Topic: Friends of the Workshop

Warlock · Date: 2010-03-31 20:27 EST

Nightfall in the Marketplace: when the last of the evening's open air diversions ended, and the audiences and late night shoppers dispersed, lone denubae struck. Hungry and foolish and young, but perhaps too strong to always be cowed by the pack's authority, these monsters set out on their own to stalk the neighborhood's magicians and any who carried enough arcane trinkets to leave a strong trail. Some locals adapted to the threat as they could and as they had to RhyDin's dangers for years, yet the monsters remained a deadly threat and their battle at the Shamrock Shindig a recent and horrifying memory for many.

A lone wizard whose veins breathed magick, whose very being bristled with the lightning he commanded, was too tempting a target for some of these brazen monsters to resist. Late in the evening he hobbled down a cobblestone street, his hood drawn, his hat pulled low over his face, and his wooden staff clacking loudly on the pavement. Trinkets and baubles clattered in bags over his shoulders and at his sides. Local residents saw the arcanist for what he was and, remembering the danger of the beasts, went indoors and shut their windows with a mutter and a scowl. Some reports said the beasts had wings, and there was no telling when they might strike.

And the temptation was not resisted for very long at all. The bold traveler heard claws clicking on rooftops and saw a lone slate shingle fall to the ground and shatter as he reached a dead end. He halted, stopping his staff with a final clack, and the dark creature that stalked him thumped down to the street nearby. It emitted a nasty growl and circled its quarry; the prey, appearing unconcerned for the predator, cupped his hand over the knob of his staff and it emitted a bright and flickering rosy light.

The spell was too much. The creature lunged, and at once the ambush came from either flank.

A dwarf, darkly hooded like the traveler, leapt out from a stall hefting a broad axe. He swung three times, advancing fearlessly on the denubae, hesitating only to guard his face with a bracer when the venomous tail struck, and the attacker on the opposite flank stepped in. Whoever he was, he was skinny and long-limbed and could handle the large hammer in his hands expertly. He swung overhead and dug the pick end into the denubae's neck with a wet thud; it barely had time to yelp, and the thin figure tore the weapon out with a spin and landed a blow on its skull with the blunt end.

The creature emitted a final cry and slumped onto the cobblestones, bleeding out around its head. The strange wizard extinguished his light, and with nods between them, the three dark hunters dispersed, leaving rumors to spread in their wake.

Warlock · Date: 2010-04-01 20:13 EST

"Is this, ah, what we are to call ourselves? It is... firmly decided, then? Okay... yes, very good...

"Friends of the Workshop! That we are gathered here... at all... places us in both physical and political danger. My patron the Baron DeMuer wishes me rather forcefully to remain with his demesne, and I... cannot claim to know what the repercussions of my disobedience will be. If it is discovered that all of you have met with me in secret and in direct violation of our employer's wishes, I will do everything within my power to protect each of you... but I can imagine, my political clout within DeMuer Exports will be greatly diminished.

"We are here because we will not have our livelihood taken from us, not by politics nor by the beasts that call themselves denubae. They have proven time and again that they are deadly, and evidence has surfaced that they have persisted as a threat to this city for quite some time. Now, ah... naturally I respect the right of any creature to survive, yet they show no respect for the integrity of this community, and so must be subdued, destroyed, or driven out, and that will present great dangers to each of us. I hope that, as the role of 'bait' in hunting these creatures, their attention will be diverted as wholly as possible from you... but they have shown they are not necessarily inattentive to beings that do not display any arcane predilection.

"Unemployment, exile... death... all these are obstacles in our path as Friends of the Workshop, though I think we could all argue that they remain in our way to some extent anyway if the denubae threat goes on unchallenged and unimpeded. We have discussed our plans, weighed our options, evaluated the dangers... I present the opportunity to leave our group and this plan, without judgment, criticism, or any consequence whatsoever... and know that the option is always open to you. Each of you are my friends, and I will not hold any person to any promise to face peril."

The wizard Silas opened his hand in offer and looked around the abandoned warehouse cellar; at least in part he expected some to walk away right then, given the chance, but no one stirred. Perhaps it was just the flickering lamp-light, but every expression that faced him looked especially grim, moreso than he had previously known them capable of. He folded his hands over the top of his staff and bowed his head, accepting their verdict:

"...Very well. We will hunt the denubae together until they are defeated or I am destroyed. I will be their bait, their ideal prey... and given all the more appeal to them by declaring my candidacy for the seat of Governor of RhyDin."

Alain DeMuer · Date: 2010-04-02 18:41 EST

If there was one thing on God's green Earth, or Rhy'Din if you prefer, that Sheridan Driscol could not resist more than liquor and women -- as well as men, he wasn't partial -- it was cherries. The best cherry pastries were found in Ariana's Divine Delights Bakery, but he was in a rush this morning, and since he was already snooping around the Marketplace bright and early for the latest gossip, he stopped into Teas'n Tomes to harass the proprietors for something cherry delicious. Maybe a cup of hot tea too. He didn't mind tea so much, but coffee was just horrific.

Alain was already seated at a small table when Sheridan Driscol entered. He had collected a newspaper (which so far he had neglected), a pack of fine cigarillos, a small glass cup filled with espresso that was still steaming, and the remains of a pastry. He was just lighting another cigarillo and enjoying the warm spring air and a cool breeze when the man of the hour rushed in. "Mr. Driscol... I hoped I might find you here." He smiled warmly enough, though his eyes were, as ever, calculating.

Merciful gods. Of all the things to say to a man whose fingers had dipped into some of the most sordid economical cesspools this and any other side of the city. Not to mention other realms beyond. Dris jumped, the cherry turnover nearly leaping out of its wax-paper sleeve as he turned. For one paranoid moment in time he had expected to see a sharply dressed man surrounded by no less than six mutunously beefy thugs. When all he saw was just a perhaps no less finely dressed man sitting at a table enjoying a cigarillo, his heart dropped back to its usual speed of blood flow pumping, and he exhaled relief. The girl at the counter touched his elbow with the steaming cup of herbal tea, and he grabbed it blindly. "Em... Look. If this is about the results of that last race, I swear again, on my mother's grave, that I had nothing to do with the tranquilizers they put in Storm in the Morning's oats."

Alain chuckled and shook his head, then rose to his feet and extended his hand for a shake. "My name's Alain DeMuer." And with his free hand he motioned to the open chair. "Please, have a seat if you can spare the time. I'm very interested in your campaign for the governor's office, as is most of my company."

"Oh." Well. That changed matters significantly. In that case, Dris offered up his most charming smile -- which had been known to make women swoon before they ever managed to get up out of their seats -- and proceeded forward. Pastry in one hand and teacup in the other. He set the cup down before taking the man's hand and shaking in his usual gentle but firm fashion. A quick and businesslike clutch and release that revealed very little of his true strength, if he had any at all; his hands were also surprisingly calloused for looking so thin and fragile. "A pleasure and a privilege t'meet ye, Mr. DeMuer, I'm sure. But please, call me Dris." He turned his hand flippantly before sliding onto the open chair available.

Alain's own hand was very rough, though more from the old burn scars than consistent manual labor. He reclaimed his seat and his coffee. "Alain, then. You seem to have a very good grasp of RhyDin's ability to support itself... that, without centralized authority, our roads are maintained, buildings find electricity when they need it, and our homes are kept reasonably safe. In the past I've backed anarchists because of these ideas, but a governor who directly supports all of them... now that intrigues me." He sipped his espresso. The tiny cup seemed a little out of place in his large hands, awkwardly held.

Cradling the pastry in the fingers of his left hand, Dris got comfortable. He crossed one leg over the other and tilted a little bit to the side, having a bit more of a slouch to his posture than should be proper in any business setting, even impromptu ones. Everything about him said casual, from his style of dress to his devilishly debonair and somewhat mischievous little smile. There was even a twinkle in his blue eyes as he listened to Alain lay down the preliminaries. "It's the one thing that's bugged me about all these elections." He turned his right hand out to gesture just as flippantly to the world beyond the window. "All the candidates come across as assuming that the rest of the citizenry of our fair city is blind, deaf and dumb. Well all right. Dumb they may be. I've yet to hear a single person stand up and gripe about Governor Simon doing such a terrible job, but I remember the last debate too well. All those issues about health care and education and home-land security that were brought up. For what? It's already out there. All of it. Our goverment's just been pretending it wasn't and trying to convince the people that's true. Rhy'din's a free world, Mr.-- Alain. The governor's job is a farce and always has been, far as I can see it."

The Baron steepled his fingers, listening thoughtfully to the candidate's words, but also evaluating him. Examining his posture, making note of it so he could figure out why, and in general taking stock of th eman before him. He opened one of his hands as he answered him. "Since the office is a farce... as you've observed... what will you do with it if you win the election?"

"I'll put on my monkey suit and play to the people, like I was born and bred to do." His grin was a devilish thing, and he let his teeth shine in pause. "But don't think I don't have plans, because I do. Unlike Governor Simon, I'm not going to sit idly by claiming that I can solve every thrice be damned new problem that gets brought up my way. Education is the key to prosperity. Knowledge is power. My plans are to empower the people by spreading information they should already know about, but thanks to Governor Simon have conveniently forgotten."

"Such information as the role capable businesses already play in providing our necessities?" And therein lay the corporate mastermind's interest in the gubernatorial campaign: money, and the good public relations with which to earn even more of it.

A shark couldn't have smiled any more sharply than this. Dris looked down at his teacup and took pause, picking it up delicately with feigned courtly manners. He let the steam slide across his face for a moment. "Naturally." He took a sip, set the teacup down, and looked up, tapping a finger to his lower lip before shaking it at Alain. "Rhy'Din is a symbiotic city. Trade and commerce rule here more than any single elected official. So long as the gold flows without interference, Rhy'Din flourishes and prospers. Who am I, or any other man, to decide precisely which rivers that money flows through?" He spread his hands. "Why, that would be like unto trying to ... control the weather." There again was the twinkle in his eye.

Alain grinned and took another drag of his cigarillo. "Of course, we're not asking for direct endorsement... we prefer to conquer on our own merit... but I value this kind of education. Every necessary service has been provided by businesses large and small, as well as independent professionals, and this is key to the lucrative way in which money passes through our city." He jabbed the air with his smoke, then put it out and continued, "Our gold flows without interference, too." He filled out a check from a local bank and slid it over, and satisfied at this move, leaned back to nurse his espresso. "The first of many," he added.

Well now, this was unexpected, and perhaps one of the easiest cons he had pulled in his long lived life. Though with age, he was discovering, the experience soon became second nature. The would-be governor's fine black brows arched high, and his lips curved into an 'O' shape of mild surprise. He plucked up the cheque delicately and held it up to the light. Not only to check the sum written, but also to check for watermarks and any other possible signs that might hint at a forgery. Being a well-rounded rogue gave him a fine eye for detail concerning such things.

It was a legitimate check for a legitimate local financial institution. "We would like you to win. You'll be good for business, good for stock values, and good for public awareness, three things I can easily get behind." And then, steadily, he raised a finger. "Believe me when I say, we have ways of checking where the money goes." He smiled straight after and chuckled and lowered his finger again, as if it might've been a joke; nevertheless there was something dangerous about this man's eyes.

With a brilliant smile at this one small victory, however unexpected, Dris tucked the cheque into the pocket of his slacks and then lifted his teacup in salute. "Here's to a long and profitable business relationship between DeMuer Exports and the City." Already making himself an icon in his own mind. Should he win, of course. After taking a sip, he again set down his teacup. That pastry had been left neglected for so long, but it was rude to eat during discourse. "Speaking of fact-checking..." He tipped a finger at the newspaper Alain had been previously reading. "There's a rather interesting article there on page three that I think you might find ... enlightening." Being a notorious gossip whore, it should have been no small surprise that he'd already read that day's edition. Or at the very least heard the whispers on the street before coming in for his bird's breakfast.

"Page three, you said," he muttered as he took the newspaper and thumbed through it. "A new business in town?" His eyes hit the top article first. "Nothing to worry about -- evil space-age megacorporations come and go, and yet companies like our own always..." Then he trailed off. The Baron found something else, a name he found familiar in an interesting headline:

'Greyshott joins the race for governor.'

Yes, yes, said the turn of Sheridan Driscol's wrist. Read on, read on. The devil couldn't smile half as good as he could. Being a rogue, Dris was a con-man at heart. He maintained that expression even when the Baron's faltered. "One of yours, isn't he?"

The little espresso glass trembled in Alain's hand as he stared with growing intensity at the headline, until it shattered with a pop, bursting into his palm and all over the table: "How dare he!"

Warlock · Date: 2010-04-09 20:12 EST

The Friends of the Workshop had not restricted themselves to physical combat by any stretch of the imagination; most of these people were engineers, inventors, arcanists and their friends, both within and without the auspices of GAME, and it was very much in their nature to solve problems: the very purpose of their organization was to solve the problem of denubae attacks.

At first they had tried observation, which proved enormously difficult. No matter the amount of mundane recording equipment they accumulated (much of which they could not, between all of them, puzzle out enough to use), no matter how much footage they acquired and studied of the very swift and elusive beasts that dogged the city's mages, very little could be deduced about their behavior and strategies for combating them besides the use of water and heavy, mundane weapons: small rifles, pistols, hammers, clubs, and sharp swords in capable hands.

Clues to their behavior remained beyond their reach, until the efforts of a librarian they had 'borrowed' from the Baron DeMuer's employ...

"The budget, the budget, where in the Great Nine-Sun Desert did I put the -- oh... yes, over with my tea." In spite of the fact that Silas had very rarely had a moment alone since his return to RhyDin (symptomatic of leading a guerilla group) he very often spoke to himself; he could hear others working and discussing in the next room, what had become their abandoned cellar hideout's living room, while he puffed smoke from his pipe every moment in the kitchen/bar. There were casks of port and kegs of beer lining the far walls, a motley collection of mugs and glasses, and boards laid across them to serve for eating and drinking areas.

He shuffled across the room in a wrinkled shirt and trousers, suspenders off the shoulders and slippers on his feet -- grimacing at the clock, which told the young man who had foregone sleep patterns that it was six p.m. -- and returned to his shoddy dust-stained desk to smoke, sip cold tea, and review Mr. Aurene's "anonymous donation" and how it would best be spent.

Which would mean writing up his recommendations and calling for a vote within a few hours. He felt a twinge of guilt that such thoughts passed through his head, but with each vote he wished the people who had come to support him would abandon him instead and go home, leaving him without the weighty obligation to fulfill. But no one left; everyone stayed; and day by day, hour by hour, the fully internalized pressure to find victory or defeat built up and drove him to distraction.

"Oh Aberth," he sighed through a cloud of spiced smoke, "what would you have done...?" He stared with undue intensity at an uninteresting stain on the far wall, and silence deepened in the hideout's kitchen.

Fia's lips twisted as she climbed the rickety little staircase that led down to Silas's warehouse bolthole. It reminded her, forcibly, of some of the worst parts of the Seattle area; places the gangers wouldn't even go. She could even imagine, perhaps, that she smelled the monsters he'd asked her to look up. Fia chalked it up to nervousness, an overactive imagination, and the smell of pipe smoke wafting down the makeshift hallway. What little information she'd found wasn't much. Speculation. Lies. The rantings of a man called insane. There might be something amongst the chaff, but it'd take a wiser mind than hers to filter it out. She'd tucked the roll of paper into a coffee-shop cup holder that was also filled with two sealed containers of coffee, a handful of sugar packets that were now stuffed under a waxed paper bag that also held a morning glory muffin, and a stirrer stuffed through a hole in one of the coffee cups' lids like an afterthought.

She'd been trained to be silent; this alone would have had Fia Calriss sneaking up on the beleaguered mage. Even if he weren't fixated, lost within his own thoughts. The elf reached out a hand to rest on his shoulder, but spoke his name before she could startle him. Any more than she expected she would at that moment, in any case.

"I brought it, but I can't tell you if any of it's worth anything." Her lips twisted again as she offered him the entire container, reaching only to pluck the superfluous coffee cup from it. "I figured you probably weren't eating much either, but..." Well. The pastry was there if he wanted it, said the roll of her shoulders.

Silas twisted his neck to smile up at her, and reached back to squeeze her hand. "I can't eat," he admitted apologetically, "but, ah... thanks, Feef."

He pushed aside the check (with three zeroes, mind) that the wily Aurkindar had penned earlier that day, as well as a few rough sketches and blurry photographs, to make room for her work. "Every little bit helps, as, um, as always, but especially now... let's see, ah... hmm..."

Hazel eyes skimmed the first page of notes, and he chuckled: "...Well, I admit, your early hypothesis may prove quite correct. The man thought he saw the 'devil dogs' roughly five years ago, it seems, and with no... no, um... corroboration..." He trailed off as he flipped through the pages, eyes widening. He held up her notes even closer to his eyes as if to unravel some secret in the ink itself, then snatched up a photograph, then a yellowing newspaper article that had been pushed to the far corner and forgotten, frankly not even fully read due to its length.

The young wizard repeated the process three times, then thumped his hands on the desk and stared up at the elf. "Fia... do you realize what you have done -- just what you have uncovered...?!"

Her eyes widened, and she said the first thing that came to mind. "No?"

Silas smiled. "The creatures have been studied, professionals have conducted an autopsy... There have been denubae in RhyDin for at least five years, and they have not overtaken the city yet -- we can beat them!"

* * *

Biological Anomaly Discovered!
Local Scientists Unravel Mystery of New Breed

The South Rhy'Din Gazette

April 23, 2005

Scientists believe they have found a new mammalian species, a humanoid canine that was recently spotted in selective areas of Rhy'Din City. Citizens who reported seeing the creatures seemed concerned for their own welfare while wandering the streets at night. Rumors of monster attacks have been increasing in the past few weeks, and scientific investigators went out in hopes of capturing one of the beasts to learn more about them. Leading animal biologist Rupert Kirkane and his team were blessed with the gift of a carcass earlier in the week and have concluded a study on what is believed to be a full report on what these creatures truly are.

"These creatures are rather large," reports Kirkane. "The specimen we received was nearly seven feet in length, but it only weighed in at one hundred and fifty pounds." Kirkane further described the animal as appearing to be a crossbreed between a jackal and some unidentified humanoid species. "The specimen had the most disgustingly foul odor!" proclaimed Kirkane.

Witnesses who have seen the creatures reported mixed feelings of fear and curiosity. While some citizens have suffered injury and even death from attacks, those that have survived all conclude the same thing. "These monsters are huge! And stinky," said local Rhy'Din resident Polly Jane Tello. "They have these little glowing red eyes and they just give me the heebie jeebies thinking of them."

In reference to the eyes, Kirkane and his team were a little perplexed. "When we examined the anatomy of the eye, we discovered no logical reason as to why they might glow. There didn't seem to be any retina or other obvious design to reflect light." In fact, scientists claimed the the eyes looked like nothing more than little black glass marbles.

"The head really looks like it belongs on a jackal," says animal expert Fiona Timmerman. "If you've ever read any Terran history, I'd say I was looking right at the face of Anubis." The animal is reported to have tall ears and a long snout. Overall the body is covered in very fine, coarse black hair.

"The hide is really something," says Kirkane. "Thick and tough like well-treated leather."

Associating metaphysical expert Yumel Wishingstar reported that the hide also had some sort of magically defensive property. When subjecting the animal's hide to a series of simple and complex spells, "everything I threw at it was ineffective. The skin either absorbed or reflected every spell my team cast at it."

Polly Jane Tello also informed investigators that, "I got scratched by one of them and I remember not being able to move for 'bout half an hour!" Researchers were intent on investigating this further.

"The claws, teeth, and barb on the end of the tail all seem to share the same properties," says Kirkane. "This animal has venom sacks located in the roof of the mouth, wrists, and tip of the tail." Testing the venom concluded it to be some sort of neurotoxin that effects motor function, making it impossible for the afflicted person to move for at least thirty minutes.

Kirkane and his team further discovered that the animal seemed to have no digestive track. "It has a stomach," reports Kirkane, "of that much we're certain. But there are no intestines to speak of. We're not exactly sure how these animals get their nutrition." In the stomach the scientist were baffled to find not food, but swallowed objects including: a rusty dagger, a large black rock, and even a rusted longsword!

Yumel Wishingstar and his team studied those items further to conclude that, "Those items were once magical. The dagger and sword both had engravings on the blade written in an arcane dialect. The rock we aren't completely sure about, but we feel it must have also once been perhaps an enchanted gem."

"If," Kirkane added, "these animals eat at all, we aren't sure how they digest. By the muscle tisse in the body, we imagine it is similar to that of a common owl. Coughing up processed pellets instead of defecating."

"When it comes to procreation of the species," Kirkane went on to say, "we're a little baffled about that as well." They believe the animal they studied to be female due to similarities in the anatomical structure. However, "There is no evident uterus so these animals may not be mammal at all."

The scientists say they will be conducting more studies on the animals that the team is currently calling Canis sapiens. Kirkane has advised that citizens be cautious around these animals. "We have yet to see a living specimen in action, and based on our own findings believe them to be dangerous. Don't provoke them if you can avoid it."

Wishingstar had this to say: "I'll be keeping my spell books and special items locked up at home for awhile. You should too."

More on this story as it develops.

The data from their experiences was put together with evidence from the article and directly from Dr. Kirkane himself, the closest thing to an authority on the creatures; the Friends of the Workshop were finally able to paint a vivid picture, one which they had every intention of sharing with the people of RhyDin...

((First part adapted from live play with Fia Calriss; article in second part originally posted here in Ubique's Weekly by The Nefarious SM, with permission. Many thanks to all parties involved!))

Fia Calriss · Date: 2010-04-19 12:46 EST

In retrospect, it was a trip that Fia Calriss should have enjoyed. The feel of her motorcycle purring along the road beneath her, the color of the trees budding into the pastels and pale greens of spring, and the scents that wafted through the air.

Being that it was business, it wasn't as enjoyable as it should have been.

The Baron has isolated himself yet again, working the whole weekend on his new property in New Haven: with just a handful renovating the old house the construction site is pretty orderly, but there are still signs of their progress like scrap wood piled into barrels out front, and scaffolding around the most damaged corner. The front door is wide open, and the Aurkindar bodyguard Jack is 'snoozing' on the front porch, one eye open only the tiniest amount.

Ironically enough, Jack is one of the largest sources of inside information for the Friends of the Workshop.

She parked the 'bike and slid the helmet off, shaking out her ponytail. Fia tossed a casual salute to the Aurkindar, who barely gave a grunt in return. Couldn't blame a guy for drowsing in the warm sun, could she?

"He's got to be in there, I can smell the smoke from here," Fia muttered to herself.

The Baron is in his partly-finished study, drinking coffee, reading a newspaper, and neglecting a pile of information he needs to go over for the rest of this construction project.

It didn't take her long to thread through the unfinished hallway. The scent of new wood prickled her nostrils and almost made her sneeze. Yeah, he was there, all right.

"You busy?" Between the scents and her sense of irony, Fia almost snorted as she rapped the doorjamb again. "Something interesting happened last night at the inn, and it was just odd enough I thought you might wanna know about it."

A long moment of silence caught and held. The elf bit her lip. Irritated. She never really enjoyed talking to the Baron, and there were times she felt like he toyed with her. Cat with mouse.

"Come in," he says at last, folds the paper in half and drops it over his thigh.

The elf stalked in, and neglected to look for a seat. She only set her hands on her hips, and settled herself in front of his desk. "It seems like that Lucky lawyer guy and his girlfriend--whom it turns out was in Infinity City when I was--might have an interest in hiring me to grow things for them. Why that is, I'm not sure, but it was important enough for them to collar me in the Inn last night."

Fia paused for a moment, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. "Also interesting was the fact that Lucky himself asked me if I was averse to working with illegal materials."

Alain nurses his coffee thoughtfully, frowning. He's quiet... gears are turning, as something very subtle and complex plays out, until he makes a decision...

"Did he elaborate on the 'illegal materials'?"

She shook her head at that. "No. But if he gives me anything, I think I'm going to separate a cutting or two out and hide it. I don't think he knows I work for you, and I didn't let on." Fia wasn't entirely certain she could figure out what might be illegal or not, at first glance, which might mean quite a few cuttings secreted someplace else. She'd find a place.

"Good," he says with a nod. "You know the drill -- SPI dropoff, closed book, blue tags. And if you get a chance, find out what Rebekah was up to in Infinity City, and more importantly who she knew."

hy Alain is building a case against one of his closest allies, or even examining the possibility, he keeps entirely to himself.

"And how's your boyfriend?" So far he's been scanning paperwork, but here his eyes move to hers. He watches the movements in her face and her shifting body language.

Fia brushed off the boyfriend question for a moment, just a hint of a frown there. "That reminds me, actually. She knew Liya Dovelin, Ali's ex-wife. She knew Ali al-Amat, too. She remembered me, and my brother from Infinity City." Which might just be an interesting enough tidbit for him to ignore the fact that she's not answering about Silas yet.

"You're authorized for a Level III team -- keep close tabs on Rebekah. I want to know how much contact she still has with Mr. al-Amat, and the moment anyone from her past comes walking back in. Keep it from Lucien as long as possible, but if he does find out..." Alain smiles grimly and begins rolling up a cigarette. "Well, he owes us." Tap, light, drag.

"What's Master Greyshott up to?"

Damn. "Still doing research on the Denubae." The elf said that with a grimace. "I'm not sure precisely what he's planning, as I haven't seen him for a week or so. Busy at work." Mostly because she'd been putting out the fires of her own making, when she'd been gone on her own personal shadowrun. There was a degree to which exotic plants could grow on their own, and she'd passed it. The losses weren't something she couldn't recover from. Luckily.

"Do you know what Mr. Scott saw him about?"

Her eyes widened a moment at that. "I saw Scotty last night, but all he had was a bag of sand and a bunch of books that looked like pleasure reading. Didn't have much to say to me, and Rebekah was shouting at me a bit after that, so..." She shrugged. "If I find out, I'll let you know." Maybe.

"Mm." Puff. "You're going to be doing an awful lot for me in the future, Miss Calriss, and you're doing a lot already... Which leaves me with one question."

She grunted for a moment, then answered. "What?"

"What is it you want."

"Good question. I'll think about it. It isn't as if I haven't got something already." Nevermind the greenhouse/hothouse/botanical gardens were producing things that DeMuer Exports needed. There was reciprocity there.

"Don't tell me you haven't been thinking about Master Greyshott's future." He ashes his cigarette and levels his eyes at her.

"I have... and I have an idea that plenty of people within my company are, some more than others. When you decide what it is you're going to ask me for, I'd recommend keeping that in mind."

In this, the teenager decided to rear its ugly head. Fia rolled her eyes.

"He's still a man. Most men don't appreciate it when their girlfriend comes in and saves their ass. It tends to be a relationship-breaker. So while I might be thinking about it, it isn't what I want." By the frown on her face, she's probably not lying. "I'll let someone else take care of him in that way."

"Suit yourself," he says simply, with a nod. He writes out a quick note for her, folds it in half and hands it over. For SPI.

"I'll drop that off." Accepting it quietly. "And I'll show myself out." Which she does promptly enough. All too eager to shake the dust of Alain DeMuer from her heels.

(Written in collaboration with the player of Alain DeMuer, with thanks!)

Warlock · Date: 2010-04-23 10:52 EST

Since the interview with Mr. Fenner and many of the Friends' concerns over his purported involvement with the Proposition 37 affair, the movement's headquarters had moved to another cellar. The heat had been taken off of Silas' friend Mr. Jaster, the deputy head of DeMuer Exports, and so they moved into the basement of his fashionable renovated-warehouse apartment among a generous portion of 'misplaced' ale kegs, wine casks, and giant crates of food.

Master Greyshott was seated on one of the smaller crates overlooking a wider one, nibbling nervously on a pencil, exhausted eyes flickering over blueprints, two maps, and a photograph. He was dressed in a buttoned undershirt of sorts and trousers, his suspenders askew and his hair a mess.

The past several weeks had been very rough for the young arcanist.

There were a number of reasons why Harold Lee sought out the aforementioned arcanist, chief of which was probably quite selfish. It was not his only purpose, however, and he slipped into the hideout feeling more than a little out of place. He was getting kinda sick of that feeling, but he shoved it away.

Scotty was out, and this was Harold's jaunt. They had both been away - a rough few weeks of a different sort, for them - and very honestly Harold hadn't heard about any goings-on following the letter Silas had sent them and the missed connection.

Quietly, he announced his presence, not wanting to sneak up on the man. "Um. Hi, Mister Greyshott." Not... perhaps the most confident man in the world.

Silas blinked at Harold several times, at first disbelieving his eyes and assuming it a hallucination. When the image did not evaporate, he smiled and pushed himself to his feet to extend his hand. "Ah, Harold, it's um, you really have no idea, or maybe you do, but just how very good it is to see you. I, um... yes, I am deeply sorry we missed our meeting earlier, but ah..." He pinched at the back of his neck. "...well, I am being hunted." His lips twisted.

Harold shook that extended hand, blinking in return at that declaration. Well, what does one say to... that? He suddenly felt like an utter prick for having selfish intentions in this.

"Good to see you too, man. That... sucks. No need for sorries, seriously, stuff happens. Scotty couldn't be here, I don't think I kinda realized how-- um. Serious a meeting it would end up being. I mostly came for something else, but--" Harold had sort of figured most of the danger must've passed, and had admittedly been so much inside his own head he'd neglected to consider that Scotty should have been there for this.

He wasn't sure how much touch was welcomed, but it was usually his instinct to touch for comfort; with that in mind, he placed his hand on Silas' shoulder and asked the same question he'd asked Scotty the day they'd gotten the letter. "How can we help?"

How he could've been led to a hideout and not realized there was danger involved is anyone's guess.

Silas' face lit up, and a great deal of the darkness left it. His smile was grateful, and the instant Harold offered his and Scotty's help. "Believe me, there is much to be done... very much... but," he added, began to sit, then hesitated and flapped his hand towards the tea, "but... what is the something else? We have plenty of time for the other matters, believe me, and ah... it will be refreshing, I think, to ponder anything other than the Denubae threat."

Harold was considering sending a PADD message to get Scotty down there, at least for the help part of the conversation. The first part, though, needed to be a secret for the time being. Harold found a crate to sit on, shuffling it over, Silas' lit up expression sort of lighting his own. He was glad to have brought the man some sort of pleasant feeling, for as worn out as he looked. "Okay. Ah. Um. Two things, actually. It's kinda embarrassingly selfish. Well. One part. The first part is--" Yes, this had been bugging him for some time. "I'm sorry. For--" He gestured, a vague splaying of his fingers out. "--um. Being so-- rude? Before. At the Saint Patrick's thing."

Harold blushed. Now that he said it, it seemed... a little silly. To be apologizing for rudeness when they were running for their lives. Still, he felt like it was important. "I was really-- yeah, and you didn't deserve that, especially when-- well. Yeah." Articulation was not often Harold's strong suit.

"Oh... I um..." Silas seemed pretty confused; he couldn't call to mind what Harold might be referring to. "Were you referring to the drinking, or...? I mean, because I had perhaps more than I ought to have, and I don't know how much anyone else had, but I don't think that's anything to be concerned about or apologetic over, but um..." He gave the other man a questioning, puzzled look, begging for some kind of clarification.

Harold bit his bottom lip, some, not really wanting to describe what he felt he'd done. "Um. I shouted. A lot. 'Cause you were using magic or talking about using it when those things were chasing you? I wasn't-- so much polite about it when I said you shouldn't. And I felt bad, you know?" He chuckled to himself, shaking his head. It apparently hadn't even registered to Silas, what Harold had done, and here he'd been guilty over it since. "Just-- kinda scared and not thinking straight and it bothered me I did that."

"Oh... oh no, that. I think I... yes, I recall that," and then he shook his head again. "No no, that's nothing you need to apologize for... It was a dangerous situation and you, um, you seemed to be very concerned for our welfare, which is, ah, certainly nothing to apologize over. I admit I had no real plan in mind when I began spellcasting then, except um... 'bait.' " He nodded, then.

Bait... that's all he'd been for a month, and it was wearing on him dramatically.

Harold reached out and patted the guy's shoulder again. "...thanks." He huffed a laugh, quirking his eyebrows. "So. Uh. Yeah. That was... part one. Part two is... um. The selfish part, and I have no idea if you even could do this, would want to, and if now..." He glanced around the room, sort of indicating the current situation. "...is anywhere near the right time to ask for it."

"It, um... in fairness, it really may not be," he replied with an apologetic look, "but I, um, suppose we will not know until... well, ah. What is it?"

"If it's not, seriously tell me to take a hike, I don't mind at all, man." Harold gestured, one open hand, as though visualizing what was in his head. "I'll-- pay you for the work, and that. If you decide to do it. But I need... a thing. It sounds really frivolous but trust me when I tell you it's kinda... Um." A blush rose in his cheeks, anyone's guess why. "Important. More important than I can really explain. And I figure there's probably-- tech. Out there to do it, or an easier mage to find, but I guess I trust-- your magic more than anything I'd buy over at Star's End, you know? So I'm not just... hitting you up like a convenience store, if you see what I mean. And I wouldn't have-- bothered you with it if I'd stopped to think about all this." Asking Silas was... an extra layer of security and trustworthiness to the object.

There was meant to be a point to that word explosion, Harold Lee. Remember? "I need-- something that-- I guess makes a soundproof bubble. Or space. Or something. So--" One corner of his mouth twitched. "Um. Private... conversations can stay private when I need them to."

"...I think I... hm. Hm." He flipped over one of the blueprints and stretched over the blank space and made the noise once, twice more, then, "Yes... I think I can... well, no, the Plubii problem would make it so that... but if we just increased the..."

Silas was not really speaking to Harold, and certainly out of no disrespect, but he seemed to be having a conversation with the paper. A nervous energy had been welling up inside of him since he had been forced underground and away from most of his means of invention, and while there was the potential promise of devices to draw in more of the Denubae, his prospects for invention, research and development were far less than he had become accustomed to.

He began to sketch very rapidly, rough but sweeping lines, plenty of arcs and little rune-marks, and in moments he was sketching more of the runes in the air. They glowed and orbited slowly around him after he drew them with his finger, but seemed to bend according to whichever point you were looking at them from -- thus, they were backwards neither to Silas nor to Harold.

"Ah, bring me my, um... you see the small wooden chest, over there? And that sort of... yes, that cart, if you could push it this way. Please." Something in the wizard's eyes had become electrified.

Harold's eyes were on those glowing runes, mouth sort of hanging open. It took him a moment to register the last bit of speech. "...sure, man, no problem at all..." There was awe in his voice, and he grinned brightly in the way of a child, knowing a man with a spark of cascading ideas when he saw one. He got up and quite gratefully did as he was instructed, hauling the cart over for Silas. He parked it proudly by the man, and then took his PADD from his jeans pocket to fire a message off to his husband to join them. "My... husband should be joining us soon, if you don't mind."

Silas either did not mind or did not hear; he rolled up his sleeves past his elbows, sat down at the closest thing he had in the room to a workbench, and began tweaking what seemed to be a softly glowing blue cylinder encased in brass and glass. There were very few parts that needed to be added to this device... really, it was mostly a matter of tweaking...

It had been a somewhat long day. Moving about the city tended to make Scotty keep his head down and his eyes on the road, though naturally, he listened for any sounds of potential attack. And, also not so surprisingly, he was a little bit subdued. He had four large sheets of plexiglass under his arm, which were light enough to carry and strong enough to handle the crabs, and over his shoulder he had slung a bag with some other materials.

The PADD message made him stop; he put everything down and read. Apparently, Harold had tracked down Silas -- that put both of Scotty's eyebrows up in a mix between surprise and appreciation -- and requested his presence. There was also the 'I love you so much' in there, which made him smile a little, despite the anxiety he felt being out and about.

He didn't want to stop to take everything back to their room, so he just put his PADD in his pocket and headed for the hiding place of one Silas Greyshott with the makings of a crab habitat along with him.

"Um," Harold said after a while, having taken a crate for a seat again. "Just-- so you know." Well, how did he say, 'Don't tell Scotty what you're doing' without making it sound like he's cheating on him or something? "It's-- Scotty doesn't know I've asked you for this yet." He cleared his throat, wincing if only for having interrupted the man's train of thought.

Silas blinked at Harold's request, staring at him for a moment (though no expression formed on his face yet by way of beginning a response) until a gnome popped his head in through the doorway and said, "Master Greyshott suh... got another guest comin' in."

There was only a moment's hesitation, and Silas was putting the whole lot away. As an engineer, Scotty might very well be able to figure out what Silas was up to, especially with his growing experience in applied arcana. The runes vanished after he simply blew on them, and the blueprint was turned back over and slipped to the bottom of the pile.

He blew a little relieved sigh and turned his head to the door with a little smile.

Scotty cast a look around, then looked back between Silas and Harold, and then he set down the crab habitat makings and headed over. Not making a ton of eye-contact; the last he had heard of Silas was before that nightmare with the GangSTAR, and he wasn't sure what to expect. "How are ye?"

Harold lit up again at the sight of his husband, giving him a quiet waggling finger wave, giving way to letting them talk.

Surprisingly enough, Silas moved in for a hug, an unusual move for the young man under any circumstances. "Ah, well enough, considering... and much better, now that I have the two of you here. I am, ah... very sorry, that I missed our intended meeting."

He shook his head. "There were... unexpected complications. Unfortunately the denubae learned to track me much sooner than we anticipated... clever creatures, smarter than most suppose, I think." With his sleeves rolled up, they exposed the edges of scars, some from which the stitches had only recently been removed. He had seen a great deal of fighting already...

Scotty was more'n a little surprised by the hug, but he returned it, warmly. Once he stepped back, he looked over Silas, noting the scars with a faint wince. "Aye, I see. How can we help? I havena heard much about th' city while I was out about 'em, but then, we havena been here fer a few weeks."

"They track you?" Well, Silas had said he was being hunted. It was just that the word 'track'... "That's... frighteningly intelligent..."

"I'm nae that surprised." Scotty shook his head. "They're smart enough t' form packs, then they're probably smart enough t' adapt."

"Well... so far, we have been studying their behavior and gathering whatever resources and information we can about them, and trying to, um, educate the masses. I ran for Governor of RhyDin -- very briefly -- and used my campaign funding and platform to spread useful information about the Denubae. I have, ah..." He took a step back and turned away from them both, fearing their concern on some level.

"Well, you see," he said, with a brief glance at Harold, "we have been doing our best to make them aware of me and my abilities, and we believe they are getting to the point of recognizing me, and just how much 'food' I can offer. I have been acting as bait in our efforts to destroy them."

"Why?" Scotty asked, frowning.

"Because I... you see, it's..." Silas stopped and frowned, his brow knitting deeply. He stepped still further away, bowing his head, resting both hands atop his staff.

"...You know, at first I thought it was many other things, anything but... at first I thought I had been hunted from Norras to RhyDin for my old mentor's, um, spellbook, it had some information on powerful demonic summonings that he did not want in the wrong hands, and while true..."

He looked over his shoulder at them, his expression increasingly troubled. "Please... whatever you do... do not repeat to anyone, no soul living or dead, what I am about to tell you. Please?"

"I wouldna." There could be little doubt the certainty in those words; Scotty was probably more trustworthy than the sunrise, once he gave his word.

"Consider it canned, man. I swear, not a word from me," Harold replied, frowning, suddenly wondering just exactly how they would be able to help with that.

"I am... an anchor, of sorts. Information on the matter is limited, so far, but I believe it has something to do with whoever my parents were, and the circumstances of my birth. There have been others like me, it seems, through the ages, and... none of them that I can find have died well." He tapped his staff against the floor, thoughtfully, and continued,

"Arcane forces seem to like bending my way, whenever I am around, and I can use that to bring great energy temporarily into myself and channel it in ideally very controlled expressions of power, such as most of the spells I normally cast. Now many, if not most, mages can do that to a certain extent, but... you see, the flow of magick never really seems to stop. There is, um... no off switch, you see, and while the energy tends to flow right back out through more subtle channels, smaller ley lines and quasi-parallel spaces and micro-rifts and shadow pockets... it makes me very ideal, as a living battery."

He tapped his staff against the floor again, then looked at them with a sad smile. "Hence, I'm afraid, the, ah, Baron DeMuer's consternation with my, ah... my disobedience. He knows what I can be used for, and while his own uses for me seem to be more limited in scope to the likes of projects you and I have worked on, Scotty... he will not entertain the idea of another political force having access to my potential power. ...Though it does lend us an advantage, in the end... I am the ideal bait for the Denubae, ideal for large expressions of arcane energy to attract them, and bring them to their doom."

Scotty didn't like the sound of that, and it doubtless showed on his face. "What about what you want, Silas? Puttin' th' Denubae aside fer a moment, what is it that you want, if DeMuer wasna an issue?"

"And for that matter, how much longer is this gonna go on before you die of exhaustion, if nothing else?" Harold added, more than a little alarmed for all he'd heard.

"Ah... honestly... quite truthfully... my autonomy," he admitted quietly with a dip of his head. "...though for the time being that seems impossible, and perhaps the Baron's continued patronage will allow me the greatest degree of safe autonomy for the time being, until I have... well, sufficient means of my own to ensure my own safety. For now, the strength of his corporate empire will have to do, if all goes according to plan and they allow for my return in due time."

His lips twisted, his expression sad, but he shook his head at Harold. "And as long as I am not forced into frequent or constant and great uses of arcane power -- which thankfully I am not -- I should live as long as any wizard, and perhaps longer. Two, three, four hundred years..." He shrugged: death was not something he feared, at all, though safety and autonomy he could not deny he desired.

"Th' problem with empires is that the more they invest in somethin', th' less likely they are t' give it up, when it comes time t' let go." Scotty didn't know DeMuer, but he did know that Silas should have had the same rights as any other living thing, and autonomy was a very big right. "In th' meantime, what ye're doin' is tryin' t' put a bandaid on an apparently gapin' wound. If ye wanna end th' Denubae threat, we have t' figure out where they come from an' how t' stop 'em at that source. Right now, ye're just gettin' yerself torn up again an' again, t' no real avail -- more can breed or whatever it is they do, an' it keeps happenin'. Ken?"

"The source... ah, the source!" Silas thumped his staff on the floor again and laughed, suddenly, and certainly did not feel it. "I can make no sense of it, we can find no trail! Such a horde, they would, ah, they would most certainly have left a vast SWATH of destruction in their wake, a great imprint in an otherwise unflappably arcane landscape. Finding the source of them..."

He sighed and shook his head. "Why, you may as well assume they just popped into this world from another world entirely." And there, right there, he paused, his mouth hanging open just a little bit.

"Aye, maybe they did. Then th' answer is t' figure out how, or if there's a specific rift they just popped out of. Then, ye figure out how t' close it. They might be able t' open another, but it's better'n tryin' t' just stem th' tide." Scotty didn't so much think Silas should be doing much more of that, if the scars were any indicator.

Harold narrowed his eyes in confusion. Wasn't that what most people around here did? Pop in and out of various worlds as the Nexus saw randomly fit? "Um." Helpful, Harold. He blinked a couple of times. "Uh. Okay, this might be stupid, but-- could you radio tag the things, or something--" he gestured wildly. "--you know. Crazy smart arcane that's like tagging 'em?"

"No, they'd eat th' energy. But if ye could find some non-energy, non-arcane way t' tag 'em..." Scotty narrowed his eyes in thought. "Like... those bioluminescent bacteria, aye? Make their footprints glow. Inject 'em from a distance."

"I can close it," he said quietly, then frowned at Harold. "Well... I ah, I'm not entirely sure, since they eat magick, but ah... we could try, yes. Scotty, your knowledge would be better-suited to that task, I think, than anything I can offer... but, um... rift-tracking was my first job for the Baron, and ah..." He shook his head.

"The rift idea didn't occur to me, really, especially since the creatures happen to have a long history in this city, and I haven't worked on rifts in such a long time it feels like... but I can do it. If I can get into the, ah, the old offices, and locate my old maps in the archives... yes, I think we can do this."

He nodded at Scotty: "Talk to Mr. Jaster, he can make the necessary arrangements. I... fear for him, I think, because he stands to lose so much... but he's decided where he stands. He can find you the resources, or at least the money to buy them."

"Huh. You know..." Harold chewed his bottom lip. "If you could tag 'em with something they could feed off of, maybe they wouldn't need to chase Silas anymore. If you could, like... make something with enough energy to keep 'em fed for a long time. And when they came back, just shoot 'em again. As a stopgap, until you can trace them. I... may or may not be talking stupid."

"No... perhaps you may be onto something, but it will require further investigation... excuse me just a moment, please..." And he stepped away from them, and over to the doorway. <c>

"Friends of the Workshop!" he called out, and from closets and spare rooms and quiet corners, from atop kegs and tables, from upstairs and downstairs came dwarves and gnomes, Aurks and part-elves and humans, many from within DeMuer's empire and many more from without, about thirty faces all told. They looked curiously at Scotty and Harold, but even more curiously at Silas, who looked at them all, smiled and spread his arms, and said to them, "Finally... at long last... we have a plan."

(Written in collaboration with the wonderful and talented players of Harold and Scotty!)

Scotty · Date: 2010-04-23 21:20 EST

Astarii had never been the proper name of the arcane freighter run aground within sight of RhyDin two years ago; then again, no one knew its birth-name, and what the elves who discovered the wreck called it had to suffice. It meant 'starborn,' because the discoverers found everything about the vessel so utterly alien. The bridge resembled an almost opulent balcony, pushing far out over the deck and covered in thick, tall glass panes. Every door was oval in shape, and in addition to an arcane engine that somehow pumped in and electrified water to use as fuel, the ship was powered by small black sails placed along either side and skimming the water.

They did not catch the air, but young Master Greyshott felt sure he was close to puzzling out their use.

Normally a ship like the Astarii would have been easy prey for scavengers, yet something about it unsettled people. The architecture was all slightly off somehow in a way more subtle than the simply alien aesthetic, and there remained no trace of the crew or even their belongings, not even a plate or a wrench. It bent arcana in often unusual ways, and Silas happily considered the ship a kindred spirit.

Few took notice when the not-so-badly-damaged wreck within a league of RhyDin drifted out from behind the rocks. Repairs were quick, the malleable arcane iron responding very well to enchanted tools and spellcasting itself, and now the dark ship bobbed in waters very close to the city and yet just out of sight, lurking among rocks and behind the lighthouse whenever possible.

Rumors stirred in waterfront beer halls about the alien ship, but most of those who sighted it paid little attention, took it for a local trawler and gave them not even a second thought. This was critical to their operation and would have been on the mind of any good spymaster; regrettably, to Silas, it was nothing more than happy coincidence.

He stood on the deck by the oddly ornate railing where they had placed a large, complex brass telescope. He fiddled with dials and the lenses flashed odd colors, and every now and again peeked through to see what it was doing. The smell of magick hung in the air around him; the wind rising off of the water couldn't sweep it away.

The fact that Silas was using the Eastern Point Light as a cover pleased Scotty. It also meant that the boat ride there was harrowing. Well, the boat rowing there. He used the row boat that he had used before to catch the shrimp to row out to the Astarii, and tried to keep ignoring the queasiness of being on the bounding water.

He still paused far enough off to hail, and after a few moments, he was called aboard. That was another half hour, then, as he did his best to maneuver the rowboat, struggling to get it alongside in the Astarii, and when he was finally dragged aboard by his former (current?) co-workers, Scotty was doing his level best not to throw up.

"Keep breathin', kid," Dwaylyn said, swatting him on the arm and grinning through his beard.

"Workin' on it," Scotty answered, dragging in breaths. After a few moments, his stomach settled slightly. "Where's Silas?"

"Playing with a telescope aft." Dwaylyn gestured to the heavy water-proofed bag Scotty was carrying over his shoulder. "What've you got?"

"An idea." Scotty grinned, despite the queasiness, and headed aft to find Silas.

"Mr. Scott?" Silas called down the ship, hearing the man or at least some mention of his name. That the telescope remained level in spite of the rough water was a minor miracle of science. Whatever he had been doing with the machine, now he was taking a break from his task to enjoy a pipe of spiced tobacco. Spiced with what?

A mild substance like cinnamon-and-sugar called grotto spice that induced minor 'hallucinations,' namely the ability to physically see ley lines and other latent arcane forces; something similar to caffeine, but better inhaled than ingested; and something else that relaxed him, maybe a bit like marijuana.

Overall, his spiced tobacco = salvia + caffeine - silliness.

Scotty took a sniff in that direction as he came closer, but it wasn't nearly so offensive a smell as the stuff Harold used to smoke. "I brought somethin'. Namely, Harold an' I came up with an idea o' how t' make th' Denubae trackable. An' th' answer is infect 'em."

Grotto-spiced tobacco actually smelled sort of like cinnamon. Fairly pleasant to catch a whiff of, and not too bad of a contact high. "Infect them... with a disease? A fungus?" Silas peered curiously over his pipe at the other man and stepped closer to examine the water-proofed bag.

"A parasite." Scotty opened the bag and pulled out an extremely well-sealed container of glowing shrimp. "These shrimp are infected with a parasite called a fluke. They're fast multiplyin', they glow an' they can pass through a variety o' ways, though th' best way would be ingestion." Quick and businesslike; the Scot was in a serious mindframe. "Once infected, it wouldna be long afore th' infected denubae were basically sick, weakened an' leavin' behind glowin'... uh... excretions."

"Fascinating," Silas murmured, wide-eyed, inspecting the shrimp. "And with flourescent feces, we won't have to do any serious testing, bring along any equipment, or even have an experienced professional on exotic fauna along to track them." He took a long puff of his pipe, brow knitting in deep thought.

"Ah... how long, exactly, can these, ah, parasites survive without a host?"

"They're resiliant enough if they're dormant; they live here in th' harbor an' can survive through a winter, so if ye keep 'em on ice, probably several months." Scotty looked down at the container with its glowing cargo. "I'm guessin' maybe a couple days, after th' host is dead, without freezin' 'em, though. But these are on ice."

"If we could frost them onto arcane items somehow... yes... yes, I think we could, though that would have to mean..." Silas faltered as he thought to his increasingly impressive store of various enchanted trinkets and treasures and talismans, impressive enough even for a wizard twice his age, and he wondered how many of those he would have to part ways with.

And buying others to use, if it came to that, could become very expensive. He sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck. "...Yes, we can, ah... make this work, I believe. And hopefully the Denubae are moving back and forth through their rift, or at least moving close to it."

"I dinna ken, but aye, that was what I was thinkin'; Harold found th' parasites, I was thinkin' talismans, but they dinna even need t' be that, necessarily." Scotty shrugged, looking off at the horizon for a moment. "I just thought o' how they'd jumped on Maia's so fast. But they ate my phaser, so they'd probably eat a tech answer just as easily. I dinna ken. But if ye do handle these, wear gloves. Dinna let 'em anywhere near food. Treatment's apparently possible, but who wants t' glow in th' dark?"

Silas smiled, thinking of more than one adventure, and admitted, "I can see how it might be useful, under the correct circumstances... But yes, we ah, we should exercise great care. We would not want to create a health crisis -- what other effects do these parasites have?"

"After they've established, they'll light up th' hides o' th' denubae. Mostly just makes 'em sick. Like a severe cold, fer a comparison." Scotty looked back at Silas. "We should start stockpilin' an anti-parasitic, though, if we deploy this. I think, once it's established, it could be passed by their claws an' teeth, too."

"Mm. Yes, that could be problematic... and all of it very, very expensive. But, my ah, backers, as it were, have pledged their full support..." He smiled at Scotty, breaking himself out of another deep frown. "This is very good, very useful indeed. Even if it fails to lead us to the rift, it will give us a better idea of their migration patterns and what they might use as shelter. Helpful information for the local authorities, and the local populace in general."

"Backers?"

"Mr. Dib Jaster Aurene, among others. People generous enough to lend us headquarters and funding."

Scotty nodded. He was nervous when it came to the notion of having too many people involved, but... well, GAME was Silas's. "I'll get ye th' exact medication name, if I can find it." He set the bag down. "Th' books on this thing are in there, too, so ye can read up on 'em yerself -- Harold marked 'em for ye."

"It is all, as ever, very much, ah, very much appreciated," he finally stammered out, bowing his head as he did so. "This brings us one step closer, at the very least."

"I hope so." Scotty paused for a moment, obviously chewing something or another over in his mind. Then he added, "Will ye nae go out playin' bait anymore, Silas?"

Silas found his staff and leaned on it, the frown once again returning. He turned away from Scotty, bowing his head to the cold wooden knob, and shut his eyes and breathed a long sigh. "...I cannot imagine a better way, than myself as bait, to keep the diseased arcane items from passing into innocent hands."

"Well, ye'll either come up with a way, Silas, or I'll toss th' whole lot o'er th' edge." It was matter-of-fact, though by no means cruel. "I'll nae be a party t' ye throwin' yerself out on a choppin' block. A simple answer is t' make sure we pick th' time an' place we spring these on th' Denubae, an' make sure it's remote. After, do inventory t' make sure all were eaten, an' accounted for."

Silas looked up sharply from his staff. His temper rose, however conflicted it felt because of his friend's concern: "And luring them into this 'ambush' with a powerful arcane transmitter as opposed to a powerful arcanist... would this satisfy you?"

"Lurin' 'em in without a dead or wounded Silas would satisfy me, aye." Scotty's expression never wavered. "Th' whole reason why we looked into this was so that they could be tracked instead o' baited. However ye want t' lure 'em, fine, but I dinna want yer blood on my hands, or anymore scars on yer arms an' wherever else they dinna show."

Silas nodded some but said nothing, turning instead to the railing and rubbing at his brow. He remained quiet for a long moment, before he offered, "Forgive me, Scotty... I am afraid these past weeks are changing me, for the worse."

The Scot huffed out a soft, almost sad sort of breath. "Sounds familiar." But it was barely audible when he said it, and after a moment, he just leaned on the railing. "Just out o' curiosity, Silas... why are ye so keen t' wipe out this infestation? Ye wanna be free, away from DeMuer. Ye have a slew o' loyal employees, an' apparently, people backin' ye who dinna care whether th' Baron wants 'em to or nae. What's stoppin' ye from openin' up GAME on yer own? It might be smaller, it might need more time t' build without th' Baron behind it, but it'll be yers. An' no one can shut ye down fer whatever monster happens t' be lurkin' then."

"I will admit I have, ah... recognized the potential dangers of a very lethal nobleman's patronage, no matter how lucrative, no matter the resources offered to me, and I have flirted with the idea of leaving, before." Silas drew on his pipe and blew out colorful smoke, strangely blue and green. "I have confided with a few of my colleagues on the matter, with no clear conclusion... It could be argued that there are those within the Barony I may have a responsibility to, that my presence within the DeMuer empire could temper its scheming and better represent... for lack of a better term... human sympathy. On the other hand, I have a responsibility to those who work directly under me, a responsibility certainly to see them come to no harm, and a responsibility to myself."

Silas folded both his hands atop his staff and added, "Do you know my, ah... my girlfriend... Fia Calriss?"

"Aye, I do." Scotty looked off to sea. "Knew her afore she was yer girlfriend, too." That was added with a good-naturedly ribbing grin.

He smiled only for a bit, only a brief chuckle that ended when he said, "She has been spying on me, these weeks, for the Baron. She is one of his spies, I always knew, but... well, yes. It came to me recently that I am one of her subjects. Certain of her experiences with me are... documented, and sent to offices for careful analysis, and come out into reports that are laid onto the Baron's desk wherever he may be. And I... only found out yesterday, and I still cannot tell how exactly I feel about all of this, though... I think, perhaps, I will let her come to me in her own time, if she does, or... not at all, if she so chooses. I don't know."

He shook his head: "But... it tells me that, for some time, the Baron has tracked my presence. Could have sought me out, tied me up and carted me back to the Barony... and yet... for whatever reason... he has not. There is not a single doubt in my mind that ridding us of the denubae will allow GAME to reopen, and will be for the benefit of all of RhyDin, but... the conditions of my 'exile,' as it were, seem to be part of a... scheme. A ploy."

"D'ye ken what he's lookin' t' gain from it?"

"The more I dwell upon it, the more logical it becomes... He can claim he had not a thing to do with the entire affair. You know, I was honestly hoping I might gain further autonomy as a result of all of DeMuer Exports' RhyDinian assets closing. They, ah... they have been debating the matter, since the Proposition 37 controversy. I can't recall if you were present for any of that... but an activist group wanted to enact a law that would create a registry of mages and the like, and it, ah... some of the rallies, I'm afraid, became very violent. In any case, his hands have been ever more tied in this city, and I have no doubt he would prefer not to leave it." Silas shook his head again. "All of this intrigue... all over business. Money. And what can I do, other than run away? How can I stand up to... hmm. Hm."

He licked the back of his teeth and tasted the tobacco smoke. An idea had occurred to him.

Scotty just kept quiet, waiting to see what else Silas had to say about it. He didn't think Silas could likely outgame DeMuer, but then again, he tended to take a rather primitive mindset when it came to freedom and autonomy.

"He has not prevented me from running for office, once, already... in a city I am exiled from, no less..." Silas smiled at the ocean. "And he shall not prevent me from running again. And if I am forced to step down, for whatever reason, others in the Workshop can run in my stead. The Barony is a democracy, and we may protect ourselves and those under us through the power of public office."

"I... suppose." Scotty frowned briefly. "Are ye gonna run fer office there, then?"

"...Perhaps. I am not sure." Silas shook his head. "Maybe I am not, ah, cut out for this sort of thing. These kinds of... games, this scheming and planning. But whatever I choose to do, however I choose to go about it, I will not be frightened away."

"I'm nae suggestin' ye run. Just that ye cut ties an' dinna get involved with those games, either as a pawn or as a player." Scotty looked up at the sky for a long moment. "I dinna ken what game th' Baron is playin', but there's no reason ye need t' be any part of it. Ye can be successful, an' ye can make GAME what ye would of it, on yer own."

Silas nodded again, frowned and considered again: "...I shall have to ask Jaster, about the legal implications. He can be trusted. He has... ah... warned me before, in the past." There was a tight, secretive smile, for just a moment.

"...Try not to tell Fia, please? And... try, not to think any less of her."

"I willna tell her." That was about as far as Scotty could offer. "Has she said she loves ye?"

"No," he admitted, and shifted on his feet.

"Well, at least she's nae betrayin' that, then." Scotty shook his head. "If I were you, Silas, I'd give her a choice an' hold her to it. If ye canna trust someone, ye'll never be able t' love 'em. Nae th' right way." He knew. He'd learned it all the hard ways.

Silas reached for his hand to clutch it for a moment, and smile his way. Though his thoughts were perhaps too troubled, and his feelings too intense, for another word to leave the wizard's lips that night, he was grateful. He nodded to Scotty's words and gave his hand a squeeze.

Scotty blinked in a moment of surprise, then squeezed back. And then let go, turning to leave, putting his shoulder to the mage's for a moment in primitive solidarity. "Ye ken where I am. I'll go with ye, when... if... we deploy those parasites. Just keep 'em frozen until we're ready t' do th' talisman thing, or whatever it ends up bein'." A pause. "An' stay safe, Silas, please?"

"I will not be bait again," he promised, quietly. His chin pressed to the knob of his staff, he stared very hard at the cityscape.

((Cowritten between myself and Silas's mun! XD))

Warlock · Date: 2010-05-09 12:23 EST

Astarii, off the coast of RhyDin, late Thursday night...

Silas Greyshott was stretched out as far as he could, almost to the tips of his toes, over the strange black stone table in the ship's bridge. He drew with white chalk in broad arcs; that, the water lapping at the sides, and dwarf-boots thumping were the only gentle sounds he could hear. WestEnd waterfront was too far off for the nightly chaos to reach his ears...

In spite of all of their work, in spite of their studies, their efforts, their carefully laid plans, an end to the Denubae continued to elude them. The city had feared them, for a time, and when numbers dwindled and attacks subsided, priorities changed. One nightmare was exchanged for another, and that the danger seemed at all more dormant than it had been two months before was enough for many to no longer be concerned.

It was still a difficult environment for the arcane, be they objects or people, and yet a part of Silas that gnawed at him more and more wondered if life could go on as normal without destroying the monsters and removing them from the city. Another part of him was nagged by the plans he wished he could continue to pursue, but that he promised he would not -- using himself as bait. Without access to the large Carolus batteries GAME often utilized in their arcane drives, Silas himself was their best power source, the single best beacon they could ignite to draw in the Denubae.

And tracking them had provided mixed results, so far...

On top of it all, the growing burden on Silas' shoulder, he had been avoiding talking to Fia. Conversations so far had been brief, affectionate, and almost completely insubstantial. He knew she was a spy, and by now he figured that she knew, too, yet in spite of all the time he'd had to dwell on it he still could not figure out just how --

"Master Greyshott... sir?" It was Dwaylyn; Silas had not realized, until then, that he had stopped his arcane diagram.

"Ah, sorry, I um... you know, it's very late, and I have, well, very much to do, hope you haven't been waiting long," he trailed off in a mutter, then spoke back up: "Um... what's up?" The dwarf looked troubled, shifting on his feet and looking off to the side.

"Ye have a guest, sir." And the shorter man was overshadowed and passed by someone much taller; the dwarf made a quiet exit, leaving Silas alone with the Baron, standing across the room and staring. Tension hung in the air between them, and for a long time neither made any move to break it.

Eventually it fell to DeMuer. He lit a cigarette and paced, slowly, to the large, strange windows. "You know... we had a plan to salvage this ship, before Proposition 37. Before panic crippled RhyDin, we circulated a report through D.E. and S.P.I. on just how useful Astarii could be."

"I wrote it," Silas interjected, quietly and yet defiantly.

"Which is how I knew to find you here." It struck heavily, and left the wizard silent, and the Baron continued. "You used Jaster for his money and a home base, but you know he couldn't maintain the facade for very long... He's my man, in the end, and you knew he would have to give you up if you stayed. And so here you are..." He gestured with his cigarette, leaving a trail of smoke in a quickly dissipating arc. "I'm impressed. It's perfect. Plenty of observation space, plus you're hiding from the city in plain sight, and... they don't like water, do they?"

"...No... no, they don't."

"Mm." The Baron watched Silas holding his staff, turning it, looking about, thinking... thinking about teleporting away? Striking out with a blast of arcane power? "By now you've figured out a good way to beat them. Must be hard, though, with the money running low, and your inside people either fading away or turning back to their House loyalty -- and your crew, Silas. The Friends of the Workshop, devoting their every hour to a deadly mission you lack the resources to follow through -- "

"They stay because they want to," Silas shot back angrily. The staff was lowered, but he glared sharply the Baron's way. "I... I've never made them stay..."

"I know," DeMuer admitted, and for a moment it sounded as if something in his voice had softened, some small part of him saddened and remorseful... "But they've followed you far. They're tired. And you know what could happen to them, the first time they falter under fire. You've seen the worst those beasts can do." He looked down at the floor and hesitated... "GAME has what you need. I have what you need... so you can bring this thing to an end. The Board's decided to give it a shot, to let you take this down and give you their full and open support." He looked up again, and extended a hand and opened it. "Come back."

"...Just like that?" Oak groaned under his hands, under a flare of suppressed arcane power. The air crackled, and his knuckles turned white. "After everything you've done... you exiled me, and... and it was all a lie, part of some plan, some... gah!" The young wizard stalked away from him, his staff thumping heavily; he stopped by the window and threw up his hands. "You and your deception, your lies, your... your schemes! You can't just ask someone to do something for you, can you. If you can't trust them with the truth... they're not people, to you. They're pawns, they're toys, they're... they're..." Silas looked over his shoulder at him, incredulously. "And now, after everything, you just show up, and expect me to..."

"Take it all back for yourself," the Baron answered quietly; whatever effect Silas' words had on him, he internalized. "Reopen the Workshop, finish this fight, publish your work, realize your wildest dreams as great inventions... What you've always wanted."

"Maybe I just want to get away from -- "

"No you don't," DeMuer cut him off, and for a change his voice rose in anger. "You're tired of running and hiding, of watching things spiral beyond your control, powerless to stop them. You know what you're capable of and what you're responsible for. You still only know as well as I do where in the hell it is... but you know there's a Gate. And you know you don't want it to go the way Greyfast did." He dropped his cigarette and crushed it: "And when they offer you the office of Minister of Magic tomorrow... you're going to take it, because you must."

Silas was dumbstruck. He leaned heavily on his staff and shook his head, over and over: "But Jaster was going to... I mean, Commerce is really in your... ah..."

"Money isn't as important to me as everyone seems to think. Other concerns take precedence. We need you in that seat, someone who understands."

The wizard shook his head, paced, began to speak, shook his head and paced the room again. He started to wonder just how much of this the Baron had planned, but the thought made him sick. "...Spiraling out of control... beyond my power... hmm... Hm. You're going to give me more latitude."

"What kind -- "

"I manage your business, I won't be your errand-boy," Silas snapped. "And if you... if you really want something, excepting the Gate, you have to ask me like a normal person. No more vague terms, no more loopholes -- we have to meet costs and make you a profit. We reserve the right to decline requests."

"Is that all?"

"N-no..." Silas faltered, and picked himself back up with a deep breath: "No. No it isn't. I can arrange my own contracts, and open and close locations however I choose. As long as we're generating capital for D.E., as long as we're fulfilling our financial obligations, it's up to us where we are and where we're going. And you use us, and use the GAME gateway, at my convenience. And if... if something happens to me... you do not choose my successor. GAME does."

The Baron shifted impatiently. "Silas, we..."

"I'm not finished," the wizard shot back, thumping his staff, and leveled a finger at DeMuer. "And stop calling me by my first name, Baron, because... quite frankly... it's reserved for my friends. If you want me to accept the position of Minister of Magic, in addition to GAME... I will. You want me there for a reason? ...Fine. But it must mean you think I'm going to make the right choice... and so you've got to trust my judgment. You won't force me to do anything. I'm going to make my own choices, and you're going to have to trust me."

The Baron waited for a pause, a break, and when it came he began again, but was interrupted yet again --

"And I want all of this in writing."

"...Okay."

Silas turned his head with his chin to the knob of his staff, eyeballing the wily Baron skeptically. "Okay?"

"Yes."

"But... why?"

"I made demands, and you saw you're in a position for terms and conditions." The Baron lit up another cigarette. "It's what we in the business world like to call making a good deal. You've got your autonomy, latitude... call it whatever you like. There's a way we can each get what we want, and there may have always been." He pointed with his smoke as he stepped out: "And all you had to do was ask."

Fia Calriss · Date: 2010-05-10 14:30 EST

The Calriss household, early Friday morning.

It took an act of will to get him there, but Silas finally made the choice. He had no excuses left... and running wasn't going to fix this, or bring it to an end, either. He arrived at Nuach's house early on Friday morning and knocked on the door, hoping to find Fia there --

-- though a smaller part of him hoped she'd be out, instead.

There was squealing of some sort coming from behind the door. Coming closer, in fact. At least it was happy sounding squealing; this was explained when a somewhat harassed looking Fia opened the door with her half-naked, squealing niece in one arm. She gave Silas a wide-eyed, stunned look for a long moment, and then stood back to let him in.

"I'll be back in a couple moments, I have to get July some pants, and then give her to a parent." Presumably that meant the other Calrisses were in the house someplace.

"Um... okay. Alright," he said awkwardly, nodding, and made his way inside. He was not as skilled as many of his colleagues in masking his state: he had not slept for a little over a full day, and it was wearing on him, but certain things still had to be done. He found the nearest chair and settled down, cradling his staff under his arm and fidgeting with the knob.

There was a plate of assorted danishes and a steaming coffee pot on a warmer. Silas was probably in sight of the kitchen table, which is where those were, along with a couple of coffee cups. Fia had probably been getting breakfast together when her niece had accosted her. The elf didn't look tired, but she looked worried. Dark circles under her eyes and all. This meant she was probably sleeping, but not well enough to make those dissipate. "Want any of this?" she asked as she claimed one of the coffee cups for her own. It was an ugly lumpy one, probably a precursor of the mug she'd made for Ali. "Junior" was pink and green, and she poured it full of coffee before turning a chair to face him and sat down in it.

"Please," he said quietly, already getting the little pouch of grotto spice from his bag. He stirred it into his coffee and sipped it, and was silent for a while, not really knowing how to go about this. At last he managed, "I know," paired with a little nod.

Fia sighed. "Yeah. I kind of figured, what with most people who know you, and know me, avoiding me, somewhat." A half-shrug, then; that had bothered her for a bit, but--"I mean, I realize it was wrong, but...basically Alain said "spy on him for me, or I'm going to cut him off entirely." I figured if you wanted to ditch the Baron, it should be on your own terms. I know making your decisions for you isn't cool either. I'm sorry." It didn't sound like a practiced speech, but it was clearly something she'd given a good amount of thought to.

"...You know... that's the sort of thing he does," he replied, choosing his words slowly and thoughtfully. "Making choices for other people, I mean. It's... I suppose the further I get into these schemes, into other people's dark plans, the more I can see how useful it can be, but it's... it's insensitive. Even done for the greater good, or anyone else's good, it makes other people think you don't care." He set his mug down and looked at her pleadingly: "You should have talked to me... even... even after he made his threat, if you'd told me then... then it still would've given me an opportunity to make that choice on my own. But I never got to know. All I learned is that you were spying on me for him, and..." He bowed his head. "The Baron and I had a little talk. He wanted me to come back to GAME and become Minister of Magic, and I took a stand. Set out a few conditions, and I think the most important one was letting me make my own choices. I know you and I work in, ah, in different fields... you have to use stealth and secrecy, and I'm sure you've been involved in plots I could never in my wildest dreams adapt to as you have... but please don't deceive me again. It hurts."

He shook his head slowly: "I know you didn't do it maliciously, or cruelly... and neither did he, I think. If I thought either of you were wicked, I wouldn't work for him... and I don't think I'd let myself love you. But you're not wicked, and you also have a better chance than him to be honest with the people around you. I... I do forgive you, but please, again... don't deceive me. Please, be honest with me."

Fia had told herself that, regardless of what happened, she was not going to cry. That whatever happened, she deserved it. Wordlessly, she'd been nodding along to what Silas had been saying, with little more than a whispered "I'm sorry," again, when he'd said "it hurts." By then, Fia had lied to herself, too. Tears were shining in her eyes. The mention of Alain was probably the only thing that kept her from actually letting them fall.

"I'm not entirely sure you're right about Alain. I work for him, but I don't *like* him. I thought he was more...I don't know, altruistic, at first, but I trust my gut, and it tells me to be careful." Trying to reign in her emotions there, that was what she was doing. "But, no, Silas. I didn't do it to hurt you, and I know I did, and I'm sorry." Incongruously, she sort of laughed, there, and closed her eyes. "I never really paid much attention until you were gone and exiled...I really missed you. And I'm really glad to see you." Because for the moment, she wasn't strong enough to say "I love you." But it was there, shining on her face.

Somewhere, Nuach was probably motioning to slap her upside the head, or something.

Silas smiled, at last -- it took a moment, but he let himself, and it escaped with a laugh of his own. "I'm very glad to see you too, Fia. Now, ah... please, come over here and hug me before both of us cry." Pushing himself up from his seat with his staff and leaving it behind.

She left her coffee mug on the table, and was only too happy to oblige him. The crying part, she failed on, though, as she embraced him, leaning in to whisper in his ear. "I love you, and I won't hide anything like that from you again. I promise." She sort of snuffled, but wiped her face with the shoulder of her t-shirt.

He whispered something in Norras, a few lines of love he had told her the meaning of some time ago, and cradled her head. He held her there for a long time, until finally he said, "I've missed this... and it's going to be hard, until we get rid of our little magic-eating friends. Help me reopen the Workshop?"

"Gladly." In a moment of shyness, she pecked him on the cheek. "And maybe then you can get some sleep." Really, he looked like hell, but she didn't want to just come out and say it.

"No... I think after that, I have to give a speech. I'm officially an official, now, you know..."

((Written in concert with Silas' player, with thanks!))

Scotty · Date: 2010-05-14 14:11 EST

Dear Silas,

I was happy to see your appointment as Minister of Magic. I don't know if you've decided to still go ahead with our plan, but if you have, then I'll still be here to help. If you need anything, you know where I am. And if I'm not at home, then you'll probably find me at the drydocks of Lowe & d'Thalia, on Eastern Drive, towards the northern side of the dockside and above the salvage yard.

I know I've been a bit scattered of late, and I can't seem to figure out where I belong anymore, or how I belong. Despite this, I remain your friend. If you need me, I'm here.

Take care, Silas. Be safe.

-Scotty

Topic: Friends of the Workshop

Warlock

Warlock

Alain DeMuer

Warlock

Fia Calriss

Warlock

Scotty

Warlock

Fia Calriss

Scotty