Downtime: At The Heart Of It All

Even the lone candle of his quarters burned through his eyes, a nauseating luminescence as if all the streets of Brightstone shined as one. Each flicker of the solitary candle pierced his skull, and he struggled to navigate through the wreckage of his slovenliness to his cot, muttering curses at himself as he did so. Had it not been for Arden’s timely return - that morose savior having plucked both Alex and himself from the deluge - he was uncertain they would have made it back to Nightmarket, their bodies both nearly broken by the meddling of the witch-girl Quellyn . Why did we leave her with the boy? Damnable fools that we are! His fondness for Adric, the plight of the group's two small charges reminded him of his loss, had of late become problematic. At least we have the small mercy of Mara having sense to keep herself out of trouble, god forbid we had the two of them gallivanting throughout Doskvol.

He resisted the urge to seek the solace his cabinet might provide, nearly depleted as it was, he was certain he'd find something to ease his pain. However, he needed to be in full command of his facilities if he was to offer any respite to Alex and the boy. He just needed a little time to gather his thoughts, and after he could tend to his own wounds. It was clear Adric had suffered some baleful assault from the girl, she was clearly the stronger of the two Whispers, and they had paid the price for their lapse in judgment, nearly losing their lives because of it. Though it seemed they had a prize of sorts, but could Seven be trusted? Thrust forth as she was from that malstrom into their company, her lot now thrown in with the Night's Feathers. Another orphan created by the City.

He was unsettled by the events under the bridge, how easy it had been to set those devices that ripped through the bodies of both Billhook and Wraith, stone and metal indiscriminate to the flesh that they met. He had seen death at his hands before, but only as the result of a worthy adversary, disease or time claiming a victory from him; though perhaps there had been times when his mind was too addled by his inclination for self medication, a helping hand to ease his racing mind, or to focus himself with unnatural vitality... Had he now passed a line he could not return from? His recent friendship with Roethe, despite the issue of the man's Iruvian heritage, had provided him the pretence of normalcy, and he greatly enjoyed the formality of his lessons at the school.

He was grateful for Alex’s protestations against Arden’s vulgar suggestion of torture, physical or otherwise. Whether or not Arden had intend to carry out her threat, it was not the mark a gentleman such as himself should bear. No matter how low his fortunes had sunk, was he not still deserving of his heritage? However, Tertius did admire her singular focus, and the remaining Wraiths were a threat that needed to be dealt with. If only I had some time with Arden, did she feign her memory loss to guard herself from us? Was she truly a tabula rasa, what seed was left in that fleshy hull, what shadows remain of her former self? It’s almost as if she is an echo.

He would have offered Seven and the others a peaceful passing if they had reached an impasse, but he was glad circumstances had saved the further staining of his hands. Cutting Seven free and pushing her to safety was a just and fair act, regardless of what protests his body now made. Alex's steadfastness in the face of the tempest hinted at a strength of character, though Alex presented another curiosity that required greater inspection, just as Arden and Adric did. What remarkable malleability they have with both form and speech, they have many personalities and Arden has almost none? Or are they both empty vessels? 

Downtime, Project: The Darkening

Adric closed over the book he was reading and rubbed at his shadowed, tired eyes in frustration, resting his head in his hands a moment. He parted his fingers to glance over at his journal, laid open with all the notes he'd gathered in his research. Questions leading to analyses of texts, leading to the formation of hypotheses, which only leave more questions and few concrete answers. Adric sighed and shoved the book he'd been reading aside, dragging his journal over in its place to add further commentary.

In conclusion, while I know more than I did before, it's not nearly enough to answer all my questions. I now know that the Maw of the Void is an ancient Forgotten God that was split apart and lost in the Cataclysm, but I don't know what this entity represents or what purpose it serves. I also understand that the purpose of the Ritual of the Unrending of the Void is to make the Maw whole again; however, without further context regarding the Maw, I cannot even speculate why Erdrad would wish to perform it. Neither do I understand the role Erdrad intended for myself or Maya. He needs us for something, but I don't know precisely what.

There are other questions that remain unanswered as well. What became of the two First Prophets of the Maw who, according to my research, survived the Cataclysm and took the remaining parts of the Maw into themselves? The intent was for them to join their spirits with those fragments, allowing them to grow inside both Prophets. But what happened to those Prophets and the fragments they carried? What were the two ritual implements that were lost by the Cult of the Maw and has Erdrad recovered them somehow? I have questions still, and I have exhausted all avenues of research that are readily available to me. There are only a few routes I can think of that might lead to the truth I seek, none of which are safe to investigate. I might not be able to do this alone, as I have tried thus far to do. It might be time to ask the others for help.

He winced and set the pen down as he finished. He had hoped that involving the others would not be necessary, but that had been foolish of him. But he hadn't known if he could really trust them in the beginning, and he still had doubts. The matter of the Wraiths still haunted him. Was he just being naive, thinking they could have honestly tried to mend bridges with the Wraiths and forge an alliance instead of pitting them against the Billhooks and watching them slaughter one another?

The explosions and cries of dying men and women came back to him. The smell of smoke. He squeezed his eyes shut and saw Quellyn's staring back at him. Shocked and surprised. Betrayed? Frightened? At least one of those had to be true, and he couldn't blame her for either. Even though they'd been rivals as long as he'd known her, he hated himself for going along with the plan as soon as the others promised him they’d keep her safe.

And he was scared of himself too; the ideas that popped into his head, the methods he was willing to consider to protect those he cared about. He flicked through his journal, scanning the notes he'd made on developing his own version of spirit finish and a method for extracting the 'materials' needed for the process. By the Void Sea, he'd even used that word - materials - as if he were talking about some herbs or elements instead of a human soul. Other ideas were scrawled inside there, written in terms just as clinical, and seeming just as vile to him as he looked upon them anew. He slammed the book shut in disgust, before picking it up and throwing it against the far wall of the workshop. It hit the wall and landed on the floor with a thud as Adric cradled his face in his hands and held back the tears that threatened to burst forth. No matter what he was feeling, he couldn’t allow himself to cry, he had to be stronger than that...

-

Far above, in the skies over the lair's underground location, clouds swirled and roiled as if to mirror the stormy emotions running through young Adric's mind, and a bolt of lightning struck a weathervane atop the structure that was once known as Tremont Station.

The Leviathan's Eye Issue III

Downtime, Indulging Vice: The Water Nymph

The brush moved gently across the canvas for the last time and Nightingale stood back to critique their work. A painting was never truly complete in their opinion, but the trick was to understand when to leave it, when was it as complete as it could be without going to far and risk ruining it. They were pleased.

Nightingale considered their last interaction with Jackdaw, they had been practicing Cosimo at the time. He was a persona which was still a work in progress and perhaps they had been a little too artsy and silly. Cosimo would need to be altered, more honed before their inevitable encounter with Rafello.

Their attention shifted back to the canvas. Mixing Leviathan blood into the paint was inspired, it gave the water a strangely luminescent quality and served to give the work a feeling of otherworldliness.

The sound of footfalls brought Nightingale out of their fugue. Jackdaw stood at the arched entrance to their chamber, The Water Nymph plainly in sight.

Shrike's Story: The Dead Drop

Dear Diary,

Paving decided on a name for our crew, so we're calling ourselves the Extractors now. Sounds a bit boring to me, but I suppose it does describe what we've been doing so far: extracting information.

Don't know what happened to Maralie, she never showed up again after the carriage job. We have a Whisper now, though. He goes by Locust; he's a kinda grimy, twitchy guy, maybe a couple or more years older than me, and he's about as odd as you'd expect a Whisper to be.

Paving did a bit of investigating and figured out that the Red Sashes are using some bookshop cafe owner by the name of Sanaf as a dead drop contact for keeping sensitive information and stuff under lock and key for later collection.

And then he came up with the bright idea of me dressing up and posing as a noble girl, looking to put a family heirloom from a recently deceased uncle in safekeeping for me. The 'heirloom' was a crystal bracelet, but Locust was going to enchant it so that it carried a ghost inside of it. The bracelet would have looked cheap and tacky if not for the swirling, shimmering effect the ghost inside gave it. Dumb thing gave me the creeps, but luckily I didn't have to carry it; Hammer was posing as my bodyguard, so I got him to hold on to it for me.

We showed up at the bookshop cafe, and I introduced myself to Sanaf, telling him that he was recommended by Vicky, a name Paving got hold of for us. I gave him the story about my dead uncle and that, because I didn't want it to be recorded by the creditors, I needed him to hold onto it for me for a while. He bought the story, and took the box with the bracelet in it to be placed in his safe. I finished my tea and then Hammer and I said our goodbyes.

The ghost from the bracelet showed up later and told Locust that the box was taken to an Iruvian smoking den in the alleyway behind the bookshop. From there, it went upstairs to a bedroom with one person in it, a lady. The spirit said there was some sort of clouding effect which made it harder for it to exit the box, so there must be some sort of supernatural defense in place. It said the safe is hidden under the bed in that room.

Paving decided to split us up. Hammer and I climbed onto the roof from an adjacent building and used a rope to get down to the window into the upstairs bedroom. Paving and Locust went in the front, posing as customers to run distraction if needed. Not really sure why Locust didn't come along with us. If the safe had supernatural defenses, surely our Whisper should have gone in with us? Well, whatever.

Hammer went down first and cut a hole into the glass of the window, but then the lady inside opened the curtains to let in some air right as he was reaching for the lock. Hammer's pretty quick though, he pulled out a needle and stuck her with some sort of paralysis drug before she could cry out.

Once we were inside, we checked under the bed and found the safe there. Hammer tried to open it, but he triggered the defensive wards. The safe vanished - into the ghost field, I guess - and a ghost dragged itself out from under the bed where it was. The thing lunged at Hammer and tried to possess him, but I drew the sword I had with me and charged it up with energy before stabbing it clean through the ghost. It went up in electroplasmic flames and burnt away to nothing; unfortunately my sword didn't survive the energies I channeled through it either. Oops.

Locust showed up soon after and gave me crap for destroying the ghost, since he could have captured it and made use of it. Typical bloody Whisper. I told him to forget about it and just try to get the box back, while I checked on Hammer. Poor guy was in some kind of shock, so I shook him and gave him some light slaps to snap him out of it. Well, he came out of it frothing mad, tried to punch me and ranting something like 'kill you all'. I dodged the punch and gave him another good slap to knock some sense into him, and he seemed to remember where he was again.

Then I turned to check on Locust. He was taking his time getting the box back, so I tried to help out with some ideas from what I remembered from Dr Erdrad's lessons, but I think I just annoyed him. Well, he managed to get the box back from wherever it went anyway. As for the safe itself, it just had a simple latch on it. I guess they figured the supernatural stuff was enough to deter thieves like us. Ha!

Just as we'd got the box out and opened it to look inside, Sanaf showed up in the room. Locust was about to go for him with a knife, but I know we need this guy alive, because the whole point is to use this as leverage to convince him to work for us instead of the Sashes. So I kicked Locust in the knees, he went down like a big baby, and called for Hammer to do something about Sanaf. Of course, Hammer has to go and pull a bloody grenade and pull the pin. Locust grabs for it, causing Hammer to lose hold of the grenade, but I catch it and pull the fuse before it can go off. By this point, Sanaf is running, and I give Hammer and Locust an earful for being such a pair of idiots.

Then Locust gives me this sly grin, like he's pleased with himself, before we head down the stairs after Sanaf. We catch up to him, after some friend of Locust's - he called him Flint - blocked his path and knocked him out with some slumber essence that Locust gave him, which he got from Paving, apparently. Whatever, he's still an idiot. We got Sanaf and the safe contents out through the window we came in by, and headed back to our lair. Paving had a conversation with him afterwards and convinced him to work for us from now on.

Later, Paving finished going through the documents from the carriage job and I approached Grace with a snippet of the dirt we'd got on her from it. I managed to convince her to keep my past a secret and compensate us for 'retrieving' the information for her. She still managed to be a condescending cow and advise me on how best to blackmail her. Ugh!

- Shrike

Downtime: Cosimo

Nightingale sat slouched in the chair staring at the reflection in the mirror. Blonde hair tumbling haphazardly around their shoulders. Their face devoid of makeup or decoration looked plain. They wore a nondescript shirt and breaches which seemed to exacerbate the sparseness even further. Alex was a blank canvas. 

To hell with her and her bloody temper. She was there to aid me, not fuck it up at the first sign of trouble. Now she's moping around like she's the only one that's lost something. She might have washed up, face down in the canal without a lick of memory remaining, but she still might have family somewhere. Lord Mora saw fit to obliterate my house. I'm all that's left and there's no getting it back. I need to know why he did it and the gallery was my way in. 

Nightingale reached across the dresser and absentmindedly picked up an old violet beret. They dusted it off and placed it in a fashionable angle on their head. Nightingale had seen Rafello wear something similar at the gallery the other night. 

They smiled at their reflection. If I cannot get to Rafello, I shall make him come to me. They scanned the room to find other garments befitting an artist, a loose cotton shirt, blue breeches and soft leather boots. 

"Well look at you handsome. What ever shall we call you?" 

Nightingale began their customary vocal exercises until they found an agreeable tone. A new plan was rapidly forming, so much more exquisite than the first, perhaps Jackdaw had done them a favour after all. 

A tentative voice came through the curtain which separating Alex's chamber from the communal space of the nest.

"May I come in?"

"La la la laaa... Yes, yes, come in Jackdaw" They waved her in.

"I think I owe you an apology Nightingale..."

"Water under the bridge darling, nothing to forgive... And do call me Cosimo."

Quellyn's Gaze

Adric...
Adric started awake at the voice calling inside of his mind, coupled with the cry of the shadow bird, and as he awoke he saw those eyes again, as if their image were burned into his brain. Deep dark eyes, regarding him with... what? Contempt? Judgement? Amusement? He threw off his blanket in frustration and got up, stomping towards the workshop. He got to the door and lifted his fist to knock, working up the nerve to ask Tertius for something else to banish unwelcome dreams...

He can't help you...
Adric froze at the voice in his head. Mocking. Taunting. Suggesting? Was that even something a Whisper could do? Could Quellyn really have implanted some aspect of herself in his mind, or was he just imagining her voice? Why would he, though? Why would he want her voice, of all things, inside his head? He’d sooner be haunted by the Maw again.

He shook his head and sighed, letting his arm fall back to his side. It didn't matter. The voice was right. Even if he could persuade Tertius to give him another sleeping draught, it wouldn't fix the problem, it would only cover up the symptoms. Whatever Quellyn had done to him with that shadow bird, there were clearly after effects. This was a spiritual issue, and there was only one way to deal with it.

He needed to seek aid from another Whisper. He wasn't confident enough in his own skills yet to attempt to fix it himself. But he only really knew two people who might qualify. One was Mara, who was even less skilled than himself, since she had no real interest in the arcane. And the other was the one who did this to him in the first place, so it seemed unwise to seek help there. Even if Quellyn were willing to be a good sport and lift whatever effect she'd placed upon his psyche, he couldn't trust that she wouldn't take advantage of the opportunity to do something worse.

He turned and started walking away from the workshop, and he was halfway back to his cot when another idea slowed his step. If he couldn't seek aid from a Whisper, perhaps the demon Setarra could help him? But that was just as risky, if not more so, than asking Quellyn to do it. He had only had a couple of encounters with Setarra, and both times had set his hair on end. She had a grudge to settle with Erdrad, that much he knew, and so he could count her an ally against him. But he had called on her for help with a matter unrelated to their mutual enemy before, and she was yet to call upon him for repayment. He was loathe to place himself even further in debt to the demon for another unrelated matter.

No. This wasn't worth the potential risk, not yet. It wasn't even worth mentioning to the others. In fact, he wasn't sure he would want to mention it even if it was. Arden worried him, and he feared what she might do with that information. No, if he left it alone, perhaps it would fade in time. And if it didn't... well, then he might have no choice but to turn to desperate measures to fix it.

He reached his alcove and pulled the curtain around his sleeping space again. Then laid down in his cot and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the lingering image of those dark eyes boring into him...

Downtime: Adric's Studies

"So? Are you going to buy this?" Ojak tapped the tome he'd been trying to sell Adric before impatiently. Adric rolled his eyes and nodded, "A deal's a deal, right? Anyway, it just so happens I'm in the mood for some reading material today."
Ojak perked up when Adric said that and was no doubt about to make some recommendations when Adric cut in, pulling out a folded note, "I have a list of research materials I require, and of course I thought of you."
He slipped the paper across the stall front to Ojak, who narrowed his eyes at Adric before scanning the list with his eyes. He muttered grumpily at a few, though Adric noted that he also nodded and made pleased sounds in his throat at other items. When he was done, Ojak grunted and nodded, "I believe I do have some of these texts in stock, give me a moment."
Ojak vanished behind his stall and Adric heard him muttering to himself as he rooted through his stocks. Eventually Ojak reappeared with a stack of tomes, which he set on the counter next to 'Bindings, Releases, and Eldritch Bondage', which he then set on top of the stack rather pointedly. Adric sighed, having to stand on tip toe as he inspected the stack to see what was there. Satisfied that Ojak wasn't trying to slip in something else in which he had no interest - although most likely, these were mostly the texts Ojak himself would have liked Adric to buy - he slipped his backpack off his shoulders in order to pack the items away and asked, "Okay, how much?"

Upon his return to the lair, Adric set the backpack on top of his desk in the workshop and opened it up, setting each book down in a pile there, except for 'Bindings, Releases, and Eldritch Bondage'. That one he eyed distrustfully and set to the side, away from the rest of the tomes. He then took off his cloak and set it over his chair. He stepped out and headed to his sleeping area, where he pulled out his personal research journal from its hiding place there. With the journal in hand, he returned to the workshop, retrieved some writing implements, and sat down to crack open the first book.

The Leviathan's Eye Issue II

The Cabbie's Story

He remembers the night too well.
Clifton Veleris had been waiting on the junction that bisects Willowbale Way and the grand old gothic bridge on the road leading straight from Six Towers through to Crow's Foot, as per the anonymous instructions.
It was the period known as The Quiet Hours, but the borough of Six Towers resembles that most eerie time at even its most active moments. A great number of the borough's Cabbies had been placed on retainer for the week, and told to wait in the vicinity of the crossroads, nothing more. The stone streets were empty and early fog, that oppressive mist, was soon upon Veleris.

Firstly he heard a hollow and reverberant drip-dripping coming from the direction of the Canal, and as he peered over his Cart to investigate his cart-goats started violently - reared up, bristled. There, approaching  the bridge, from the direction of Old Scurlock Manor was a shadow of a figure - tall, broad, cloaked. That grand and ornate place had been abandoned for years by all accounts. The figure appeared to go out of phase as it approached, and suddenly, with preternatural speed, zipped past the wagon and over the side of the bricked edge, down towards the water.

A body that big ought make an awful splash, the Cabbie noticed as he calmed the two lively engines of his trade, but none was forthcoming. The young man patted the agitated goat and climbed down to peer over the side to the bleak black below. The tentative and timid action coincided with an almighty rush of air and water as not one but two figures were propelled from the depths, up and back over the water's edge to the paving alongside the Cabbie.

After a moment - a second or an hour - the first shadowed outline rose from their kneeling position and lifted the other, from prone, into their arms. The Cabbie watched, petrified, as the shadowed man placed the unconscious figure, with great ease, into the back of the cart. The door was closed and the man in the cloak, at all times concealing his features, half-whispered, half-growled; "thou knowest thy destination"

The cabbie could not discern whether it was a question or a directive, but nonetheless was compelled not to answer. Instead he climbed back to the front of the cart, patted the terrified goats and took the taxicab south, to Nightmarket.

At Nightmarket the Cabbie, whether by his own divination, neglect, or some other  unearthly influence, rode straight through to the southernmost point of Nightmarket, and stopped by the river there. In his account he swears by the strength of his convictions - he knew this was the right place to relieve his passenger. He lay the limp form on the ground by the water's edge and took his cab and made his way home.

The next day, the entire Six Towers division of Cabbies were paid handsomely and their retainers removed.