Fantasy Tales from the Fifth City ( A Fallen London Roleplay)

[Sir Knight]

'To speak honestly.' Reinol said as he took a swig from the flask. 'I knew nothing of Eleison's plans. And I wouldn't call him a friend either. Acquaintance yes, but far from friends. No.'

The Sentimental Writer shook his head. 'We're both members of the Black Ribbon Society and met there. We dueled often, though rarely to the death. I slew him once and he, me. Our relationship is...complicated.'

'As for our task...I don't like it. Not enough information. Would've preferred knowing exactly what we're up against. Normally, I would've cut the deal and left, I still can. But I have a feeling...that it'll be best if I were to stay for now. I know him more than anyone. Only I can tell how he acts. And he seems to be keen on keeping his word...for now.'

At the mention of his reason for staying, a quick side-glance was tossed to the couple. But he shrugged and took another swig. 'Your hunter, Solveig...sounds interesting.'

Especially when she mentioned 'find someone'. A romance perhaps? Or perhaps something more...ruthless.

 

[Osthavula]

"Breeding..."

Wondering what Eleison really planned, she silently agreed with him on that Eleison could easily hire someone else if they refuse their place. She only raised her brow at his choice of word for the hunter, but they reached the office soon enough. Frederick was familiar enough that he recognized and was recognized, when Ostha went straight for the counter, not minding the rotting rat cage behind the man. "Greetings. I wanted to ask if Solveig is here. "

"Ah, Lady Osthavula. " The man nodded. "She is indeed. It should be the time when she comes back with her trophies... Ah, there she is. "

From the door came a pale woman, tightly wrapped in black fabric from the inner vest to her long coat. Her ginger hair laid on her shoulder, covering half of her neck. But her lack of smile made her appearance insignificant. Her skin paled and freckled, but her face was so paled of smile that it seemed not humanly to be so. When Viola went up to greet her, they embraced only loosely and parted. Her tricone hat and the collar blocked what would be her otherwise obvious reason to had come --- she had a bucket full of rats.

The man at the counter rubbed his hand and went around to retrieve it.

"So, what do you need me to do?" Ask the hunter in a tone with barely any warmth.

"I need a hunter, Solveig. This will be dangerous. "

"And I need the distraction. " said the hunter, "My next step is to go to the Iron Republic. "

"I see. That's a long process. Remember, I'm sure you do, that your life is more important for this task."

"I won't die until I revenge him."

Said the hunter as she nodded to the other two, but didn't greet more than that. It would seem like she made no effort of speaking at all.

 

[Sir Knight]

Reinol sighed to himself. 'Iron Report eh? I have business there as well.' He gazed at the hunter with a curious eye. 'So its true...'

To think that they were similar in more ways than one. He knew why he came to this place. How he abandoned his life for the sake of love.

A hand reached into his coat and produced a cigar. The match takes three strikes to flare. A cloud of smoke drifted lazily by his pale face. 'I suppose you want payment no? You will be paid handsomely. That I can assure. In terms of ethics and morals I doubt we're doing the right thing. Our employer is a gambler. One who trades with life. A pawn of Hell so to speak. Though I doubt he cares.'

Reinol turned around. 'We go to the southern edge of London.'

 

[Osthavula]

Hearing how the stranger man spoke, Solveig raised her brows and looked towards Lady Osthavula. The lady chuckled silently and nodded to her to reassure her. She probably didn't know if she should take Reinol's words as a simple statement or an insult. "We worked on a case before. "

A pause. "I don't care about the details. I'll follow you." Said the lady in a grim tone. She and the lady and the tomb colonist did not speak afterwards, merely followed Reinol. Lady Osthavula observed as she went, but the hunter lady had not a care. Her strides were wide but silent like a tiger in the wood.

 

[Sir Knight]

The walk to the southern end was relatively nothing to take note of. But it was their actual meeting place that was.

Sebastien stood at the head of newly formed gang of hoodlums. They watched the party as they prepared their weapons. Quasi-stallions from Hell neighed in the misty night. The Suave Henchman crushed a used cigarette under his boots. 'You're here. Good. Boss has business to attend to. Can't come.'

He spat at the ground before climbing on a stallion. 'Prickfinger Wastes is where out mark lies. We have reinforcements as well.' A jerk of head pointed at the gang of hoodlums. A few hired hands from the Docks were also present, followed by a henchman or two.

'We move now.'

 

[Osthavula]

How nice, they prepared horses for them and a side saddle too. Lady Osthavula took a little bit longer than Frederick and Solveig, but once she settled on the side saddle, she rode forth elegantly, following the henchman with alerted eyes. It was Solveig who was uncomfortable, but not for reasons of riding. When Lady Ostha patted her horse, she heard the hunter mumbling something like "We are too loud" under her breath.

Truthfully, the lady agreed.

The two hunter, Solveig and Frederick, along with a few from the Henchman's group rode ahead, relying on their skills to track whatever beast. There was something odd in Solveig's face and Frederick's vibe, so the lady looked down to make out what they were following. There were traces in the mud beside the print of horse hooves, but... It wasn't quick like a footstep. It looked like needles jabbing the softer soil, and the distances between were irregular, the depths was not the same, yet it went, straightforward and not straying despite the erratic steps. Lifting her head, lady Osthavula felt uneasy. She hurried her horse and caught up to the end of the hunter's group, feeling more and more distrustful to whoever Eleison sent.

Then, she saw.

It wasn't all that big, no. But the shape is wrong, the shape is wrong. It has many legs, segmented like spiders, like moon-misers, but so oddly like they burst out of a balloon ball. The legs were not symmetrical, or even identical to each other. This one was longer, that one was shorter, and that one was pointing up short more like teeth than being functional with movement. Then, under the glow of its fellow (or once fellow) bugs, the leg had an eerie sheen to it. Green, red? Was it both? The lady clenched her rein tightly when she saw the centre of the needle legs clearer. Or, she saw what she thought to be its tail at first.

It really was like bursting out of a balloon, leathery fragments were hung between the legs, sickly flapping as the beast moved forward at incredible speed. The colour was... Skin. Same colour was its tail that was dragging and bumping up with every cobble in the waste, that could be human-feet like. If it were, it was broken, and there were tendrils growing out of it.

What were they chasing?

It definitely noticed them and ran in a very wrong way, some legs faster than the other, some legs reached further than the other. Solveig and Frederick were leading, but there was anger coming from the hunter woman.

 

[Sir Knight]

When the stalagmites grew sharper and crystals began to grow like trees, that was when the hunting party decided to dismount from their stallions. The loss of man as he foolishly ran into a crystal convinced them even more so.

Sebastien growled as picked his way through the crystalline forest. The nameless hunters moved slowly beside him. Reinol scowled as he checked his pistol. 'We're not ready for this...' He took a glance as Frederick and Lady Osthavula before turning ahead, gazing at the female huntress whom Lady Osthavula saw fit to accompany him.

The brief sight of the beast rang alarm bells in his mind. It reminded him of a Sorrow Spider. And one of those Moon-Misers he once researched about. What the hell was Eleison doing all this time?

He never liked him. But he fact that he was responsible for that monstrosity deepened that dislike even more so.

A scream broke him from his reverie. There, in a small clearing. The beast gaped at them, maws dripping with poison. It screeched as its chitin plating rippled like a wave. There was no need for an order to attack. Rifles cracked from ever safe position. His pistol sang from behind a not so sharp stalagmite. A hunter screamed as she was caught in a spray of poisonous webbing. The Sentimental Writer scowled once more. If only he were somewhere else. If only.