for dinner.

 

[DaydreamingBookworm9]

Zosime

Amahle

.
Zosime smiled ever so slightly at Kit’s comment about the other gangsters looking at the Dregs as if they were prey. To be quite frank, Zo felt as if she was surrounded by hungry hawks. “Tell me about it” she murmured back, her eyes darting between the people in this room. She nodded discreetly when her friend advised them to exit from the windows if the meeting took a sour turn which seemed highly likely. She really hated the prospect of the conference evolving into a fistfight but she was almost certain the priests watching over the meeting were not enough to prevent the gangsters’ desire to drive bullets in temples and knives in chests. Zo sucked bad at hand to hand combat and seeing how close they were sitting with everybody, she doubted she could defend herself at the present case. She was grateful for Kit’s calmness and her keen observational skills. Zosime was generally observant too, but she couldn’t function all that well under anxiety-inducing situations such as this one.



The girl restrained herself from rhythmically tapping her fingers on the table, a tick of hers she had taken after from her mom. The comforting weight of her knives inside her coat’s pockets helped her relax. Kind of. It it weren’t for her weapons she would be frantically tapping the table in an uneven orchestra of anxiousness. The tension in this room could not be described with words. The murderous stares two members of rival gangs would share every few moments, all the whispering, the supposedly casual conversation Giavanna and Darne shared, the scoffing, the nervousness in the eyes of the Razorgulls’ youngest member. Zosime wanted to scream, break the awful silence and proceed with this damned conference. No. Be patient. Don’t lose your cool, don’t allow them to see your vulnerability. Everything will happen in due time. We need to wait for the Black Tips to arrive. She scolded herself. Zo might have been vomiting on the inside, but her exterior remained inscrutable. Back Straight. Stare blank. Arms folded in front of her, resting calmly atop the wooden table. She might have noticed the change in the consistency of the material if she hadn’t been so focused preserving the illusion of her being calm. Or rather, she noticed it but convinced herself her mind was playing tricks on her and decided not to speak of it.



Zo doubted the bosses of each gang didn’t know what this was all about. The killer of their leader had decided to make it a public show anyway. The assassin had wanted to humiliate the Dregs, let everyone know their head was dead, she was sure of it. And of course, they had done so by hanging him from the belltower, on display for everyone to see. It was rare for somebody to make their dirty work a public show in Ketterdam, seeing that the city was filled to the brim with criminals that could also serve as detectives and would inevitably find some kind of clue indicating who the assassin was. Not this time though. Zo had overheard some gambler at the crow club discussing the whole situation with his friends. The stadwatch investigated the whole tower from top to bottom plus the park around it and found no evidence. I heard they even hired a notorious spy to take a look at the scene. Even he found nothing. The killer knew his job, that’s for sure. The man had said before returning to losing about three thousand kruge to the coffers of the crow club, all while playing Makker’s wheel with Zo.



The last gang finally arrived, at last allowing them to begin this conference. Zosime looked at Kit and Dia and they exchanged some whispers and glances, making sure they were ready to begin talking. But before Zosime could part her mouth, Giavanna decided she would take the matter in her hands and spill all the information about how and when Alard had died and of course, the Razorgulls’ boss made sure to specify the catastrophic effects the situation would have for the gang , much to Zo’s annoyance. They had been planning to phrase their problem differently but this truth was nothing more than the truth and Zo couldn’t lie to herself. That didn’t make Giavanna’s behaviour any less irksome. The Zemeni barely holded back her tongue from interrupting Giavanna mid-sentence. I beg your pardon Gia, but I think it would be better if one of us were to start this meeting so kindly shut your damned mouth and let us speak. But that thought was not spoken aloud. Instead, the girl came up with another approach to still keep her dignity but continue the meeting as they had planned as if the Razorgull had never interrupted them.



“I’m glad to see you so…happy, Giavanna. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a genuine hint of emotion touch your face, which is no wonder really given that you’re leading a miserable life with no friends or family And I don’t think your dogsbodies count” Zosime began saying, her voice-tone lowering considerably at the middle of her second sentence but still loud enough to be heard across the whole room. “So.Seeing that you obviously could not suppress your enthusiasm and let the actual hosts of this meeting initiate the conversation, I guess that there’s not anything else to do but to discuss the real reason why we’ve called this meeting which is not to let you know that our boss was murdered. I have no doubt you would all learn everything sooner or later” Given how nosy you are she continued the sentence in her brain knowing she would be taking it too far if she said it aloud.


“Yes, yes, truth is our gang is at a brittle position right now but death is inevitable whether it is caused naturally or by a human’s hand. The question is whose human’s the hand was” Zosime finished.

location

Ketterdam



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[BOKEH.]

INDIRA CHADHA

The half-Suli woman's lips quirked up at Kit's comment. She had no doubt that they were ready to pounce if presented with the right motivation and opportunity, but she did doubt that they would openly make a move at this meeting. Though every individual was certainly capable of causing some sort of trouble, reputation and appearance were important aspects in the eyes of many within the room. Even so, she knew better to believe that the possibility of a little quarrel was completely off of the table. After all, they were all criminals.

No sooner had the three Dregs women settled down in their seats before Giavanna Caballero was running that mouth of hers. Of course, the hubristic woman would attempt to thieve the spotlight from them. Cabellero seemed to always be putting her nose where it did not belong. Perhaps, if the Grisha was not in her current position, she might have been inclined to admire the other woman's ability to sniff out the many secrets of the city. But, unfortunately, she had instead become mildly irritated by the older woman's hold of the conversation. Despite this, she somehow managed to keep her lips pressed together until the leader of the Razorgulls was done with her show of power and influence.

But the slender woman was not the first of the Dregs to react. Indira's attention was momentarily diverted from Giavanna when Zosime began to speak. Her companion made it clear that the Razorgull's leader had gotten under her skin by her sharp-tongued speech, which is probably the kind of reaction that that snake of a woman craved from them. She wanted to see them squirm in their seats.

"What my dear Zosime means to say is that you are practically drooling on the poor table, Giavanna," she started, leaning back in her chair a bit in an attempt to seem relatively relaxed, "It is quite unbecoming of a woman with such a status like yours, wouldn't you agree?" She did not expect the other woman to answer her though. "No matter, it was kind of you to share your thoughts and the information you had on this tricky situation of ours. But, there is no need for you to worry about our lack of a leader as we shall have our heir soon enough. Perhaps, it is better for you to be concerned about why a powerful man like Thyssen has died under such mysterious circumstances." With that, she gave Cabellero a sly smile before dragging her gaze away from the wicked woman in a dismissive manner in favor of observing the rest of the seated individuals at the table.

She might have spoken with confidence, but, honestly, the Grisha was rather unsure how this game for leadership within the Dregs would play out. All she knew was that it was going to be a pain to deal with, especially when there were so many hungry wolves in Ketterdam. Regardless, Indira did not intend to allow them to have a bite of what was not rightfully theirs.

Falling quiet, she allowed the rest in the room to process the information that had just been presented. Whether the killer was amongst them or not, she could not be certain. It was definitely possible, but something in her gut told her that this was something more and that it was only the beginning of something dreadful.

 

[tanto]

There was a certain tension-- headier than the one that had come from just three rivals in an enclosed space --that seemed to be added to the room with every step the Dreg representatives took towards the last available seats at the room's edge. It seemed to clout the girls every action. Or more aptly, inaction, as even once they'd taken their seats the representatives seemed more content with whispering to one another than actually speaking to the impatient gangsters clustered around. Feroze vaguely wondered if Thyssen's, the Dreg's delightful leader, absence had anything to do with their hesitation. Was this some misguided attempt at stalling for him?

At his side Darne let out a loud snort, eyes pinching into annoyed slits as they fastened over the prior speaking Zosime girl before shifting to the next, the next. Feroze could tell the man was just itching to make comment. Likely would given time. But before he could, Giavanna did, voice cutting through the room like a knife through butter. She knew something, somehow. But having a whole network of brothels at your disposal did usually make secret-acquisition an easy sport.

And the promise of clarity the Dregs didn't seem to be willing to give was enough to hold entice anyone. Or Feroze, at the very least. The only interruption to her words came from her side, a wolf making its presence more known (not that anyone could ignore a literal wolf in the rom) as it quieted its relentless panting.

It was peering at the Dime Lion's side of the table. How long it had been doing so, Feroze was unsure. What one supposed to do in this instance, Feroze also was unsure. He had little (well actually, none unless you wanted to count Feroze's rare but still always tense run-in's with Darne's chronically-annoyed cat) experience in dealing with house animals least of all wild animals kept as such. But still even with his limited knowledge Feroze didn't thinking glaring back as-- Darne opted for briefly --seemed advisable.

The woman beside the wolf-- her name was Vega if the signature wolf was anything to go by --shifted in her seat and instantly the creature calmed and resumed the same mindless panting from earlier. And at once Giavanna resumed her speech. She wasn't one to mince words in Feroze's experience, and so the promised clarity came fast-- the Dregs leader was dead, his death had been made a public spectacle, the Dregs were in chaos. Resisting the urge to steal a glance at Darne to see if he'd somehow known, Feroze instead glanced with everyone else at the Dregs. How would they deal with their news being lain bare from Giavanna's lips for everyone hear?

By compensating with annoyance obviously, as the Zemeni-looking spoke up first, downing Giavanna in one breath and attempting to take control in the next. The Suli-appearing girl at her side spoke up too, backing up her comrade but far more evasively. Still even with that news out in the open, there still lingered that same hesitation from earlier. And Darne must've noted it as well as the man suddenly pushed his voice into the silence.

"Kind of you to help the Dregs out with delivery of their little news, Giavanna," Darne asserted, giving the woman a little nod as if to put aside their drama from earlier. He shifted his attentions to the Dregs at once, false-sympathy and condescension practically dripping from his words. "it must be difficult, I'm sure, to navigate going about delivering speeches, speaking to rivals about big, big changes without proper leadership behind you. Hopefully this promised heir comes 'soon enough', though considering they couldn't even make the meeting I'm not sure if that'll happen as soon as you hope."

"Still, it's nice to see Thyssen's twins could agree on one thing-- sending you all as representatives rather than deigning to make an appearance themselves," his voice became more mocking as it detached from the Dregs to scrape over the rest of the room. "that choice certainly is a sign of the wonderful decisions the Dregs will be making in the future."

"I am curious though. Did you call this meeting to unsuccessfully take control of the narrative or to throw an accusation at one of us? It kinda seems you can't decide between the two. Or maybe... you are decided, but the lack of leadership at the table on your side is making it much too difficult to steer the conversation back to topic?"

 

[am3thyst.]

Faughn

kit

She had heard Grisha magic referred to as a ‘science.’ But Kit didn’t think that her power could be equated to anything scientific. She felt it was more of a sixth sense, or an extra limb. Something that was simultaneously intangible and a solid, definite material she could grip onto. Usually, it was something she could switch on and off but occasionally, at times like these, when someone without her ability could probably hear the beating of the hearts around her, warmth spread from her head to her feet. The slow, measured beats of the lounging nobility, the racing of the anxious and anticipating.

It truly was an eclectic mix. Some who appeared to be in their best finery, sporting waistcoats, shined shoes and tailored jackets. While others she thought, more practically, had opted for plain clothes, thick boots, and padded jackets, perfect to fight off the chill of the morning but also ideal to conceal weaponry. As well as a wolf, laying it’s massive head on the table in front of them, Kit had always been more of a cat person.

It seemed that so far, everyone was playing fair. For once, Kit hoped, maybe one of these could be carried out in an orderly civilized way. But, as the leader of the Razorgulls stood and began to speak, the blood in Kit’s body stopped in her veins. That’s what it felt like as she sat there, the brief moment when control seemed to be slipping before their eyes.

Then her heart restarted, and suddenly it was beating too fast. Anger was better than a fear that made her muscles atrophy but still, it was an emotional extreme that Kit didn’t need clouding her judgement. Previously, Kit hadn’t been particularly bothered by Giavanna Caballero. In fact, part of her respected the leader’s cutthroat rise to the top and the folklore and mystique that shrouded her. But, as she watched Caballero standing there, with a slight smirk, and steady heart rate, all Kit could imagine was what it would feel like to take the blade from her pocket and lunge across the table, her mother had always cautioned the young girl about her quick temper.

Thank Ghenzen, Djel or Sankt Lukin, for Zosi’s fast response and immediate shut down of Giavanna’s first blow, and the fact she managed to do it in a way that wouldn’t involve their escape window which was now being blocked by two large men. She praised the powers that be once more as Indira spoke. When Darne, who had always rubbed her the wrong way, began to give his two cents Kit figured it was time to reassert themselves.

“Forgive us for the absence of our leaders, but when a person is particularly beloved events are usually planned in their honor after death. Rather than say, finding the first hole you see and tipping the body in or pouring their ashes directly into the canal and handing over duties to whoever’s standing closest at the time, which I'm sure a few of you will be more familiar with ” Kit said this, looking pointedly to both Darne and Gianna, placid smile on her face as she rose from her seat.

‘Liar’ she thought. Kit was positive ‘beloved’ was the last word on in anyone's mind when it came to Thyssen and yet the words rolled off of her tongue with ease.

“Truly, this is a courtesy meeting. Following the events of Thyssen’s death we thought it would be polite to inform you of it, but also share a few words of warning”

She paused, straightening her posture, and glancing at the two other girls.

“And reassure all of you that whoever is responsible for this, whether that counts for a whole group” she cast her eyes around the room “or a lone individual, will be dealt with accordingly. We just hope that this is an isolated incident and not some indication of insurrection within our joint community” Kit reckoned sowing seeds of doubt may be the way to go, the last thing the Dregs needed was the others taking this as an opportunity to form some sort of united front.

coded by reveriee.

 

[ThatSassyWeirdo]

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The sudden of Nika leaning forward onto the table struck Mireli as odd and she’d given him a strange look, but she didn’t question it. There were more important things at hand, as she’d begun to warn him, but before she could elaborate further things begun. It was Cabellero that spoke up, utilizing the information that Mireli had gone to great lengths to acquire. After she’d gotten the frightened young courtesan to tell her all that had happened and she’d sent a message to Giavanna, Mireli had gone out into the streets to try and find what had happened to the gang boss. She’d had little doubts that the gang boss would turn up dead, she just didn’t know how public the killer would make it. Thankfully for her they’d made it very public and Mireli was one of the first to stumble upon that body. She’d taken caution to keep herself hidden while searching, merely being another cloaked figure in the night, but now sitting here at this meeting she worried that someone still may have seen her.

Her eyes fell on the masked Dime Lion man, the Masked Phantom, a purveyor of secrets much like herself. Every gang had their spies, she knew this very well as she’d had to find out what she could of some of them upon request of Giavanna before, but the Shu man scared and intrigued her the most. She couldn’t explain why he worried her or why she felt drawn to him, perhaps it was the mystery of the mask, but she found herself now staring for a long time. Did he discover the death of the Dregs boss before this meeting like she had? Had he been on the prowl that night as well? Could he have seen her at the scene of the murder? A small pit of fear gripped at her briefly, knowing that even though it was unlikely, if someone had seen her they may try to pin the murder of Thyssen on the Razorgulls, on her. No that wouldn’t happen, she’d been so careful to keep her face cloaked in shadow. She was just being paranoid.

Her moment of anxiety had her unthinkingly reaching over to Nika, searching for his hand and wanting his comfort. Her hand bumped into his leg and it was enough to pull her out of her stare down of the Masked Phantom as her head whipped over to look at her hand then to Nika briefly before yanking her hand back to herself. ”Sorry.” She quietly said to him as she quickly looked to something else as a distraction, eyes landing on the priests. She studied each of them now, wondering how they were all feeling as the neutral party here. She decided to listen in to the rhythm of each of their hearts. One heart seemed anxious, perhaps this was their first time overseeing one of these meetings. Then there was one whose heart's rhythm was off, missing a beat every once in a while. He seemed a bit heavier set and Mireli wondered how long it would be until that heart gave out, until he had a heart attack caused by his own poor diet. The other two’s hearts seemed to beat at a normal pace, not giving much away about them. She grew bored at this moment and found herself being drawn back into the conversation at hand.

Her eyes now fell on the girls of the Dregs, listening as the last two spoke and smirking slightly to herself at their bold responses to Cabellero. They all seemed to have a close friendship amongst themselves and Mireli found herself envying them for it. She’d yet to find a close female friend like that within the Razorgulls. This thought had her glancing to Vale and briefly wondering if the newer girl could become a close confidant like that to Mireli. Sure, Mireli was slightly afraid of the woman, but perhaps she was someone that would be good to have on your side. Besides, Giavanna had informed Mireli that she was to start training with Valeria soon as she wanted Mireli to become more deadly. Giavanna was determined to turn Mireli more into an assassin than a spy as of late and Mireli would be lying if she said it didn’t bother her. She didn’t enjoy killing people, but she’d do what she had to in order to survive. The skills may prove useful in the future, too, if Mireli ever worked up the courage to attempt to kill Gia.

She turned her attention once more to the rest of the people in the room, once again trying to get a read on others and waiting to see if anyone would throw out an accusation against another.

 

[Viserion]

mood :

tense

location :

Blue Olive

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Nyhus

Valeria

The tension was so thick Valeria felt like she could choke on it. Everyone was on edge, she wasn’t used to being around so many people in one enclosed space. The assassin preferred to linger in small taverns, tucked away in a small booth away from prying eyes. She also primarily worked alone, trying to assassinate someone with a tagalong made things difficult. And her boss Giavanna avoided difficult. Vale had gone to distracting herself with Oaks fur, she twirled it between her fingers creating little spikes on his head. He was her only comfort in the world, after she had left Fjerdan Oak was the single solid thing in her life. Once the panic of being overwhelmed had subsided she motioned for him to sit behind them away from everyone’s eyes. Then her attention was once more back on the Dregs, particularly the Suli woman. She gave off the air of someone who hadn’t yet stepped in to her power, Vale wouldn’t be surprised if she would fight for leadership. She had the same flair with words that Gia did, and the same cold calculating look. The Fjerdan liked her. The other girls not so much, Vale had only seen them in passing at some of the more popular taverns and the only thing she knew was their names. Both seemed to have a knack for irritating her.

Valeria watched the exchanges back and forth between Gia and the others, and chose to block it out for now. At the moment she was curious to know which gang would gain the most from killing the Dregs boss. The Black Tips came to mind, they had been getting bullied by the Dregs for some time. It would make sense they’d want to knock them down a few pegs. Her dark gaze drifted to Willhelm, so far his group had been quiet and hadn’t done anything of note. Before she could hyper analyze anymore her eyes snapped up when one of the Dregs girls started up again, she was pretty sure her name was Kit. She leaned back against one of the chair arms and threw her legs across the other. Her lithe figure on full display, but what was more of note was the arsenal attached to her body. She wasn’t sure if weapons were forbidden during the meeting but she didn’t care. Giavanna didn’t employ her to sit and look pretty, she employed her to scare people. A small smirk played on her lips as she spoke in her thick accent. “Be careful Drüsje that sounded like a threat.”

coded by reveriee.

 

[Abendrot]

CODE / SEROBLISS

Willem

Black Tips

A round of nervous laughter went through a few folks at Willem's quip. Albert half-smiled while Eliza chuckled out loud, but Boss Rikkert looked unimpressed. From the seat to his left, his father knocked him on the shoulder, as if in a warning reminder that they were here to improve their image of strength to the parley, not weaken it. The wolfish young scion was held in a mixture of precarious respect and cloaked distaste within the Black Tips, though most didn't know what to make of him, new as he was. Willem wasn't one to doubt his own confidence, but even at his mildest moods, there was something in his demeanor that he could see might keep him from being taken seriously.

Willem took stock of the people around the table before letting his attention fall on the Dregs. There were three girls in their delegation, all of them younger than he was. And Boss Alard Thyssen was still absent. It was bad enough that Giavanna Caballero had to step in and make their opening statement for them. For a gang who had come to solicit half the underworld under the guise of negotiation, they weren't exactly putting on their strongest front.

“Late last night a corpse was found suspended from the Church of Barter. That corpse has been identified as Thyssen’s.

Willem's lips tightened to a scowl. So Alard Thyssen was dead, and a a quick scan of the room found more than one set of eyes aimed at the Black Tips, especially from the Dregs.

If there were an explosion in this room right now, it'd be the solution for half of this city's problems. Willem thought, looking over the gathering of Ketterdam's gang leaders. They were in neutral territory, in broad daylight, surrounded by some of the most dangerous criminals in Kerch, Were the Dregs really so brazen as to try and make a accusation here, with their leader dead and the wolves waiting to descend on whatever they had left?

Willem decided that they were.

"We just hope that this is an isolated incident and not some indication of insurrection within our joint community" said the Kaelish girl with the Dregs, gazing darkly around the room.

"Then you should know that the Black Tips had no part in this death," said Rikkert, rising out of his seat to face down the Kaelish girl. Everything about Willem's father -- his speech, his movement, his aura -- spoke of a directness and control that fitted a mercher better than a gangster. "I had no reason to want Alard Thyssen dead. He was a reasonable man, though sooner or later he would have reached his proper conclusion."

A deliberate provocation.

Rikkert's voice became serious then. "But more to the point; you wouldn't have called a parley of this city's gangs just to rehearse old grudges. Your leadership is shattered, and I know a desperate bid for peace when I see one." The Boss let a pause ripple through the room, just shy of uncomfortable before continued: "The Black Tips offer the Dregs our aid in tracking down Alard Thyssen's murderer, but not before we discuss reparations for your gang's... activities in Black Tip territory."

While most of the attention was on his father, Albert, Willem's Fabrikator right hand, leaned in to his ear. "Don't look," he whispered, "but two people here brought knives."

Willem was taken aback, but it didn't show on his face. He'd learned how to keep his thoughts and emotions to himself in situations like this.
"Which ones?" he asked.
"Suli girl by Giavanna," said Albert, "and the Kaelish girl with the Dregs".

Only the very observant would have noticed the small shift in Willem's expression, the slightest quirk of the eyebrow and the flare of the nostrils. Glancing at the priests of Ghezen, he wondered what kind of metaphysical reckoning would befall him in the afterlife if he broke Giavanna Caballero's nose right where she sat. "If it comes to that," Willem whispered, "make me something sharp."