Silvery light of the half moon illumines the run down WestEnd neighborhood; washing through the bay window of a renovated Brownstone at its center, it falls ghostly across the sprawled occupant of a large wingback chair turned to face the maze-like streets outside.
She sat there, silent. A statue carved of moon-kissed alabaster. Dark threaded eyes of silver true watching all and nothing, while moonlight chased ghosts throughout the shadowed depths of the district and she missed the comfort that came from hearing the even breaths of her sleeping Ebon Knight and Twin Stars on the floors above.
Interesting little side effect, comes the thought. Hours away from false dawn, a Cheshire-like grin shines out in the darkness as a single spell lamp flickers on two blocks north at Reynaldo's Bruised Fruit and Produce ('dented and bent, never abused"). Rey's youngest, Esme, is beginning the preparations for the coming day. Fixing breakfast for her father and brothers so they can get an early start for the Docks to haggle over discarded crates of fruits and vegetables.
All about the Ancient's homestead the view is similar. Amidst the rubble and disrepair of this neighborhood, the disenfranchised and those that feed upon such have begun to call this home. Her formerly fairly quiet community is beginning to emit the signs of life. More life than just the vermin who crawl amongst its debris, too, though some of the element drifting in does share a resemblance.
Across town, near the edge of the Warehouse district, five Makos dressed in grey dragon hide had a Club Baby cornered at the back of an alley. Bone jarring bass from the Meandering Rave rained dust from crumbling bricks down on the Club Baby's head.
"Och, real big men. Compensatin' for a few shortcomin's, lads?" That Cheshire grin grew wider in the dark, the tip of a pointed ear twitching beneath eerily quiet elflocks. "Five on one. Hardly fair, m'boyos."
Normally, she let nature take its course, but the Makos have been a particular pain in her ass since the gang made WestEnd their home base. Front runners for a real piece of work she'd yet to learn the name of, this mixed species group of mid-level adepts took pride in head bashing, murder, extortion and a "lovely" little sport they called Rabbit and Hounds. Apparently, the Club Baby was their latest Rabbit.
If the Makos had left well enough alone, she would have continued to see them as just another group of useless flesh bags and let them go about their business; destruction is a part of creation, a part of nature. But, they went and yotzed her off.
By some fluke that she is currently attributing to the side effect of her last dabblings, one of the Makos tailed her as she decloaked inside the neighborhood one night returning home from the Red Dragon Inn. He followed her to the 'stone, and the next day while she and the bairns played in back beneath the Nesting tree a message carrying brick nearly hit her daughter. With one cold smile from the Ancient, the sender of that brick was able to taste his own liver just before the ground opened and swallowed him whole.
Since that time, the Ancient has played her own version of the Makos' game.
As silver eyes blanket in black and the grin grows cold, an image rises darker against the shadows of an alley across town. Sensitive ears twitch with the Club Baby's screaming, and one short nail scratches five lines next to others at the edge of her chair's right arm.
The bell tower rings thirteen out across the WestEnd night. Her smile warming, she rises, stretches and turns to head upstairs. Pausing at the second floor landing, she looks out the bay window as an annoying pounding resounds at her front door.
"Frellin' dren! Forgot to put out the spell lamps on the stoop!" Stomping down the steps and hallway, she yanks open one of the double doors while tugging at the hem of her sleep tee.
"Ye be awful lucky ye didna wake me. Let me 'ave it." Snatching the message from the poor messenger toadie's trembling hand, she gave a husky bark of mirth as the lad backed up two paces meaning to run, nearly stumbling down the stoop steps.
"Ye will wait for a reply." She was smiling still, but the warmth never touched her glamoured blue eyes, nor was it felt in her tone. This was enough to stay the messenger's boots as that old saying 'Don't kill the messenger.' rang through his thoughts. She smiled at that and opened the note to read.
"Och! Now why be....Oh, dun worry, M'Lord, we be meetin' soon. An' trust I be seein' ye afore ye see me." Stepping to the side of the door just inside the foyer, she pulled paper and pen from a desk there.
In her best hand she wrote:
Dear Lord Longden,
It was kind of ye to seek my approval for renting in this district. I can only assume ye do so out of courtesy to a long-time resident, and nae because I hold some position here.
The WestEnd is indeed a place of discretion. Bringing more business here might prove a positive boost. A meeting with ye in the future is most definitely assured.
Sincrely, Sid
Reading over the purposefully vague reply, she folds the paper and places her chop where the fold meets. Stepping back out to the landing, she hands it and a silver piece to the messenger lad. A caw of laughter so like her mate's as he takes off running at top speed.
With a healthy paranoia she first wondered what her siblings might be up to now, but that thought shortly left her as she sampled the essences off the missive while reading. Right down to where the pulp for the paper and the dye for the ink came from was all too mundane and not like them in any respect. She would assume, for now, it was a legitimate note. Besides, though she could still spot the eyes upon her while in other parts of the city, her workings seemed to have effectively wiped her and hers off their radar while at home. Probably wasn't a bad thing those workings took on a twisted little side effect, either.
Still, dousing the spell lamps and making her way back upstairs, she pondered over this Lord Talomar Longden, the business he was bringing and how he knew of her. She had been slacking, it was time to correct that.
Stopping at the second floor, she checks the empty nursery automatically. She missed the sounds of her family.
She sat there, silent. A statue carved of moon-kissed alabaster. Dark threaded eyes of silver true watching all and nothing, while moonlight chased ghosts throughout the shadowed depths of the district and she missed the comfort that came from hearing the even breaths of her sleeping Ebon Knight and Twin Stars on the floors above.
Interesting little side effect, comes the thought. Hours away from false dawn, a Cheshire-like grin shines out in the darkness as a single spell lamp flickers on two blocks north at Reynaldo's Bruised Fruit and Produce ('dented and bent, never abused"). Rey's youngest, Esme, is beginning the preparations for the coming day. Fixing breakfast for her father and brothers so they can get an early start for the Docks to haggle over discarded crates of fruits and vegetables.
All about the Ancient's homestead the view is similar. Amidst the rubble and disrepair of this neighborhood, the disenfranchised and those that feed upon such have begun to call this home. Her formerly fairly quiet community is beginning to emit the signs of life. More life than just the vermin who crawl amongst its debris, too, though some of the element drifting in does share a resemblance.
Across town, near the edge of the Warehouse district, five Makos dressed in grey dragon hide had a Club Baby cornered at the back of an alley. Bone jarring bass from the Meandering Rave rained dust from crumbling bricks down on the Club Baby's head.
"Och, real big men. Compensatin' for a few shortcomin's, lads?" That Cheshire grin grew wider in the dark, the tip of a pointed ear twitching beneath eerily quiet elflocks. "Five on one. Hardly fair, m'boyos."
Normally, she let nature take its course, but the Makos have been a particular pain in her ass since the gang made WestEnd their home base. Front runners for a real piece of work she'd yet to learn the name of, this mixed species group of mid-level adepts took pride in head bashing, murder, extortion and a "lovely" little sport they called Rabbit and Hounds. Apparently, the Club Baby was their latest Rabbit.
If the Makos had left well enough alone, she would have continued to see them as just another group of useless flesh bags and let them go about their business; destruction is a part of creation, a part of nature. But, they went and yotzed her off.
By some fluke that she is currently attributing to the side effect of her last dabblings, one of the Makos tailed her as she decloaked inside the neighborhood one night returning home from the Red Dragon Inn. He followed her to the 'stone, and the next day while she and the bairns played in back beneath the Nesting tree a message carrying brick nearly hit her daughter. With one cold smile from the Ancient, the sender of that brick was able to taste his own liver just before the ground opened and swallowed him whole.
Since that time, the Ancient has played her own version of the Makos' game.
As silver eyes blanket in black and the grin grows cold, an image rises darker against the shadows of an alley across town. Sensitive ears twitch with the Club Baby's screaming, and one short nail scratches five lines next to others at the edge of her chair's right arm.
The bell tower rings thirteen out across the WestEnd night. Her smile warming, she rises, stretches and turns to head upstairs. Pausing at the second floor landing, she looks out the bay window as an annoying pounding resounds at her front door.
"Frellin' dren! Forgot to put out the spell lamps on the stoop!" Stomping down the steps and hallway, she yanks open one of the double doors while tugging at the hem of her sleep tee.
"Ye be awful lucky ye didna wake me. Let me 'ave it." Snatching the message from the poor messenger toadie's trembling hand, she gave a husky bark of mirth as the lad backed up two paces meaning to run, nearly stumbling down the stoop steps.
"Ye will wait for a reply." She was smiling still, but the warmth never touched her glamoured blue eyes, nor was it felt in her tone. This was enough to stay the messenger's boots as that old saying 'Don't kill the messenger.' rang through his thoughts. She smiled at that and opened the note to read.
"Och! Now why be....Oh, dun worry, M'Lord, we be meetin' soon. An' trust I be seein' ye afore ye see me." Stepping to the side of the door just inside the foyer, she pulled paper and pen from a desk there.
In her best hand she wrote:
Dear Lord Longden,
It was kind of ye to seek my approval for renting in this district. I can only assume ye do so out of courtesy to a long-time resident, and nae because I hold some position here.
The WestEnd is indeed a place of discretion. Bringing more business here might prove a positive boost. A meeting with ye in the future is most definitely assured.
Sincrely, Sid
Reading over the purposefully vague reply, she folds the paper and places her chop where the fold meets. Stepping back out to the landing, she hands it and a silver piece to the messenger lad. A caw of laughter so like her mate's as he takes off running at top speed.
With a healthy paranoia she first wondered what her siblings might be up to now, but that thought shortly left her as she sampled the essences off the missive while reading. Right down to where the pulp for the paper and the dye for the ink came from was all too mundane and not like them in any respect. She would assume, for now, it was a legitimate note. Besides, though she could still spot the eyes upon her while in other parts of the city, her workings seemed to have effectively wiped her and hers off their radar while at home. Probably wasn't a bad thing those workings took on a twisted little side effect, either.
Still, dousing the spell lamps and making her way back upstairs, she pondered over this Lord Talomar Longden, the business he was bringing and how he knew of her. She had been slacking, it was time to correct that.
Stopping at the second floor, she checks the empty nursery automatically. She missed the sounds of her family.