The roads from RhyDin to the north had been getting more busy since Yauso opened its doors to traders. Caravans moved back and forth through the pass into the mountains at what was an alarming rate. The noise was insufferable for those that wanted the quiet that being a day's trip from the city used to provide.

Regina Mountisari was one of those people. Standing at the window of her manor, she frowned at the latest caravan of ruffians as they tromped past her home. It was set back into the mountains, a grand feat of architecture that Frank Llyod Wright would be proud of. The gables and towards loomed over what once was a little traveled path, and now was a main thoroughfare.

She turned from the window, waving a hand at one of her servants, who ran from the room. They all know what she wanted before she did, and that was why they had the privilege of staying in her house. With a suffered sigh, she moved to her desk-- a large mahogany thing that was littered in maps and papers. The elections were approaching in RhyDin, and for the first time, Regina cared. The city was a laughing stock, and had just gotten on her nerves. Once she was happy letting it do what it may-- but now it was disturbing her everyday affairs.

Something had to be done.

Running her fingers over the map of the city, she smiled. It was a foreboding thing, that look of job on the normally masked woman's face. She was pale as porcelain and looked as if she had been crafted and painted into the model of a powerful woman. Her corset, wig, dress and shoes completed the painting that could have been taken off a wall in the Louvre.

The servant entered and clicked his heels. The tux was getting a bit dingy, she noted. His shoes needed to be shined. With a sigh and a shake of her head she nodded to the man and he let the person he had brought enter the room.

"Have a seat, Senor." Gesturing a the chair, Regina came around the desk so that she would be hovering over him. The man, was, well.. less than well presented. He was tall, meaty, and had a shaved head that shone in the gaslight of her study. He was in black leather from head to toe, tight fitting pants and a lace up vest. Regina smiled at him congenially as she looked him right in the face.

His mouth was sewn shut.

It was a bad job, jagged black thread pulling his lips together, but at this point, she didn't even bat an eye. This wasn't her first meeting with the man. With this group of people. Even the scum of the world have their place when the time is right. And she had a plan. An elongated fingernail rested on the map as she pointed.

"This, Senor, is what I need done. I need an explosion. Maximum casualty. No one can feel safe... so not in the WestEnd. Do it in Dragon's Gate. Broad daylight, even, if it's possible." She paused, then to snicker a bit. "Do this for me, and you won't have to want for money. I think together, Senor, we can forge a beautiful friendship."

Having recieved the invitation of the Lady Moutisauri, the wiry grey elf arrives at her manor. He is dressed somewhat shabbily, with two old scarves, a long coat, old military-issue boots, and fingerless gloves. Everything he wears smells like cigarettes, and from the lean look of him, he may sometimes smoke three in place of a meal when his wallet is empty. He does not look homeless, but it would not be a very fall far for him, either. "May I smoke?" he asks the butler at the door, an unlit clove already set between his lips.
The butler grunts a response and shrugs his shoulders at the man. Really, it didn't matter, Regina was finicky enough that she would change her mind on a whim, and the Butler couldn't be bothered to keep up with her up to th eminute preferences. He bowed to the elf and went to fetch the lady of the house, of course, leaving Ghost alone in the rather oppulent sitting room.
He lights a cigarette and begins looking around. Poor as he is, he does not seem awed by any of it - he just quietly appreciates the things that are distantly familiar to him.
Regina moves into the room, smoking herself, strangely. She's a trail of fabric and smoke, a bright smile on her face when she sees him. She moves in like a butterfly, fluttering about the room to grab the bottle of scotch and glasses as she speaks. "Ah, Mister.. what was your name again? No matter... it's lovely to see you, really. I'm so glad you could make it, I really do enjoy your work." Blonde hair and orange skin are aglow as she continues on.
"Ghost," he replies, "and thank you, my lady," he adds with a little inclination of his head. It's hard to tell when he's smiling, but it shows in his eyes. "It's good to know I have a fan." His voice is noticeably soft.
"Fan?" She snorted a bit. "I would say an admirer more than a fan. I'm not the type to sing praises loudly. Sit, sit." She gestures at the couch before sitting on the one across from him, and leaning forward to pour the pair of glasses. "I know it's early, but humor me and have a drink?"
He finds an ashtray, somewhere, and brings it over and makes use of it. He sits across from her, taking the glass. His eyebrows lift a fraction of an inch. "Anything to drink to?"
"Drink to? Our meeting, of course. A new friendship is always occasion for celebration, don't you think?" Her eyes sparkled the orange of flames as she looked him over carefully.
His lips curl a little at the corners, and the smile in his eyes only grows. "To new friendship," he utters, and drinks. He's watching her, and besides his cigarette, pays little regard to anything else - he doesn't distract easily.
"New friendship." A demure nod of her head and she sipped as well, though it was unclear just how much liquid she took from the glass at all. "So, tell me, Mister Ghost, are your sentiments real or just flights of fancy?" The corners of her mouth lifted as she asked.
"I honestly thought I might have been invited over here to be murdered, if that gives you any idea." He doesn't touch the drink again, and taps his cigarette over the ashtray. "I know the risks to my person, but I know even better the dangers of a democracy as irresponsible as this... so it's worth it."
"Murdered? Do you think I'm crass enough to kill someone in my own house?" That caused her to laugh a bit merrily, the jingle of it bouncing off of the walls of the mostly stuffy room. "Oh, come now, how tacky is getting blood on your own rugs." Shaking her head a bit, she looked up at him again. "But yes, irresponsible is an appropriate word. Irresponsible and unpredictable. Unfortunate things for security, I think we can agree."
"Unfortunate things for the security of people who deserve not to be led to premature deaths by a crazed and childlike warlord."
"Precisely. It's about time there was some accountability in this city. Accountability and quiet. It's a shame the more... mature... people cannot go a day without the cries of lessers being slaughtered by the hundreds." She shook her head in dissaproval.
"I am only a writer. All I can do is write my essays and post what copies I can produce where they will be most seen." He raises his eyebrows a touch more. "I am surprised you were able to read my work at all."
"I'm known for my resourcefulness. It's a skill I pride myself on." She shrugged a touch. "But, I would like to offer you something... a press. I think your words should be heard further than just my ears. Well, mine and whoever is lucky enough to come across your writings. With a press, however, you can be just as successful as that trash people read around here. And your words are much more important than who is currently bedding with sho."
He puts out the cigarette, and breaking habit, does not promptly replace it. He folds his hands together on his knee and leans forward. "You're offering me a printing press? To use... freely, for my essays?" Eagerness stirs on the face of the slothful one.
"Yes. On a few conditions..." She smiled a bit wider, and sipped from her glass once more. "You must support the candidate I chose.. when I chose. You can't question anything I say about revisions and such. And..." She leaned forward a bit more. "We should get you some better things to wear. So that you look more than a crazy homelessman."
"I will only support a 'candidate' if it is an experienced noble seeking a throne." He looks at her. "Do not make me support this laughable democracy or anyone in it." The remark about the clothes is ignored - maybe he's thick-skinned. "...If it's an experienced noble... I'll support whoever you want. Feed me, clothe me, and get me out of that freezing flat, and I'll submit to your revisions."
"All of that is doable. But you must understand that the laughable democracy is an important stepping stone to a useful government of any sort. It's best to have someone who is accountable at first. Transition must go smoothly... no use starting a war or a coup or some sort of bloody uprising. The people of this city are rather violent, and I'd like to keep the pitchforks at bay for at least a little while." She paused to place the glass on the table. "You're welcome to stay here, there's plenty of room. You'll be given a shopping allowance, please use it wisely. I hear there's a Heavenly Boutique or some such in New Haven that I try to get most my clothes at. Spare no expense. Just... look worthy of being in the company of those you support."
"And if the warlord Wolvinator is elected in spite of our efforts?" He opens a hand to gesture to her. "Civil war is not my intent, but that irresponsible man cannot and will not be made into a king. If the election does not proceed smoothly, a parallel government that would gradually win over the people would be a preferrable option."
"We'll see when we get there." She waved him off. "For now, let's avoid such a catastrophe."
"I've already come out in support of a monarchy..." He pushes his scotch glass away, and then smiles a little as he rises. "...But perhaps it is more important my readers know the dangers of the most undesirable candidate and are made well aware."
"Lovely." She nods a touch. "Wilder, too, that woman is too...honorable for our purposes. Tear them down." She nodded then. "Yes, that will work wonders. And I would look for that pirate fellow. The one talking of overthrowing the government or whatever down at the docks. The working people were always best at building their own prison."
"To give an uprising any more attention is to give it more legitimacy. I know his wife - I'll talk to her. Wolvinator and Karen Wilder will be the focus of my attacks." He begins to move away, but pauses near the door. "If a candidate you support wins... you will turn this city away from democracy through him. Correct?"
"Of course." She even rolled her eyes at this. "Democracy gets things like that darned trade route down there, and all sorts of other irritating things. The good of the people, that is your business, mine is a little peace and quiet. The press is upstairs in the office next to the room I set aside for you. Get the key from the Butler, come and go as you'd like, but it will do you well to respect my home."
"Pleasure doing business with you, my lady," is his simple reply. As soon as he gets the key from the butler, he leaves to collect his things from his miserable West End flat. He needs a good long walk - it will give him time to think.