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, 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.

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.

Downtime: Jeren's Deadend

Jeren impatiently tapped his pencil against the side of his pad. He looked down at what he'd gleaned so far. It just had the name of Clifton Veleris written in several different ways followed by the words disturbed neighbours and black shroud.
"I'm sorry Mr Veleris but I'm not entirely clear how you ended up tied to the chair screaming covered in your own urine. You mention some sort of mystical black shroud and nothing more. It's almost like you are reluctant to talk?"

Jeren looked at his colleague with a disapproving stare as he struck a match and shoved it into his pipe. Jeren hated smoking and in Bluecoats most of all. It gave the citizens the impression the Bluecoats were a slovenly bunch. Sadly that impression was mostly true despite Jeren's best efforts to prove them otherwise. His colleague detecting the disapproval shrugged and stepped into the kitchen to speak with Clifton's wife. Jeren turned back to Clifton.

Clifton was pale, his eyes were sunken and his expression solemn. The clank of the cup against the saucer was audible, as his shaky hand drew the tea to his mouth.

"Honestly officer there's nothing much to tell..."

"..and I said he can send his stinking Iruvian self back on the next ship..." 

The two cabbies laughed approvingly as Clifton said his goodbye's and lead his goats down the alley to their pen. 

"Steady girls steady... " He stroked them reassuringly for a moment before forcing them into their coal shed sized pen and walking up to the back of the house. The door gently clacked against the frame, Clifton pulled out Delila his trusty cosh as he stepped through the open doorway.

With a swish and a thud Clifton was on his back with a black sack over his head. He blindly and impotently flailed on the floor hoping to strike his assailant.

"Time is catching up with you Clifton" The Cabbie froze, instantly he knew, instantly his bladder knew too.

The Cabbie was lifted into a chair and bound to it. 

"Now you're going to tell me what you know and keep my little visit to yourself or it wont just be your bladder control you'll lose" 

He could hear the unrolling of something onto the table and the glint of surgical steel through the black hood.

"What do you want from me?" He screamed

Booted footsteps approached. He could feel the cold metal of a pistol pressed against his cheek, her  alluring spicy scent and the warmth of her breath against his ear....

"Everything...."

Well, Jeren sighed, if you do think of something Clifton here's my card. Jeren slid it across the table as Clifton continued to stare into his empty tea cup.
"Let's go!" He shouted to his colleague
The officer disrespectfully knocked his pipe out on the door frame and gently tickled Clifton's wife under the chin with a black feather he had found in the kitchen
"See you tonight then" He whispered, winking he handed her the feather.