Is there a way out?
I've got this blood on my hands
And if theres some safe ground
I'm all for it
- The Get Up Kids
Red Dragon Inn: The Porch
One night, post kidnapping
Delicate spectacles were replaced with large sunglasses. A hat, in the style of the old sleuths, hung half over his brow. How Arden Cale found the damn thing in Rhy'Din, who was to say. It smelled faintly of leather and old cheese. In any case, it served its purpose. The new ensemble was complete with a tan trenchcoat, belted at his waist. He walked with his hands into his pockets, feeling rather lost without the briefcase. It was his constant companion since Day One in the realm, and now, well there was a fairly large hole in its center. That horrible Ranger's knife had gutted it, straight through to his legal pad. Stiff upper lip, said Arden to himself. He walked briskly, up the steps and to the porch, pausing just at the door. He needed to rescue some important documents from his room, but what if she was in there?
Long day. Long long day. Everett Ogden had tarried for as long as he could before he left the library (okay, was asked to leave by his supervisor). Unfortunately, it was after dark. This was a no win situation, but he was determined to stop living at the Lanesborough every time he was not as happy as he ought to be. It was rather like hiding behind his mother's skirt.
The poet hurried through the square, sticking to well lit paths, and always aware of the prattle of conversation hither and thither as other people were foolish enough to go for an evening stroll. The porch steps down the way were a welcome sight. Just a little bit further...
Cale moved for the doorknob, then recoiled, then repeated the process over and over, starting at stopping at the slightest noise, a rustle of paper, an rise from the crowd inside. He grumbled and paced in overly brown loafers, effectively blocking all entrance to the Inn, well, unless those Inn-goers attempted to run him over. Arden was tall, but still rather lankly, despite Irrykin's emphasis on working out. And. We won't mention his methods.
Swaggering up the stairs to the front door, Mercy Sangre gave a nod to Arden. ?Evening, lad.?
He blinked out of his contemplative daze and stepped aside for Mercy. ?Hello Madame.?
Looking around for the madame, and then looking to Arden. ?Be ye talking to me, lad??
He dropped his gaze instantly, but the dip of eyes was hidden well behind a pair of very dark, very big sunglasses. At night. That's right. ?Yes. Excuse me. I'm rather preoccupied. I did not mean to block the way.?
?Tis no worry to me, lad. I be Mercy, by the ways.? With a wink, she swaggered past the preoccupied lad and swaggered into the Inn.
?Clifford.? The name broken by a cough, which he blocked with one hand, then jetted for the bench once she swaggered past.
Three two one. Everett was at the porch steps, and well. He froze. Anything could be in there. Anyone could be in there. He walked up the steps and paused in front of the door, thinking of every nightmare scenario. There were more than a few. He could go all the way around! He could sneak up the back way and into his room. But. He needed tea sometime. And the alley was dark and scary. He sighed, and took two steps back to lean against the railing in his crisis of indecision.
Well. That was close. I mean, it wasn't her, but, she saw him. And why wouldn't she? Arden sunk into his disguise and let his anxiety tear him to pieces. He snatched the hat from his head for a moment, just long enough to catch the back of his head and grip hard, as if to hold still a headache. Emerald eyes caught sight of the poet's approach, and instantly, Arden's hat was replaced upon his head.
Normally, Cale would be all for Everett's attentions. But now.. shoulder curled inward and the manchild hunched, elbows at his knees. Maybe, just maybe, he would melt into a shadow. But what was this? Green beheld a tattered poster just under his feet. Normally, he might be prone to ignore such a thing, but the name on the poster clamored for attention.
?Irrykin.?
Everett saw, as the door swung open, that there were sixty four thousand people inside. The poet did not like this scenario. It would either be total anonymity or the nightmare of being accosted by the masses. Not a coin he wanted to flip. Then the name caught his attentions, if only for the posters, and the poet looked over and sighed, seeing the paper in the man's hand. Ahh, the poster. He commented on the futility of it.
"They are already blowing around carelessly, like everyone has forgotten." He stuffed his hands into his pocket and shook his head sadly. "It simply does not seem right."
Arden fell between his knees and snatched the parchment from the floor. Tearing the sunglasses from his face, he focused on that name. Sure enough, it was his lover. And sadness descended like a lightning strike, sadness, but fury too, and an overwhelming sense of betrayal. Teary-eyed, he flashed the poet a look, then fell against the bench in an uncaring slump. ?This cannot be true.?
Compassionate, the poet moved nearer, to settle on the bench beside the man with a quiet look of concern. He even pressed a gentle hand to the arm of the stranger. These were dark days, and he'd not pass by a human in some brand of grief. "What cannot be true?" Brown eyes squinted at the poster.
?I know this girl.? Said the mock-barrister, abruptly. The touch to his arm had thrown him off course. Sometimes comfort, even a stranger's comfort, was enough to stir his emotions. He pressed his free hand to the bridge of his nose, holding it between two fingers. Realizing he was slightly blind without his usual brand of spectacles, he promptly retrieved them from his pocket. How he got here in sunglasses, in the dark, the world may never know. ?She cannot be missing.?
Captain Stephen Kidd opened the door to the porch and stepped out with Jewell, grinning to Everett as they made they ascended the stairs. ?Evenin' Everett.?
Everett glanced to Stephen, just a glance, perhaps a tiny lapse of focus as he noted the company the man kept. Everett was certain, in that flash, that he would never, ever understand it, and that he would not attempt to. Instead, he brought that attention back full circle to Arden. His heart wept a little and he pursed his lips into a thin line. "I am... painfully certain that she is missing, that she was taken."
Added, like an afterthought, a moment of solidarity. "I know her, as well." He adored her, he said without saying. He missed her terribly enough to weep, though he refrained, thinking it too girlish an occupation.
?She wanders.? His voice fell into a sudden panic, and he reached for the poet, but let his hands drop halfway.
?She wanders, if you know her. Surely, that is what hap'...? Words cut short by a sudden explosion of nerves. Paranoid, he sunk further into the bench, if such a thing were possible, crumbling the poster in hand.
?I have known her since...? Arden struggled for sense, for reason, eyes still transfixed to the sight of that name on the poster. He folded it open again, smoothing it over his left knee. ?What is your name, Sir??
"Everett Ogden, of Warwick, sir, and sure as that is my name, I am certain something foul is at play with her vanishing." He withdrew his hand, curling his fingers into a fist as he did. Eyes looked to him, brow raised in question as he regarded him. Who was this Viki-knowing man?
I've got this blood on my hands
And if theres some safe ground
I'm all for it
- The Get Up Kids
Red Dragon Inn: The Porch
One night, post kidnapping
Delicate spectacles were replaced with large sunglasses. A hat, in the style of the old sleuths, hung half over his brow. How Arden Cale found the damn thing in Rhy'Din, who was to say. It smelled faintly of leather and old cheese. In any case, it served its purpose. The new ensemble was complete with a tan trenchcoat, belted at his waist. He walked with his hands into his pockets, feeling rather lost without the briefcase. It was his constant companion since Day One in the realm, and now, well there was a fairly large hole in its center. That horrible Ranger's knife had gutted it, straight through to his legal pad. Stiff upper lip, said Arden to himself. He walked briskly, up the steps and to the porch, pausing just at the door. He needed to rescue some important documents from his room, but what if she was in there?
Long day. Long long day. Everett Ogden had tarried for as long as he could before he left the library (okay, was asked to leave by his supervisor). Unfortunately, it was after dark. This was a no win situation, but he was determined to stop living at the Lanesborough every time he was not as happy as he ought to be. It was rather like hiding behind his mother's skirt.
The poet hurried through the square, sticking to well lit paths, and always aware of the prattle of conversation hither and thither as other people were foolish enough to go for an evening stroll. The porch steps down the way were a welcome sight. Just a little bit further...
Cale moved for the doorknob, then recoiled, then repeated the process over and over, starting at stopping at the slightest noise, a rustle of paper, an rise from the crowd inside. He grumbled and paced in overly brown loafers, effectively blocking all entrance to the Inn, well, unless those Inn-goers attempted to run him over. Arden was tall, but still rather lankly, despite Irrykin's emphasis on working out. And. We won't mention his methods.
Swaggering up the stairs to the front door, Mercy Sangre gave a nod to Arden. ?Evening, lad.?
He blinked out of his contemplative daze and stepped aside for Mercy. ?Hello Madame.?
Looking around for the madame, and then looking to Arden. ?Be ye talking to me, lad??
He dropped his gaze instantly, but the dip of eyes was hidden well behind a pair of very dark, very big sunglasses. At night. That's right. ?Yes. Excuse me. I'm rather preoccupied. I did not mean to block the way.?
?Tis no worry to me, lad. I be Mercy, by the ways.? With a wink, she swaggered past the preoccupied lad and swaggered into the Inn.
?Clifford.? The name broken by a cough, which he blocked with one hand, then jetted for the bench once she swaggered past.
Three two one. Everett was at the porch steps, and well. He froze. Anything could be in there. Anyone could be in there. He walked up the steps and paused in front of the door, thinking of every nightmare scenario. There were more than a few. He could go all the way around! He could sneak up the back way and into his room. But. He needed tea sometime. And the alley was dark and scary. He sighed, and took two steps back to lean against the railing in his crisis of indecision.
Well. That was close. I mean, it wasn't her, but, she saw him. And why wouldn't she? Arden sunk into his disguise and let his anxiety tear him to pieces. He snatched the hat from his head for a moment, just long enough to catch the back of his head and grip hard, as if to hold still a headache. Emerald eyes caught sight of the poet's approach, and instantly, Arden's hat was replaced upon his head.
Normally, Cale would be all for Everett's attentions. But now.. shoulder curled inward and the manchild hunched, elbows at his knees. Maybe, just maybe, he would melt into a shadow. But what was this? Green beheld a tattered poster just under his feet. Normally, he might be prone to ignore such a thing, but the name on the poster clamored for attention.
?Irrykin.?
Everett saw, as the door swung open, that there were sixty four thousand people inside. The poet did not like this scenario. It would either be total anonymity or the nightmare of being accosted by the masses. Not a coin he wanted to flip. Then the name caught his attentions, if only for the posters, and the poet looked over and sighed, seeing the paper in the man's hand. Ahh, the poster. He commented on the futility of it.
"They are already blowing around carelessly, like everyone has forgotten." He stuffed his hands into his pocket and shook his head sadly. "It simply does not seem right."
Arden fell between his knees and snatched the parchment from the floor. Tearing the sunglasses from his face, he focused on that name. Sure enough, it was his lover. And sadness descended like a lightning strike, sadness, but fury too, and an overwhelming sense of betrayal. Teary-eyed, he flashed the poet a look, then fell against the bench in an uncaring slump. ?This cannot be true.?
Compassionate, the poet moved nearer, to settle on the bench beside the man with a quiet look of concern. He even pressed a gentle hand to the arm of the stranger. These were dark days, and he'd not pass by a human in some brand of grief. "What cannot be true?" Brown eyes squinted at the poster.
?I know this girl.? Said the mock-barrister, abruptly. The touch to his arm had thrown him off course. Sometimes comfort, even a stranger's comfort, was enough to stir his emotions. He pressed his free hand to the bridge of his nose, holding it between two fingers. Realizing he was slightly blind without his usual brand of spectacles, he promptly retrieved them from his pocket. How he got here in sunglasses, in the dark, the world may never know. ?She cannot be missing.?
Captain Stephen Kidd opened the door to the porch and stepped out with Jewell, grinning to Everett as they made they ascended the stairs. ?Evenin' Everett.?
Everett glanced to Stephen, just a glance, perhaps a tiny lapse of focus as he noted the company the man kept. Everett was certain, in that flash, that he would never, ever understand it, and that he would not attempt to. Instead, he brought that attention back full circle to Arden. His heart wept a little and he pursed his lips into a thin line. "I am... painfully certain that she is missing, that she was taken."
Added, like an afterthought, a moment of solidarity. "I know her, as well." He adored her, he said without saying. He missed her terribly enough to weep, though he refrained, thinking it too girlish an occupation.
?She wanders.? His voice fell into a sudden panic, and he reached for the poet, but let his hands drop halfway.
?She wanders, if you know her. Surely, that is what hap'...? Words cut short by a sudden explosion of nerves. Paranoid, he sunk further into the bench, if such a thing were possible, crumbling the poster in hand.
?I have known her since...? Arden struggled for sense, for reason, eyes still transfixed to the sight of that name on the poster. He folded it open again, smoothing it over his left knee. ?What is your name, Sir??
"Everett Ogden, of Warwick, sir, and sure as that is my name, I am certain something foul is at play with her vanishing." He withdrew his hand, curling his fingers into a fist as he did. Eyes looked to him, brow raised in question as he regarded him. Who was this Viki-knowing man?