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, Indulging Vice: Life's Lessons

Mother Narya hurriedly rounded the corridor of the bunkhouse and almost lost her footing. She'd heard that Nightingale was back and their services were required. Mother Narya tolerated Nightingale's presence, more than welcomed it. She was a kindly old matron, who cared for the welfare of those in her care above all else. She was ignorant of what Nightingale offered to ease the burden of those in her care, but if it helped, she'd let it go on until it no longer did.

"There you are! Javik's been asking for you. He doesn't have much time before the bells ring and word is spreading about how you've helped others here."

"I'll go at once Mother, and rest assured there's nothing underhand going on, cross my heart. Those facing the black just need to have someone listen to them. No one wants to die on their own and folk who end up here alone and scared, just want to be remembered by someone, doesn't really matter who."

Suspicion lingered in Mother Narya's eyes, but she nodded and pointed down the corridor to where Javik lay dying in his narrow bunk.

Nightingale could smell the rot as they entered the room. Javik had been placed in the Garden, a chamber filled with scented flowers and pine cones. The place served a number of functions; giving the nearly departed a modicum of privacy, whilst keeping them away from the other 'residents' of the Arms of the Weeping Lady. The scent of the flowers was said to be a calming influence to those facing death, but in reality, they were present to help stave off the stink. A concealed door was nestled at the rear of the room, leading directly to the streets below. This served to allow the Spirit Wardens to enter the bunkhouse discreetly to perform their civic duties when the bells inevitably chimed.

Nightingale had duties of their own. It was time to hear Javik's tales and help lift the burden of a life filled with treachery and deceit. Nightingale could learn a lesson or two from a man like Javik, a man who had murdered his way to the top of a crew, only to be betrayed when his usefulness ran dry. With each telling they consumed and for every drawing they rendered, Nightingale's empty vessel filled a morsel. It would never be enough to repair their shattered existence, but it was something.

In the distance the bells rang, a signal for Nightingale to Leave the Arms of the Weeping Lady and let the Wardens take their shift. Javik lay dead in his cot a faint smile touching his thin lips, it wouldn't be long before his spirit rose if left unattended.

Nightingale turned to leave the room, but hesitated for a brief moment. They could have sworn they saw something by the window. Nothing. Must have been a trick of the light generated by the electroplasmic lamps outside. Yes, just a trick of the light.

NPC: Nyryx, A Sly Friend

Nyryx was beautiful, skin like alabaster and hair as black as the inky sea. Noblemen who employed her services would parade her around like an exotic bird, whilst genteel women looked on in quiet judgement. Nightingale had seen her from time to time on the arm of a Lady; those who were too wealthy to have their reputation tarnished, or those who courted scandal.


Nightingale quietly studied Nyryx as she undressed, then sprawled naked across the shabby mattress in the room they rented in one of the crumbling apartments off Comber Way. It was a refuge away from the Nest and crew, who were now part of Nightingale's everyday. They had accepted the others in a time of need and their once secluded retreat, hidden beneath the streets of the Night Market, had become a somewhat overcrowded base of operations for the Night's Feathers.

"Chin a little higher darling. Perfect. Now hold that for a moment."

Nightingale's fingers worked the charcoal into the paper and the simple lines began to take on form. Tone and texture transformed the simple sketch into something vital, her very essence captured in monochromatic hues. It was curious for Nightingale to get such gratification from sketching a model as spirited as Nyryx. Their usual appetite was for those of a more fragile disposition.

"It's unnaturally warm tonight Alexandre, why don't you take off your coat. You know you can trust that I would never tell a soul that you're really a..."

Nightingale rose quickly and Nyryx fell silent. They avoided eye contact as they hastily went about packing away charcoals and paper. As Nightingale made to exist the room, they felt a hand rest on their forearm and tensed.

"I meant no offence Alexandre. A woman in my line of business has seen all one can of humanity and it's ghastly. You're very good at hiding what you are from the world and you had me guessing for months, but we've spent over a year meeting like this and I'm convinced that you want me to know who you are. You're as tired of wearing these masks as I am, no?"

Nightingale's slate grey eyes met Nyryx's dark pools, eager for acknowledgement.

"Secrets are there to keep others safe darling, I won't have you end up like that poor Wraith. They're no friends of ours, I grant you, but to be left in that manner for all to see is truly barbaric. I have opposition who would see me and mine come to a grizzly end and you mean something to me Nyryx..."

"...And you mean something to me too Alex" She cut in. "You can't keep pretending you're someone else to everyone, that's just not healthy. Now please, put your things down and come sit with me a while. We can be ourselves with one another no?"

Nightingale did as they were asked. Perhaps Nyryx was right, perhaps they wanted her to know the truth about them. One could only keep secrets for so long in a place like Doskvol and the truth was, they were tired of keeping them.

Locations: Mother Narya's Bunkhouse

Arms of the Weeping Lady.  This grand building, formerly an opera house, is now a soup-kitchen and bunkhouse for the destitute, run by the charity of the Weeping Lady. Locals use this landmark as the demarcation between the districts of Charterhall and Six Towers.


*Except from Blades in the Dark by John Harper