kevintheradioguy
Salt
Dunwall, Gristol
~1837
-
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Fandom Wretched city
- Thread starter kevintheradioguy
- Start date
Dunwall, Gristol
~1837
rat king princess
drinking at the hound pits
It had been a couple days since Eade last visited John Clavering Boulevard in the Distillery District. It was crawling with the Watch, complete with whale oil-powered Walls of Light and a smattering of “WANTED” posters with her boss’s face on them. While not an impossible task, sneaking back into Slackjaw’s bootleg operation in the old Dunwall Whiskey Distillery would take some effort.
Eade’s slight form crouched discreetly on the overhang looming over the decrepit Almshouse. It was her standard position - making herself as small as possible to hide from the older boys in her childhood neighborhood, staying tucked out of sight while smuggling elixir for the Bottle Street gang, these things had left her with as much - but the chilling damp of the approaching Month of Rain shook her small frame with uncomfortable shudders. She would need to get her long overcoat from the Distillery while picking up the next batch of elixir she was to run out to Slackjaw’s buyers. Keeping a careful eye on the patrolling Watch guards in the street below, Eade crept her way around the corner toward Bottle Street, taking great care to give Granny Rags’s apartment a wide berth. Slackjaw’s boys could bother her all they wanted for extra coin - Eade would keep her distance.
With the cobbles of Bottle Street safely beneath her, Eade straightened and strode past the boys guarding the door that lead into the Distillery. The closest greeted her with a grunt and a humble nod; the furthest paid her no mind. It was the kind of treatment Eade had always been accustomed to - she was painfully aware of her position as a young woman in a violent gang full of overly-aggressive men, often armed with cleavers and flammable whiskey. She counted herself lucky that they hardly bothered to acknowledge her, given the alternative. She swallowed and moved inside.
Instead of the familiar playful shoutings of Bottle Street’s thugs playing cards and jeering at each other, the Distillery felt claustrophobic under the oppressive sense of trouble. What had happened while Eade was away, making elixir drops for the citizens of Dunwall fortunate enough to afford Slackjaw’s markups? Angling for an answer, she proceeded to the Distillery building itself, feeling uneasy.
She was soon to have her answer, though. A thug named Tobias stopped her outside Slackjaw’s office. “Nuh-uh,” he mumbled at her, brow furrowed. “Somebody’s tainted the elixir still. Slackjaw’s not wantin’ anybody in ‘til he finds who done it.”
“Tainted? What do you mean?”
“Poisoned. Some ugly sonofabitch put the plague in it. Gettin’ everybody sick now, ‘stead of makin’ ‘em better. Slackjaw’s real pissed. No more elixir goin’ out for a while,” he concluded, crossing his arms.
Eade swallowed hard. How many vials of tainted elixir had she just delivered to civilians? Who had she given the plague to, oblivious? Groggily, she turned round on her heel and slouched over to the staircase that lead up to the office door. With an additional shiver, she sat down, poked her elbows into her knees, and rested her face in her hands. The cold and exhaustion had begun to seep into her bones, and she didn’t want to imagine who had poisoned their still. How many of the Bottle Street boys had turned into shuffling weepers while she was gallivanting around the city, collecting coins in exchange for delivering the plague?
Through the cold brick walls, she could hear men below, arguing. Arguing? Maybe just talking? She recognized Slackjaw’s voice, but it was tangled with another man’s, someone she didn’t recognize. He certainly didn’t sound like a thug, either. Glancing upward, she noticed Tobias had shambled on. The door was left unguarded and, before he could notice, she slipped through and descended the stairs to Slackjaw’s office and the poisoned still.
Eade’s slight form crouched discreetly on the overhang looming over the decrepit Almshouse. It was her standard position - making herself as small as possible to hide from the older boys in her childhood neighborhood, staying tucked out of sight while smuggling elixir for the Bottle Street gang, these things had left her with as much - but the chilling damp of the approaching Month of Rain shook her small frame with uncomfortable shudders. She would need to get her long overcoat from the Distillery while picking up the next batch of elixir she was to run out to Slackjaw’s buyers. Keeping a careful eye on the patrolling Watch guards in the street below, Eade crept her way around the corner toward Bottle Street, taking great care to give Granny Rags’s apartment a wide berth. Slackjaw’s boys could bother her all they wanted for extra coin - Eade would keep her distance.
With the cobbles of Bottle Street safely beneath her, Eade straightened and strode past the boys guarding the door that lead into the Distillery. The closest greeted her with a grunt and a humble nod; the furthest paid her no mind. It was the kind of treatment Eade had always been accustomed to - she was painfully aware of her position as a young woman in a violent gang full of overly-aggressive men, often armed with cleavers and flammable whiskey. She counted herself lucky that they hardly bothered to acknowledge her, given the alternative. She swallowed and moved inside.
Instead of the familiar playful shoutings of Bottle Street’s thugs playing cards and jeering at each other, the Distillery felt claustrophobic under the oppressive sense of trouble. What had happened while Eade was away, making elixir drops for the citizens of Dunwall fortunate enough to afford Slackjaw’s markups? Angling for an answer, she proceeded to the Distillery building itself, feeling uneasy.
She was soon to have her answer, though. A thug named Tobias stopped her outside Slackjaw’s office. “Nuh-uh,” he mumbled at her, brow furrowed. “Somebody’s tainted the elixir still. Slackjaw’s not wantin’ anybody in ‘til he finds who done it.”
“Tainted? What do you mean?”
“Poisoned. Some ugly sonofabitch put the plague in it. Gettin’ everybody sick now, ‘stead of makin’ ‘em better. Slackjaw’s real pissed. No more elixir goin’ out for a while,” he concluded, crossing his arms.
Eade swallowed hard. How many vials of tainted elixir had she just delivered to civilians? Who had she given the plague to, oblivious? Groggily, she turned round on her heel and slouched over to the staircase that lead up to the office door. With an additional shiver, she sat down, poked her elbows into her knees, and rested her face in her hands. The cold and exhaustion had begun to seep into her bones, and she didn’t want to imagine who had poisoned their still. How many of the Bottle Street boys had turned into shuffling weepers while she was gallivanting around the city, collecting coins in exchange for delivering the plague?
Through the cold brick walls, she could hear men below, arguing. Arguing? Maybe just talking? She recognized Slackjaw’s voice, but it was tangled with another man’s, someone she didn’t recognize. He certainly didn’t sound like a thug, either. Glancing upward, she noticed Tobias had shambled on. The door was left unguarded and, before he could notice, she slipped through and descended the stairs to Slackjaw’s office and the poisoned still.
kevintheradioguy
Salt
Fingers, thin and long, almost like of a pianist, and white as a sheet, rubbed a tall forehead of a gaunt, sickly-pale man as he listened to the man yelling almost into his face. He was sure that "almost into his face" was a thing just because he looked sick enough to be taken for a weeper, and the large man in front of him - of course, little to none would call Slackjaw "large", per se, but the other man was thin, gaunt, and short enough to think that - was just scared to approach. It was almost like a natural defence mechanism: some butterflies and fish had spots and strokes on them that looked like eyes of larger creatures to scare off the predators, and he had wax-like skin and protruding joints, making such predators disdain. Today he looked better than usual, which wasn't much, but at least he didn't look like dying.
"What... the actual... feck..." He was saying in a surprisingly low and rough, almost gurgling, voice - something one would expect from an old whaler rather than someone of this size and complexion. With each word, his hands spread further, until he stood there in a sort of half a bow - a mocking and distasteful one. "...d'ya want from me? D'ya really think I'd be sittin' in this shithole you call 'brewery' if I had a cure 't hand!?" - He stood straight, almost expecting being slapped, and roughly brushed invisible dust from the dark-grey shirt that was... obviously black at some point. At some long... long-forgotten point. "...'sides, if yer boys..." He pronounced that word in a needling, overly sweet voice, gnawing his teeth. "...wouldn't have had eyes on their arses, no one would've feckin' poisoned yer supplies... which ain't workin' in the first place!" He pointed his thin finger into the other man's chest. "An' none o' your screaming will let me do the impossible! So why not... take this energy and do something useful with it!?"
This wouldn't be the first time he got into trouble. The man was loud; he was aggressive. if he wouldn't have been disarmed when brought here (for this very reason of loudness and aggression), he'd probably shoot Slackjaw in the knee instead of going for a verbal assault. He'd regret it, of course, but as it turns out, he had lady luck on his side, somehow with that mouth of his and this attitude of his, surviving this long. He liked playing cards, because it always meant he'd win - and hated the fact he was banned from most card-related joints. One might even think he was touched by the Outsider, but... if he'd be completely honest, he thought that the Outsider was just a load of religious bullcrap for weak-willed idiots who cannot make their own decisions. If he was touched, it was a secret, intimate, and unnoticed touch, and he needed a doctor to talk about it.
Shaking his head with a pain-filled look on his face, as if suffering from a terrible headache, he stepped back a little, floorboards screeching under his feet. "Jus'... lemme do my feckin' work, and do... whatever the bloody hell people like ya do. Beat someone's wife, I 'unno." As he walked back, trying to reach for the wall or anything to lean upon, some metal things joyfully dinged on his belt. Some vials, and tools, and something that looked suspiciously like a lower half of an Oversser's mask. He knew why Slackjaw was pissed. He just lost lots of money, and he needed shake them off fast. But why from him? The only reason he was working with the man was because he himself was knee-deep in debt.
"What... the actual... feck..." He was saying in a surprisingly low and rough, almost gurgling, voice - something one would expect from an old whaler rather than someone of this size and complexion. With each word, his hands spread further, until he stood there in a sort of half a bow - a mocking and distasteful one. "...d'ya want from me? D'ya really think I'd be sittin' in this shithole you call 'brewery' if I had a cure 't hand!?" - He stood straight, almost expecting being slapped, and roughly brushed invisible dust from the dark-grey shirt that was... obviously black at some point. At some long... long-forgotten point. "...'sides, if yer boys..." He pronounced that word in a needling, overly sweet voice, gnawing his teeth. "...wouldn't have had eyes on their arses, no one would've feckin' poisoned yer supplies... which ain't workin' in the first place!" He pointed his thin finger into the other man's chest. "An' none o' your screaming will let me do the impossible! So why not... take this energy and do something useful with it!?"
This wouldn't be the first time he got into trouble. The man was loud; he was aggressive. if he wouldn't have been disarmed when brought here (for this very reason of loudness and aggression), he'd probably shoot Slackjaw in the knee instead of going for a verbal assault. He'd regret it, of course, but as it turns out, he had lady luck on his side, somehow with that mouth of his and this attitude of his, surviving this long. He liked playing cards, because it always meant he'd win - and hated the fact he was banned from most card-related joints. One might even think he was touched by the Outsider, but... if he'd be completely honest, he thought that the Outsider was just a load of religious bullcrap for weak-willed idiots who cannot make their own decisions. If he was touched, it was a secret, intimate, and unnoticed touch, and he needed a doctor to talk about it.
Shaking his head with a pain-filled look on his face, as if suffering from a terrible headache, he stepped back a little, floorboards screeching under his feet. "Jus'... lemme do my feckin' work, and do... whatever the bloody hell people like ya do. Beat someone's wife, I 'unno." As he walked back, trying to reach for the wall or anything to lean upon, some metal things joyfully dinged on his belt. Some vials, and tools, and something that looked suspiciously like a lower half of an Oversser's mask. He knew why Slackjaw was pissed. He just lost lots of money, and he needed shake them off fast. But why from him? The only reason he was working with the man was because he himself was knee-deep in debt.
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rat king princess
drinking at the hound pits
Eade’s face twitched unfavorably as she began to round the corner, catching herself just before risking being seen. The man her boss seemed to more or less be laying into was unrecognizable, and for once, Eade was grateful for that fact - he looked like something half-dead one might find shuffling pitifully down in the sewers. Admirably, he seemed every bit as loud and boorish as Slackjaw, despite being about two-thirds the other man’s size and appearing as if a stiff wind would knock him straight over. He wore a collection of things on his belt, what looked like tools and empty elixir vials, and a few other things, and they made a noise Eade would never dare to create herself for fear of drawing attention. Every instinct of hers should’ve told her to keep her distance.
Unfortunately, however, curiosity - as well as something deeper, a desire for the stirring-up of things, things which she had no business stirring up and were likely to create more problems than she needed - had seized her, and there was no going back - she gave the metal door a small shove, and it swung out wide enough to announce her presence as well as allow her to walk through. She did her best to give the impression of being bigger than she was, and full of intractable purpose. Her small frame did her no favors in the presence of men, but her boldness served her well enough to catch them off-guard; no one expected a small young woman to shove her way into the affairs of men, especially when said men had violent criminal histories longer than the Wrenhaven River itself. She barely bothered to take stock of Slackjaw’s reaction to her presence before butting in.
“Oy, not that it’s any of my business, but have you boys solved this yet? Some of us have to work for a living.” Eade forced herself not to look at the strange man, instead locking her willful gaze on Slackjaw, the man who paid her salary. A hand went to the leather pouch strapped to her belt and tossed it onto his desk, where it landed with the heavy chink of collected coins. A part of her hoped it would remind Slackjaw of her value - in a time of poor profits, she had done her work, and then some, and returned with a sizable bit of profit (though it may have come at the cost of spreading the plague to even more citizens, a fact which left an unsavory taste in her mouth). How could he rebuke her with the dire need for money on the table? Eade crossed her arms to conceal her persistent shivering. She really must find her coat.
Unfortunately, however, curiosity - as well as something deeper, a desire for the stirring-up of things, things which she had no business stirring up and were likely to create more problems than she needed - had seized her, and there was no going back - she gave the metal door a small shove, and it swung out wide enough to announce her presence as well as allow her to walk through. She did her best to give the impression of being bigger than she was, and full of intractable purpose. Her small frame did her no favors in the presence of men, but her boldness served her well enough to catch them off-guard; no one expected a small young woman to shove her way into the affairs of men, especially when said men had violent criminal histories longer than the Wrenhaven River itself. She barely bothered to take stock of Slackjaw’s reaction to her presence before butting in.
“Oy, not that it’s any of my business, but have you boys solved this yet? Some of us have to work for a living.” Eade forced herself not to look at the strange man, instead locking her willful gaze on Slackjaw, the man who paid her salary. A hand went to the leather pouch strapped to her belt and tossed it onto his desk, where it landed with the heavy chink of collected coins. A part of her hoped it would remind Slackjaw of her value - in a time of poor profits, she had done her work, and then some, and returned with a sizable bit of profit (though it may have come at the cost of spreading the plague to even more citizens, a fact which left an unsavory taste in her mouth). How could he rebuke her with the dire need for money on the table? Eade crossed her arms to conceal her persistent shivering. She really must find her coat.
kevintheradioguy
Salt
The new man murmured something incoherent, walking around the newly arrived woman in a large circle as he moved towards the exit, feeling that the conversation was over. And it might as well have been: seeing Eade's approach, Slackjaw's face changed from the expression of pure anger - something near to no people saw and survived - into... something else. It wasn't joy, relief or courteous glare... rather, he didn't have a reason to be angry at her, per se. Usually happy with the income - as happy as can be, that is, the mood would be probably characterised as "critical" or "irritated" by most unaware people - he looked at it with the mix of relief and dismissal.
As before, he told a short version of a story that happened, starting it with"This time you'll have a different job" in his gruff baritone, telling about how some some bastard snuck here and poisoned their supplies. He couldn't care less about what she was selling, but he did care about his people, now all sick, and on the edge of mutiny or desertion. And he didn't like that. He had to show who was the boss around here, but not by breaking bones, no. By his decisions as a leader. They needed to get rid of anything poisoned, and renew the operation, but the money Eade brought was not enough, and shaking off Granny Rags didn't bring enough money. "We must have other neighbours here, with much more coin than the old hag.", he explained. "An' you are a much sneakier sort than my boys."
The man didn't demand for her to do the stealing: rather, scouting, looking into those who weren't rotting away from the plague, learn their behaviour, and alike... and get back to him to send... "extraction team", so to speak. She'll, of course, get a bonus from it. Maybe a pretty trinket to wear. Or sell. He didn't care enough what she'd do with the payment. "Ask around. There ought'a be someone who know local golden boys for easy picking."
As before, he told a short version of a story that happened, starting it with"This time you'll have a different job" in his gruff baritone, telling about how some some bastard snuck here and poisoned their supplies. He couldn't care less about what she was selling, but he did care about his people, now all sick, and on the edge of mutiny or desertion. And he didn't like that. He had to show who was the boss around here, but not by breaking bones, no. By his decisions as a leader. They needed to get rid of anything poisoned, and renew the operation, but the money Eade brought was not enough, and shaking off Granny Rags didn't bring enough money. "We must have other neighbours here, with much more coin than the old hag.", he explained. "An' you are a much sneakier sort than my boys."
The man didn't demand for her to do the stealing: rather, scouting, looking into those who weren't rotting away from the plague, learn their behaviour, and alike... and get back to him to send... "extraction team", so to speak. She'll, of course, get a bonus from it. Maybe a pretty trinket to wear. Or sell. He didn't care enough what she'd do with the payment. "Ask around. There ought'a be someone who know local golden boys for easy picking."
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