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

[Aviator]

* This RP is based on Leigh Bardugo’s Grishaverse books and the TV series Shadow and Bone. While it’s not necessary for you to have read the books or seen the show, they are good frames of reference for the lore and universe in which this thread is set. Please note that descriptions for the various types of Grisha have been taken from Grishaverse Wiki. Also please note that this is an advanced lit thread, so 3+ paragraphs per post!

Setting: Ketterdam—a canvas of black, gray, and brown, tangled streets dense with mist and coalsmoke, ships of every kind in the harbor, pulsing with the rush and bustle of trade. This is where our story begins. Ketterdam is the capital city of Kerch, a nation governed by greed and distinguished by the prominent wealth gap between the rich and the poor. Ketterdam’s respectable Financial District is populated with landmarks such as the Geldrunner Hotel, Church of Barter, and Zentsbridge, and Ketterdam University is only a short ride away. Nearby is the Government District, where the Council of Merchants acts as the legislating body of the city and presides over the Exchange, where all legal and legitimate transactions take place. But on the streets of the Barrel, the den of vice popular with tourists and locals alike, is another story. Here is where Kerch gets its notoriously violent reputation. The Barrel is the entertainment and pleasure district of Ketterdam, an oasis for criminals and gangs. It is divided in two: East Stave, home of gambling halls and palaces, and West Stave, the red-light district lined with brothels of various themes. If you are a tourist, ladies and gentlemen, you are advised to steer clear of the Barrel—not that you actually will, of course. Please watch your drinks and beware of falling into the extensive network of canals running throughout the city.
* Please note, while this is an AU fantasy world, the technology and beliefs are very nineteenth century-esque.

​

Plot and Gangs: How unfortunate for you to wander into Ketterdam at this time; please, for your own good, stick close to your tour guides and do not get mixed up in anything… nefarious. While the four major gangs of the city are always skirmishing for dominance over the lucrative Fifth Harbor and Barrel, right now tensions are the highest anyone can remember, and the city is bracing for all-out war. Naturally, the Council of Merchants is taking a backseat and letting the gangs resolve the problem on their own—it is high time that these troublesome packs of canal rats could use a little thinning. You have your Dregs, who bear a crow-and-cup tattoo on their forearms and run the popular Crow Club and retain control of Fifth Harbor… for now, at least. Then there’s the Dime Lions, who derive most of their revenue from popular gambling halls such as the Emerald Palace and Kaelish Prince; their symbol is a feral cat curled into a crown. The Black Tips, as their name alludes, bear a tattoo of a hand with the first and second fingers cut off; historically they have been a “small operation,” but war between the major players of the city could be just the opportunity they have always been looking for to make their rise to power. And finally there are the Razorgulls, whose profit primarily derives from various brothels and a monopoly on the astronomically-priced drug jurda parem; members wear a tattoo of five birds in a wedge formation.
* Note: While it’s not required that you make your character a member of one of the aforementioned gangs, the gang war is the focal point of the thread and most of our OCs will indeed likely be gangsters. Some will be Grisha, either secretly or openly, but since Grisha are in rare supply in countries other than Ravka, these will be limited positions.

Nationalities: Kerch, of which Ketterdam is the capital, is an island nation surrounded by two continents. To the western continent lies Novyi Zem, and to the east Fjerda, Ravka, and Shu Han. If we were to create parallels to real-world nations, Kerch is roughly inspired by Dutch culture; Ravka by Russia; Fjerda by Finland/Sweden; Novyi Zem by Africa; Shu Han by East Asia; and the wandering Suli tribes, similar to Bedouin desert dwellers. Ravka is the primary home to Grisha, where they are conscripted into the Second Army and train at the Little Palace to defend the kingdom against foreign threats. (Note: The “First Army” is soldiers with the capabilities of normal humans, though due to the multitudinous advantages of magic, the Second Army serves as Ravka’s main fighting force.) For the most part, outside of Ravka, Grisha are met with suspicion, distrust, and sometimes outright hatred. By extension this prejudice sometimes applies to all Ravkans, regardless of magic ability. Ironically enough however, Grisha are met with mixed feelings within their native country, as some non-magical Ravkans are jealous Grisha's magical ability and privileged status, conveniently ignoring the fact that many Grisha are unwilling soldiers.
Fjerda is Ravka’s most formidable opponent, where Grisha are considered blasphemous witches and hunted mercilessly by the Druskelle, young soldiers who are trained for years at prestigious martial academies to combat magical foes. The wolf is considered a sacred animal by Fjerdans, and over the duration of their martial educations, Druskelle are given their own wolves with whom they develop special affinities. Novyi Zem is a young nation compared to the others, known for its exotic dark-skinned inhabitants, frontiers, bustling coastal cities, sophisticated firearms, and extensive farmland where the profitable cash crop jurda is cultivated. In Novyi Zem, the Grisha are known as zowa, which means “blessed”; many foreign Grisha seek refuge here, where they can start a new life in anonymity without having to fear being killed or enslaved on account of their magic.
Speaking of which, Grisha in Kerch are frequently sold as slaves, so if you, dear friend, find yourself in possession of these unearthly powers in our good city of Ketterdam, it might be in your best interest to keep mum about it! And if enslavement doesn’t sit right with you, just know that in the southern nation of Shu Han, Grisha are typically acquired in not-so-secret black market deals and used as lab rats in various experiments, most of which have to do with the magical ability-enhancing drug jurda parem. Forward-thinking nation, the Shu Han are. Last but not least are the Suli people, who have no official homeland but are eternal nomads. The Suli live by modest means and tend to be skilled entertainers with knacks for performing in traveling fairs and are frequently the subject of settled nations’ scorn. Think of them as gypsies.

So what are Grisha? Great question, traveler! Grisha are humans who practice the Small Science, the art of manipulating matter in its most basic form. In other words, they are essentially sorcerers/witches/magicians, whatever have you. The Grisha are traditionally divided into three orders based on their specific magic ability, with each order being further divided into subtypes. Please note that, while having Grisha parents may increase a child’s chances of inheriting magic ability, it is not a guarantee. The reverse also applies; while it’s somewhat uncommon for a Grisha child to be born to non-Grisha parents, it is not unheard of. And lastly, although most Grisha are of Ravkan or Zemeni origin, this is certainly not the case for all Grisha.

Corporalki, (singular: Corporalnik) or the Order of the Living and the Dead, are Grisha whose power focuses on the human body. The Order is divided into three groups: Healers, Heartrenders, and Tailors. In Ravka's Second Army, they wear crimson-colored kefta (uniform robes worn to battle).

• Healers utilize their ability to manipulate the human body in order to heal wounds and injuries.
• Heartrenders are one of the most feared Grisha types and were for a long time considered the most valuable soldiers. Their ability and training allow them to manipulate the body of another person to cause harm. For example, a skilled Heartrender can stop a human's heart or prevent air from entering their lungs.
• Tailors have the unique ability to alter human appearances, both their own and those of others.

Etherealki, (singular: Etherealnik) or the Order of Summoners, are Grisha whose power lies in the manipulation of different natural elements. This Order is divided into Squallers, Inferni, and Tidemakers. Loosely referred to as Summoners, Etherealki typically train in pairs; Inferni partner with other Inferni, while Squallers and Tidemakers usually train together.

• Squallers are Summoners who can raise or lower air pressure to create storms, gusts, and manipulate objects. They wear blue kefta embroidered in silver.
• Inferni summon combustible gases such as methane or hydrogen, though they still need a flint to start a spark. They wear blue kefta embroidered in red.
• Tidemakers manipulate temperature to summon and control water. They wear blue kefta embroidered in light blue.

Materialki, (singular: Materialnik) or the Order of Fabrikators, are Grisha whose power focuses on composite materials such as metal, glass, textiles, and chemicals. This Order consists of Durasts and Alkemi; collectively, they are commonly referred to as Fabrikators.

• Durasts deal with solids such as Grisha steel, corecloth, textiles and glass. Their colors are purple and gray.
• Alkemi specialize in poisons and blasting powders. They traditionally wear purple and red.

​

The Dregs {2/5}
- Indira Chadha
- Lovise Hexum
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The Dime Lions {3/5}
- Tala bint Esmail
- Fionnula Kilbride
- Luke Mortensen
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The Black Tips {0/5}
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-
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The Razorgulls {2/5}
- Nels Kolbeck
- Elora Winslow
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Other Characters {1/∞}
- Jeong Nari
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The Grisha {4/5} (Note: Grisha may be members of one of the aforementioned gangs; these categories are not mutually exclusive)
- Tala bint Esmail (Healer)
- Nels Kolbeck (Squaller)
- Indira Chadha (Tidemaker)
- Jeong Nari (Inferni)
- Open!

 

[Aviator]

Tala bint Esmail // Female // Age 19 // Suli // Dime Lions // Healer
​

Standing at two inches under five feet, Tala bint Esmail was probably the tiniest Madman to ever perform.
The black leggings and shirt she wore were form-fitting enough, molding to her legs and torso like oil. Under different circumstances, she would have enjoyed the way the fabric hugged the curves of her thighs and accentuated her slender waist, making her look slick and a little bit wicked. But they weren’t the only thing she was wearing. Layered overtop of it was a hideous pumpkin-orange tunic that belted at the waist and belled out artlessly at the chest. In the back it flared into a too-long cape, swallowing up Tala’s shape and rendering her movements graceless as she fought not to trip. A baggy hood the color of overripe squash swept up over her head, and as if she didn’t already have enough trouble seeing out of the thick shadows layering her vision, a birdlike mask with a ridiculous protruding beak was affixed to the upper half of her face. Tala knew it was only a matter of time until she stabbed someone with the beak, either inadvertently or fully purposely. But the latter was assuming that she possessed the necessary coordination, which she was certain she did not in her court jester’s costume.
During performances of the Komedie Brute, it was customary for the audience to hiss at the Madman whenever he appeared onstage. Tala wasn’t sure whether the hisses she heard as Pekka Rollins’ little band of Dime Lions masquerading as stage characters marched through the East Stave were actually from pedestrian passerby or a product of her imagination. The yushraq—or shine, as the Kerch referred to the mild hallucinogen—that she’d taken an hour ago had yet to wear off, and the wind seemed to have a voice as it rustled the hood draped over her face. It whispered ominous words of doom. Do you desire death or slavery, girl? It was only a matter of time until Pekka Rollins found a better, more skilled Healer and sold her off to the highest bidder on the Stave. Or she would refuse a special guest’s request during one of her private performances, and he would beat her to death. Or maybe when she finally made her move on Pekka Rollins the attempt would fail, and she’d be tortured to a slow, bitter end. The Barrel was truly a place of limitless possibilities, at least in terms of demise.
The Dime Lions’ destination was a ramshackle little tavern called the Twice Lucky that was known for serving watered-down drinks, fried oysters, and a thick reddish stew with mushy lumps of crawfish. Many Barrel tourists complained that the latter offering was too spicy—thus incentivizing them to order more watered-down drinks—but to Tala it just tasted weirdly sweet. As the costumed troupe of Dime Lions approached and Tala stumbled toward the Twice Lucky, she could make out the establishment’s wrought iron balcony gleaming in the moonlight, with bushels of cheap plastic beads dangling from metal fixtures like holiday ornaments. The two-story building was claustrophobia-inducingly narrow, sandwiched between a pair of crumbling establishments like a row of dominoes that would tip over in a strong breeze.
They were here on the business of a conference with the Barrel’s three other major gangs: the Black Tips, Dregs, and Razorgulls. Just last week, a Black Tips lieutenant, a Ravkan man by the name of Cheglok who always wore a necklace of finger bones and teeth, had been found dead and drowned in a barrel full of horse piss on the docks of Fifth Harbor. As an alternative to blitzing the primary suspect—the Dregs—with everything they had, the Black Tips had opted to hold this conference to address the newfound tensions throughout the Barrel. Tala suspected that the only reason the Black Tips hadn’t already retaliated was because they lacked the resources, and this conference was an attempt to save face. Barrel violence was at an all-time high, both inside and outside of kruge-snatching establishments. A few days before Cheglok’s murder, the song that Tala had been performing in the Kaelish Prince had come to a sudden end as a letter opener was stabbed through the hand of a card dealer that Pekka had allegedly caught skimming from the club and serving as an informant for rival gangs. Tala never saw the dealer again and had been left to imagine her gruesome fate.
A tall and wiry Dime Lion reached the door first and wrestled the half-rusted hunk of metal open with a visible ripple of muscle beneath his closer-fitting costume. Even with his face concealed, Tala identified Luke Mortensen by his slouching, lazy gait. Paired with his lean, athletic frame, the Fjerdan bruiser reminded Tala of a jaguar pacing a circus cage, head slumped between its powerful shoulder blades, awaiting its next mindless command to fulfill. His wordless, restless menace made her shiver; Tala could count on one hand the number of sentences they’d ever exchanged. A rail-thin girl with pomegranate-red locks peeking out of her disguise brushed past Luke as he propped the door open carelessly with his foot. Fionnula was the name of the intrepid adventurer, first to venture into the dimly-lit tavern. Tala’s lip curled in distaste as the red-haired girl disappeared inside. She was accustomed to seeing Fionnula with a candy bar in one hand and a knife in the other, with a flock of emaciated children huddled around her ankles as she instructed them on the proper method of slitting a man’s throat with sugar crystals glittering on her lips.
Other than Luke—still holding the door—Tala was the last to enter the tavern. She paused at the threshold with the dual purposes of trying to decipher it amid the darkness as to not trip and to steel her emotions. What was she doing here? The question flung itself at her desperately, like a cornered animal searching for an opening big enough to escape through. What if she just turned and ran, ducked through the shadowy streets of Ketterdam until she came to Fifth Harbor and bribed her way onto a boat that would whisk her away from this Saints-forsaken city? Luke was a steely, tight-lipped soldier who did as he was told, but could he really justify hunting down and murdering a little girl in cold blood?
She paused for so long at the door that she lost track of time, prompting Luke to clear his throat. Sharp as a razor, Rollins’ head twitched over his shoulder to glance back at her. The Dime Lions’ leader was the only one of their band to brave the night undisguised, because his unaltered appearance was enough to send pedestrians skedaddling the other way, tails tucked between their legs. “Hurry, boo.” Boo was his pet name for Tala, and she despised how he pronounced it in a reedy voice an octave too high for a man of his substantial bulk. “Wouldn’t want your Suli shadow to sneak up on you, ta?”
Black rage burned in Tala’s heart, speckling her vision with dark circles. She imagined the shadows converging in the shape of a monster with a slithering, serpentine body, enclosing on Rollins, and throwing its head back as it snapped him up in fangs dripping with venom. There were legends of a Grisha long ago who possessed such a power. In that moment, there wasn’t much that Tala wouldn’t give for a similar ability, rather than an insipid knack for mending broken bones and knitting flesh back together, just useful enough to make her a commodity without being formidable enough to be threatening. Tala was in no way a senior member of the gang; publicly, she was only an associate, a woman who climbed up onto a stage to steal an audience’s hearts with a few songs and then went off on her merry way. She didn’t even have the gang’s tattoo, as to preserve the more secretive capacities in which she served the Dime Lions. The only logical reason that she had been invited along to tonight’s rendezvous was that Pekka expected blood to be shed.
Seething wordlessly, she pushed the sweat-slick bird mask higher up the bridge of her nose and did as she was bid. There was a scuff of heavy footsteps as Luke chased her inside. The door closed behind them with a muted thump. Immediately the oppressive Kerch humidity turned suffocating, pressing down on her lungs, making them heavier and turning every breath into an uphill battle. Tala bint Esmail narrowed her eyes, struggling to adjust to a darkness permeated only by torches set at intervals along the walls. From the little that she could see, she was ensconced in the heavy wooden interior of a structure that felt more like a coffin than a building. She only hoped that the premonition wouldn’t become truth.

 

[Lizy]

Elora Winslow

Razorgulls

location

Streets of the Barrel

mentions

N/A

interactions

Nels

tags

krypt

Not a day goes by without Elora thinking about what her life may have been like had she not been born in Ketterdam. Maybe it would have been just as bad. Maybe her father would have still been a good-for-nothing crook. Maybe she'd still need to steal, kill, and lie in order to survive and have any semblance of a life. But maybe, just maybe, her life could have been something else. Under different circumstances, she could lead a pleasant, tranquil life, completely at peace with herself. Even then, the girl knew that she was not built for an average life. Elora Winslow was put into this world to fight for her survival. Born into the streets of the barrel, she acquired all of the skills required to be a skilled criminal, which were in high demand these days. She'd found her place in the world with the Razorgulls. Although this isn't the life she'd have chosen for herself, she knew that she was lucky. No one owned her; she wasn't indebted to anyone; the only scars inflicted upon her were from fights she picked. She made a decent profit from being a member of the Razorgulls, and she was definitely more secure with them than she would be if she were alone on the streets. Just as quickly as her mind boils up what she resents about her life, she is able to find the positives in it all. She knows she's lucky in a way, having narrowly escaped a life of being sold to a man and becoming his property.
The gang politics in Ketterdam were fragile; Elora knew that was a fact. So, naturally, she knew that a conference called to settle tensions among the gangs of the barrel was a ridiculous concept. Knowing the circumstances under which this conference was called—the Black Tips being attacked and having no resources to properly strike back—Elora saw this conference for precisely what it was—a desperate attempt to maintain an appearance of control over this situation. In a perfect world, she'd love for peace to be found. Then everyone could just get along or mind their own business. But she always kept her expectations realistic. It was likely that this conference would produce nothing, except maybe some bloodshed. Her tactic for this conference? Keep out of any controversial conversations, have an ear to the ground, and a hand ready to grab her gun. Elora decided to just follow along with whatever Marlon, the leader of the Razorgulls and her boss, said. She wasn't there to take a stance on the situation; she was there to listen in on people to get information and provide a little firepower. Still, she planned to take the chance to socialize a bit with other gang members; she was genuinely interested in getting to know some new people, but she'd call her socialization gathering intel for business purposes.
Walking the streets of the barrel, she swiftly made her way to meet up with the rest of the Razorgulls. She spotted them outside, in their determined meeting spot, right outside of one of the Razorgull's entertainment establishments. They were to walk together to this conference—strength in numbers and all that. Marlon, Beck, and Vance led their gang towards the tavern with a confident and powerful energy—a no-nonsense stride that made people scurry out of their way on the street in an effort not to be the targets of the typical violence that the leaders of the Razorgulls were known to be quick to turn to. Following closely behind the leaders, she stood closest to Vance, whom she trusted the most—not to say that that meant too much, but still, it counts for something. Vance brought her on to the Razorgulls after she'd ditched her father and was completely alone. He'd previously worked with the girl when she did some more unaffiliated freelance work, and he was quick to recruit her talent as soon as her father was no longer leaching off of her. Walking behind the Razorgull leaders, Elora maintained an air of confidence to match theirs, giving off the message that she was not someone to be messed with. She was uncharacteristically quiet at the moment, not yet striking up conversation with fellow gang members as she'd typically do. Instead, her mind was preoccupied with what might go down at this meeting. To try and snap herself out of letting her thoughts of scenarios that ended with tremendous violence and bloodshed get the best of her, Elora glanced around to assess the manpower they had. Glancing around their group, filled with many people she knew to be extremely capable of holding their own in a fight, she felt a little more secure with whatever they were walking into. They could surely handle it, right? She briefly locked eyes with Nels Kolbeck and kindly smiled at him as a means of greeting him. Having done a few jobs with him in the past, she knew that he was great muscle to have around. They got along, and he did make for pretty decent conversation. Elora fell back a little into the group of Razorgulls to be closer to Nels and strike up some conversation. "Lovely day for a convention of criminals, isn't it?" she cheeped, a bright hint of sarcasm dripping through her tone.

© weldherwings.

 

[skycaptor]

‎

The Dregs

Lovise Hexum

❝Smilla❞ ─ Female ─ 20 ─ Fjerdan ─ Vixen/Spy

location

streets of Ketterdam

mood

giddy

interaction

open

outfit

dress (a shade darker), cape (but dark blue), veil, flower crown, shoes

Lovise has had enough. First they tore her away from her mark of the night. They couldn't even wait for her to finish her job and rid him of the riches on his person. All her efforts in buttering him up was for nothing but a few coins she managed to pocket, and her head started pounding on the thought of the plentiful more kruges she could've had by next dawn. On top of that, they'd have the audacity to toss her an atrociously horrid horned mask, and told her to wear it somewhere; she hadn't paid attention after looking at the bulbous eyes─badly painted ones, clearly cheap and rushed─staring at her, too busy resisting just breaking one horn off and puncture said tosser's neck with it. Fortunately for them, they'd been a pretty generous lieutenant, never stingy with her share, even gave her pocket change out of the blue at times. So she shall spare their life tonight. She smiled instead, one hand sliding her curls past her shoulder. She gently put the mask down, and simply said "No". Only then did they properly explain her assignment of the night, which made her laugh, a genuine one. And it had been a hot minute since her last one.

In her defense, the whole thing sounds like the start of a bad joke. Four major gangs walk into a tavern...
Who would've thought her lieutenant had it in them to start a career in comedy.

It took some persistent convincing before she believed that it was an actual event that was going to happen tonight. Some lieutenant had been murdered, and but of course, the blame had fell on them. Classic.
In this kinds of moment it was so easy to blame it on the dead man who had shoved her to the hands of this gang of thieves and not a better one. But what should she do, not respect his words after seeing him die to save her? Even her present self wouldn't stoop that low. She gave her hair a quick ruffle to disperse those vile thoughts away, accepted her fate and went to transform to the Lost Bride. Which is the only times she'd appear as any kinds of bride, as she couldn't imagine actually becoming one one day. The mere idea forced a shudder out of her. Not that she's planning to live long enough to see it come to fruition anyway.
She has her own set of blue bridal fit, separate from the stack of costumes the Dregs have readily available for maybe the whole bunch of them. Gods know when they were last cleaned. And if there was a high chance she's dying tonight, she's not gonna do it in a cheap, stinky costume.

They offered her two choices: either march with the other crows, as a show of solidarity, or go alone but maintain some anonymity. Most of the Dregs had chosen to spread out, crawl their way through the shadows; but they'd known better─that was the one thing not within her copious capabilities. Regardless, it was rude of them to try and dim her light, but she understood. So she was to wear a veil thick enough to cover her infamous visage. She'd only wish it would shield her from the stench of the Barrel too. Alas, fate had not been so merciful to her. If it had been she wouldn't be here at all. Though she was glad that it all lead to this guaranteed disaster of a night. She would've willingly killed to get a front row seat. She's giddy at the fact she had even get paid for precisely that. And no one said she couldn't toss more oil to the flames before attempting to put it down.

She crowned her veiled head in a cluster of blue flowers, taking a good look at her reflection in the vanity mirror, one she'd tried so hard to clean but still has irremovable smudges. She lifted up the veil. Her face was neutral, smile lines etched deep, casualty of donning the mask more often than not. She twitched a couple times before giving in and start smiling again, keeping her repugnant feelings at bay. How she'd love to have fresh flowers to smell. She put the veil back down, and made a mental note to treat herself to a new mirror. Maybe even a fresh bouquet. That of course, if she survives to see the morrow.

She finally left the Slat, fully aware that she would definitely arrive late. She simply didn't get paid enough to care, and she has a glowing reputation of gorgeousness to maintain, so she had merrily taken her sweet time getting ready. She was a little sad she'd miss the surely tense start of the conference. It was her job to de-escalate should things go south, which it most likely will anyhow, so she thought she'd let them marinate first. She could do it a bottle of whiskey in, half-asleep, and upside-down anyway. Or she'd will it so. And after two years, she'd built a reputation enough to do half that job for her. Or, if she's lucky, she could be avoiding bloodshed with each of her step. A bit torn on that one, between wanting to partake in the thrill of a fight and still cherishing her life. She ambled along the streets, feeling safe enough with her rapier hidden under the silk cape. She was a dagger short today, no place for it in either of tonight's boots. She'd worn her custom made hairpin though, snuggled tightly in the elaborate half bun, braids and all, its edge sharp enough for a makeshift dagger. She's doing her best blending with the public, finding herself walking amongst other Komedie Brute characters, likely tourists, but a few steps behind, keeping a safer distance still. No such thing as being too careful in the Barrel.

© weldherwings.

 

[krypt]

nels kolbeck

Razorgulls // Squaller // tags: Elora Lizy

There were times when Nels Kolbeck wondered how much time he had left in the Barrel as a generally well-regarded – yet not so high-standing as to arouse suspicion and envy – gang member before someone caught onto his predicament as a Grisha – a less straightforward term for a witch, really. The latest idea that he had latched onto and brainstormed whenever there was some talk of witch trade in Ketterdam or some poor citizen being indentured against their will, was that of forging an alternate identity for himself as a witch trader. In an emergency, he could sell his forged indenture to the highest bidder and depart with the profits during an impromptu storm, never to return to Ketterdam again. This idea kept his preoccupation at bay for the time being. Though the question remained as to how such an escapade would impact his sister, as both siblings had the same ink covering the skin of their right wrist, five birds signalling their sworn loyalty to the Razorgulls.
Although Nels, a scoundrel to the bone, had adapted to his surroundings seamlessly, he was, after all, just a foreign seabird stranded far away from its homeland. Muddied and sooted in urban grime to the point that he cannot be recognised for anything other than a house sparrow in a flock of other such rowdy and disease-ridden city birds. Unlike the majestic, pristine, just as rowdy and disease-ridden seabirds terrorising Fjerdan ports back home, of course.
Besides, the alternative for him was to be roasted over a flame back home where such seabirds were dangerous pests, best served as fire fuel. This notion awarded some excitement and charm to the prospect of being a thieving little sparrow in the smog-covered streets of the Barrel.
Nels had been traded as a commodity before, and he would never lose resentment over the fact that the nice sum of money ended up lining the pockets of the highest bidder, not his own. And yet, it was through sheer luck that he wasn’t put in something akin to his sister’s unenviable position, that of a caged songbird kept on a tight chain. Forced to please and appease, not steal and intimidate. Knowing his fair share of folks on the Barrel’s entertainment scene and their customers, Nels had been assured that his pretty face could be put to good use in the same trade. Not only that, some leering men, mostly intoxicated and slurring, had alluded to the special appeal that a two-for-one deal of two pretty Fjerdans would have in some of the most questionable establishments of the Barrel.

Presently, Nels Kolbeck was engrossed in thought regarding the unfortunate demise of a Black Tips’ soldier, in equal parts due to the miserable way in which he died and the somehow even more gross and lewd stories retold at poker tables by drunken Razorgull soldiers. Nels had never thought that he would see the day that the event of the month in the Barrel would involve horse piss and such oxymoronic abomination as a gang conference.
Indeed, theories for how exactly one would go about obtaining a whole barrel of horse piss for such purposes had been one of the most popular topics of the last several nights. Nels was certain that the ears of poor Cheglok’s ghost were wilting in embarrassment and his body rolling in its grave. Well, if they indeed buried the man. It occurred to Nels that he had no idea, in fact, what the Black Tips did to the body or, hell, what even was the right method of burial in such circumstances.
Thankfully, the members of his gang had a few creative solutions, and so Nels spent the stroll to the conference in relative silence next to two of the lower-ranking members of the Razorgulls, Jan and Diederik. They were relatively harmless, too preoccupied with gambling, drinking and women to pose any real risk to Nels or let some ambitions of advancing within the gang prevail over interpersonal relationships. Yet, Nels wouldn't go as far as to call them friends or confidants. He was well aware that either of these men would in a heartbeat trade him to a merchant in need of a witch on his ships, were they to find out about Nels' abilities.
Nels couldn't quite blame them though. Diederik had recently lost his wristwatch, a family heirloom, in a gamble to a certain blond Fjerdan when, in all honesty, the former was too inebriated to play, and during the years both of these gentlemen had fallen victim to a light gust of wind changing roulette results in the very last minute. Plenty of times, even.

Jan and Diederik clearly hadn’t bothered to follow too strictly Marlon’s orders, namely, at all costs not to imbibe before the conference at the Twice Lucky. Somehow, mention of the name of the small, nearly dilapidated establishment made the two fellows next to Nels reminisce about some personal encounter in hushed tones, somehow related to getting lucky twice. The vulgarity of the language they used, though, made the Fjerdan in him blush in prudeness, or at least Nels expressed as much to the gentlemen to excuse himself discreetly from the conversation.
While the previous topic, even if off-colour, had also sparked certain fascination within Nels due to the comically tragic and implausible circumstances surrounding Cheglok’s demise, at this point, he quickly but subtly distanced himself from this conversation. Nels could already see Beck tilting his head in displeasure and the fear-inducing side profile of Marlon's scowl, so he turned his head in search of a potential conversation partner.
A quick glance backwards told Nels that his sister, Helka, was still there, walking somewhere close to the back of the Razorgull crowd, side by side with her coworkers. That was just as well since he didn't quite want his sister on the frontlines if the conference resulted in a shootout, which was far from unlikely for gang conferences. Even though, admittedly, she could stand her ground.

Thankfully, by falling out of step with the two Razorgulls who had just narrowly avoided their death sentence by finally piping down and adopting a more businesslike expression, Nels had moved closer to Elora. Their gunslinger whose bullets had saved him from permanent damage to his backside on more than one occasion. Their eyes locked for a moment, and Nels couldn’t help but grin at her cheerful sarcasm. ”I’m thinking the same thing," he spoke up in a matching jolly tone. “So, who do you think will shoot first? My bet’s on the Dregs. They’ve been quite off the rails recently, haven’t they? Although Rollins must be up to something, too." Nels paused for a moment to consider. "Well, more than usual, anyway.”
Finally, it was their turn to follow the Razorgull leaders into the establishment, and so Nels held the door open for Elora and himself. When his eyes had gotten used to the dim lighting and his nose to the humid air, Nels noticed the masked faces looming closer to the walls and doors. The Komedie Brute ensemble seemed an overkill, at least for those Razorgulls whose specialty wasn’t related to lurking in the shadows. As it was in his case: as a regular Razorgull soldier, lackey and muscle for the higher-ranking members of his gang, without particular notoriety of his own, Nels had no particular need to cower behind a mask. Yet, with his fairly recognisable golden blond hair and each raised eyebrow or sheepish grin on full display, Nels felt a bit more cautious than he had while sauntering through the Fifth Harbour.
”Honestly, I’m feeling a tad underdressed now,” he leaned closer to Elora and told her in a conspiratorial half-whisper. ”My complexion is excellent for Mister Crimson.” As Nels spoke, his eyes happened to land on a small group of masked, murderous-looking individuals whose beaks, goggly eyes and other appendages seemed to be staring right at his soul. Almost reflexively, Nels threw a wink in their direction.
Nels greatly enjoyed performance arts and he generally had no qualms about mixing entertainment with business. And yet, there was something equal parts thrilling and unnerving about the atmosphere of the conference so far.

 

[BOKEH.]

INDIRA CHADHA

Crime was not an uncommon occurrence in a city like Ketterdam, which was riddled with secrets and illegal transactions. Nonetheless, it was the homicide of Chegloks, a Ravakan man and lieutenant of the Black Tips, that had led the tidemaker to stand before the rickety-looking, two-story building that was the Twice Lucky. Indira Chadha could not say that she had predicted that a poor unfortunate soul who had drowned in a barrel of horse piss on the docks of the Fifth Harbor would be the event that spurred a call for action in regards to the growing tension between gangs—but here she was, attending a conference designed to “ease the tensions” between the opposing gangs. It was almost a laughable notion to the clever young woman. After all, peace was a rarety amongst the wicked.

The dark-haired girl tipped her head back slightly to examine the wooden exterior of the structure where the conference was supposed to be. Her gaze flickered from the iron balcony to the cheap beads that dangled from metal installations to the faint glow of light from the windows, signaling that she was not the first to arrive. While it was truly an unattractive building, she supposed that is exactly what made it the perfect place to uphold suspicious activity without drawing too much attention.

Her attention briefly shifted to the other members of the Dregs, who their boss had dragged along. Every single one of them possessed a skill that might be beneficial in such a conference. Indira was exceptionally skilled in gathering intel through her charm and ability to navigate different types of conversation and environments.

And then there were the Grisha abilities she possessed. However, that was a detail about herself that Indira preferred to keep her mouth shut. Unlike countries like Ravka and Novyi Zem where Grisha could live relatively well, Kerch did not offer the same courtesy for Grisha. She had no intentions of being traded and used like she was nothing more than an object in a twisted game set by avaricious individuals (not that she was not a bit greedy herself, but even she had her limits). But that did not mean Indira had not used her abilities since her arrival in Kerch or since she joined the Dregs. She just had made certain that no one lived to tell the tale when she did or took other measures to ensure her secret stayed a secret.

Regardless, this occasion would be different from her usual undertakings in that she would be in a room full of individuals with varying potentially dangerous talents and, perhaps, other Grisha. Any display of weakness would be a delicious appetizer for power-hungry individuals and those with well-trained eyes. Thus, she could not afford any miscalculations or the loss of her wits today.

Indira quietly trailed behind most of her fellow gang members as they set foot in the dimly lit tavern. The inside of the establishment appeared to be of similar ilk to the outside in that it could use a little love. Despite the unpleasantness of the sticky feeling commencing from the air around her and the musty odor emanating from the wooden interior of the structure, the half-Suli woman somehow managed to fight the urge to peel off her heavy scarlet cloak and, instead, will her expression into that of neutrality and lift her chin a bit to resemble confidence.

In spite of feeling a bit conflicted by the current circumstance, Indira was rather curious about how everything would play out. After all, for better or for worse, the conference would make for an interesting time, now would it not?

 

[Aviator]

Tala bint Esmail // Female // Age 19 // Suli // Dime Lions // Healer​

As the group of Komedie Brute characters proceeded up a winding metal staircase that snaked between the Twice Lucky’s upper and lower levels, the only sounds were the scuffing of shoes on steps, creaking wood, a constant drip of moisture from somewhere hidden in the building, and the hammering of Tala’s own heart in her ears. She had never been invited to an inter-gang conference of such clandestine ilk before, and because she was associated with the Dime Lions against her own volition, she assumed that moving up in their ranks could only portend worse things to come. She thought of her mother, who had died on a Druskelle’s swordpoint to save Tala. Of the Suli caravan that she had abandoned when she discovered that the consequences to her magic were real, and would follow her as long as she lived. Of the hundreds of slavers and Exchange bidders who would twist her ability to mend wounds and save lives—a deed as indisputably good as charity—into a contest for reaping the most profit.
Lost in her disdain for the greed of humankind, Tala startled when the front door screeched open with a sound like the cry of someone waking from their coffin. More precisely, she caught the top of her foot on the lip of a step and stumbled, flailing for balance against the flimsy metal rail. Indignation sparking in her chest, she whirled—this time mindful of the narrow steps—to catch a glimpse of the culprit who had almost caused her to face-plant on the stairs. And came eye to eye with Luke Mortensen. Standing two steps higher than him, Tala was greeted with a novel phenomenon: She was equally as tall as the six-foot-plus Fjerdan mercenary.
Luke’s brows frowned at Tala’s inexplicable ability to confuse the obvious direction in which they were supposed to be proceeding. Before he could protest—and more importantly, before he could stop her—she ducked under the arm that he had braced against the wall, darting behind him. Luke grunted and uttered something unintelligible in his soft, accented voice, but Tala just flicked her hand at him. She took orders from Pekka Rollins only because she had to, but she wouldn’t let a hunk of muscle with no real authority boss her around. “Yalla, yalla,” she waved off his protests. “I’ll be up in just a second, hasana? I just want to check out the competition.” She heard Luke sigh in resignation, but other than the dark glower that pierced her back, he offered no further resistance. Which was a good thing for the both of them, because Tala was already in rapid motion down the stairs, and the only way to stop her would be to tackle her from behind.
Her curiosity regarding the rival gangsters had gotten the best of her, rendering her an unstoppable force. Common sense told her that approaching them alone may not have been the most logical move, but what would they do? Kill her where she stood? They’d be doing her a mercy to spare her from Pekka’s iron-fisted rule. And this was supposed to be a peaceful conference, first and foremost. Time to put that theory to the test.
Two dark figures stood in the doorway to the Twice Lucky, silhouetted by the light of the gibbous moon. A singsong, lilting voice instantly reminded Tala of Luke, only this intonation was much more playful and lighthearted than Luke ever was. She sourced the voice as coming from the taller of the two individuals, the one holding the door for the other. Both of them were thin—as Barrel residents tended to be—and remarkably average heights—for two different sexes. With both figures cloaked in shadow, Tala knew the speaker to be male and could only infer that his companion was female and not a short man by the way he’d propped the door open for her. Chivalry between sexes was rare enough in the Barrel and usually only came with strings attached; it was nonexistent within sexes.
The two of them were joking about the Dime Lions masquerading as Komedie Brute characters. The Fjerdan male sounded young from his jovial manner of speaking, and Tala imagined him uttering his dry comment about Mister Crimson with a dimple-revealing smile. Other than her brothers, back when she’d lived in the traveling caravan, there were few boys whom she hadn’t kissed, whose hands she hadn’t held as they stretched out beneath star-speckled skies or waded together in an oasis. Sometimes it started and ended at kissing, a quick peck just to see what the other’s lips felt like, but other times Tala would feel a flame kindle inside her just at the thought of her latest infatuation.
She would envision futures with some of the boys, sometimes performing synchronized acts together within the caravan well into adulthood, and sometimes running away to settle down in a small Ravkan or Zemeni town. But they always had charming little families of their own—or unruly big ones—and they always put the other on a pedestal like a personal, pocket saint. Until someone else came along, and Tala or her beloved lost interest and pursued that person instead. She’d been a romantic throughout her childhood, and even now, a sliver of it remained, fragile and deteriorated like an unused limb, but still very much tangible. And sometimes it surfaced at the most impractical of moments, like when Tala was coming face to face with a rival gangster… only, it was too dark to even see his face. She’d just happened to admire his voice and wanted to picture it coupled with flowing locks and toned muscles.
“The very fact that you’re speaking makes me believe that you wouldn’t be very apt for the role,” Tala told the Fjerdan man from the second step up from the floor. Both he and his companion jerked. There was the slithering scrape of a blade being drawn. It occurred to Tala that she didn’t even know which gang these individuals were allegiant to; all she knew was that they weren’t with the Dime Lions. “No need for knives. I just thought I’d inform you that Mister Crimson is a silent role. Like all of the Komedie Brute characters,” she said with a wry curl of her lips, very aware that she was dressed as the Madman, in all his hideous orange accouterments.
It dawned on Tala that she should possibly feel ridiculous in her oversized costume, but that was the funny thing about wearing a mask: Other than making breathing a conscious task, it disguised her identity, so the ridiculousness could not be tied to Tala bint Esmail any more than it could be to a ghost plucked out of the grave. “That’s all I wanted to tell you. Looking forward to seeing your faces in the conference room, and may the Saints watch over us all tonight.” Tala said this with all sincerity; she didn’t want to see harm befall the Dregs or Razorgulls any more than she wanted herself to be at the end of a knife. A rush of shyness suddenly flooded through her. Had she really escaped Luke’s watchful gaze and tripped down the stairs just to tell these two strangers that? What an insensibly peculiar thing to do. Maybe Tala really was more cut out for the role of the Madman than this stranger was for Mister Crimson. Wanting to end the interaction as quickly as she’d begun it, she promptly turned, almost slipped from the force of her movement and had to grasp at the rail, and fled back up the stairs in the direction she’d come.