Troublesome times in Sanctuary

[I think I am here. he/him]

23 hours ago, Sorana said:

“I doubt that there is a single really decent person anywhere in Sanctuary." Your voice has a hint of seriousness, that it lacked so far. "So for me good company is entertaining and not planning to stab me in my back. And bad company is everybody else."

When his tone gets serious, things get interesting. Lantern light casts a glow on him, highlights his features and those piercing green eyes. Somehow without his flourishes he seems like more of person. When he’s serious I almost feel close to figuring him out. Close, but no cigar. Reminded I take out a cigarette and begin to light it.

“To be stabbed in the back requires you to have trust in someone in the first place, no?” I ask. “Or do you mean in the literal sense? Either way, I can respect that Raphael.” My first time saying his name and I can’t help but admit it rolls off the tongue. A nice name. But I’m not going to say it. I’m not a compliment machine-gun, here. One is enough.

[+Sorana she/her]

1 hour ago, Ookla the Maybe-Existent said:

“To be stabbed in the back requires you to have trust in someone in the first place, no?” I ask. “Or do you mean in the literal sense? Either way, I can respect that Raphael.” My first time saying his name and I can’t help but admit it rolls off the tongue. A nice name. But I’m not going to say it. I’m not a compliment machine-gun, here. One is enough.

Raphael. Your name rolls of his tongue and you admire the way he pronouces it, how he let's it flow out of his mouth so easily. Slowly you take a deliberate step towards him, so that you stand close, close enough that you intrude a little in the personal space around him. Despite the rain you can smell the cigarette his is lighting and silently applaud his choice. It smells deep and rich, the smoke itching a little in your throat when you inhale.

"You know, the weird thing about trust, " you start, your voice low enough that he should be able to her you clearly, but that someone else probably has a harder time to understand you over the rain, "is that you never know upfront if the other person is good or bad company. You have to be careful, extend a hand first, before you turn your back." The rain is making millions of little sounds when it hits your coat and you wait for a moment, allow your words to sink in, before you continue. "So the only question we should be concerned with is the following."

"Are you good or bad company, when following an invitation, Sloane?" You enjoy his name, almost as much as you enjoyed him saying yours, and you stay close to him for another heartbeat, then you step back. You aren't expecting an answer of him right here and now. And even if he replied - if would be worthless until he saw the truth.

[Elend Venture he/him]

     This man had an aura of supreme confidence, and this, Rhode knew, might make him one of the best opponents he'd had in years. To crush that with the needle-sharp point of a sword was so very satisfying. The problem was, with that ammount of confidence, the fellow had to be either very good at fighting, better than Rhode, or even worse, possessing great power, maybe a Mistborn or something.

     Well, he'd never know if he just sat there. He got up, conscious of the switchblade stiletto up his right sleeve, not that it would do anything if his fears were correct, at least not anything to his advantage. He set the knife down and walked calmly up to the fellow who proclaimed himself to be King and said, "And what what makes you rightful of the position? Many old lunatics say they're King. Only a few can actually back it with authority." He tensed, waiting to see what would happen next.

@Rushu42

 

Edited December 20, 2019 by Elend Venture

[Rushu42 she/her]

54 minutes ago, Elend Venture said:

     This man had an aura of supreme confidence, and this, Rhode knew, might make him one of the best opponents he'd had in years. To crush that with the needle-sharp point of a sword was so very satisfying. The problem was, with that ammount of confidence, the fellow had to be either very good at fighting, better than Rhode, or even worse, possessing great power, maybe a Mistborn or something.

     Well, he'd never know if he just sat there. He got up, conscious of the switchblade stiletto up his right sleeve, not that it would do anything if his fears were correct, at least not anything to his advantage. He set the knife down and walked calmly up to the fellow who proclaimed himself to be King and said, "And what what makes you rightful of the position? Many old lunatics say they're King. Only a few can actually back it with authority." He tensed, waiting to see what would happen next.

@Rushu42

 

Alderbon turned his head slowly, ignoring the insolent child who was muttering to herself.

"I have been chosen," he stated calmly. "I am the Law."

He still hovered several feet above the ground, enhancing his already formidable height. He shifted his grip on his Shardblade. "Now is the time to kill them," urged his spren. "They require punishment." 

Patience, he returned. They have broken no law, as of yet.

[kenod]

I am the Law, Karin echoed in a thick accent. Who does he think he is, Judge Dredd?
Aylitha simply sent back a sense of confusion, having no clue what Karin was referencing this time. Very helpful, thanks for that information, she sent in an annoyed tone. Now, do you have any tips for what to do about him?
Karin paused for a bit. I don't know, she answered in a sleepy tone. Don't get anyone killed?

"Alright, that's good to know?" Alyitha hesitantly replied out loud.

[Elend Venture he/him]

Quote

That's one bloodthirsty spren. He's like part Nightblood or something 

     'Oh, even better; not a mistborn, a coinshot AND a Knight Radiant.’ Thought Rhode. ’Better not try to get him to fight afterall.’ Then bowed and spoke aloud: ”Your Majesty, I am Rhode, a humble swordsman, at your service. I don't do much else, so I probably won't be of a lot of help to you, but know that I am your ally." He prepared himself to stroll out the door.

@Rushu42

Edited December 22, 2019 by Elend Venture

[I think I am here. he/him]

22 hours ago, Sorana said:

“Are you good or bad company, when following an invitation, Sloane?" You enjoy his name, almost as much as you enjoyed him saying yours, and you stay close to him for another heartbeat, then you step back. You aren't expecting an answer of him right here and now. And even if he replied - if would be worthless until he saw the truth.

“I guess we’ll have to see,”

I say, blowing out a puff of smoke into the rain. He’s said my name just as I’ve said is, it’s almost a test period, a trial ground for introductions. The new side of him I’m seeing sounds good, the serious voice goes well with how well he holds himself together and the way he steps in close, draws out his words... I try not to show any effect it has on me, keep my face still and try to feign indifference.

“You’re residence is close-by? The sooner we find it the sooner you’re out of this rain, correct?”

[+Sorana she/her]

7 hours ago, Ookla the Maybe-Existent said:

“You’re residence is close-by? The sooner we find it the sooner you’re out of this rain, correct?”

You observe him for a while longer, his indifferent face a puzzle, and somehow an exciting challenge. You are drawn to this mystery of a man, with his hard face, fascinated by how easily he resists you and allured by his demeanor. Again you wonder how he will react, if he can grasp what you are doing. It would be a pity if this was the only time you talked.

"It is." Slowly you turn around and walk to a door close by. The building is narrow, but it was cheap and the real gem was the huge cellar. It's at least as large as the building above the ground. You unlock the door and slowly push it open, welcome the familiar smell of it. Old, dusty, with a pinch a smoke from your oven.

You turn around to Sloane, make an inviting gesture with you hand, while you hear the quick steps of your assistant, doubling as your servant heading towards the door. "Welcome, to my place." You add formally and wait for him, to step inside.

[I think I am here. he/him]

I pause, take my time observing the house before I take that first step in. It seems final, the point of no return. However deep I am in Raphael’s world, there’s no turning back now. The wood is steady beneath my feet and I can smell slight whiff of smoke that I’m sure isn’t coming from my cigarette. It’s a nice place, but I’m sure I don’t need to tell him that.

Instead I tread one step deeper within the house, burn tin and hear quick footsteps coming towards us. My hand hovers over my hip, but I don’t want to be too presumptuous.

“You live with someone here?” I ask. “Or do you not normally have foreign footsteps running around?”

[+Sorana she/her]

6 hours ago, Ookla the Maybe-Existent said:

“You live with someone here?” I ask. “Or do you not normally have foreign footsteps running around?”

"My assistent Taron." You reply calmly and switch on the light. It shows a dark carpet on the ground, as well as tapestries on the walls. The stairs leading to the upper floor are of a dark brown, polished wood, although the show signs of use of several years before you moved in. Now and then a non-descript picture in on the walls, mostly paintings or drawings of some kind of countryside.

You take off your coat, your eyes resting on his hand above his hip for a moment, but you only raise an eyebrow and don't comment on it further. He doesn't know if you are good company either. And it shows, in the slight hesitation before he steps inside, in the way he looks around. He is careful and brave and you can respect that.

Taron is a man in the middle of his life. He has served you for years and he is just bland enough to be one with the background. Quiet, unobstrusive, his brown hair and even features make him easy to forget. He doesn't question your research, has the stomach to help now and then and he takes care of everything you don't want to care about. In short, the perfect servant in this place.

You hand him your coat and then take off your shoes, change into houseshoes. They are clean and only remind you more, that your pants are wet and dirty. They cling to your shins and you have to force yourself to turn to Sloane first before rushing off to change. "Would you care for a dry set of cloths?" You ask instead and pointedly look at the rim of his pants, that is as wet as your own.

Edited December 23, 2019 by Sorana

[Rushu42 she/her]

On 12/20/2019 at 6:34 PM, Elend Venture said:

     'Oh, even better; not a mistborn, a coinshot AND a Knight Radiant.’ Thought Rhode. ’Better not try to get him to fight afterall.’ Then bowed and spoke aloud: ”Your Majesty, I am Rhode, a humble swordsman, at your service. I don't do much else, so I probably won't be of a lot of help to you, but know that I am your ally." He prepared himself to stroll out the door.

@Rushu42

Alderbon watched him start towards the exit. 

"It is good that you are willing to serve the crown," he responded, the edge to his voice softening. "We always have use for a strong fighter. You may join my forces. Prove yourself, and you will receive great rewards." 

The girl was muttering again, quite rudely. He did not wish to kill a child; she would someday learn subservience.

[Elend Venture he/him]

22 minutes ago, Rushu42 said:

Alderbon watched him start towards the exit. 

"It is good that you are willing to serve the crown," he responded, the edge to his voice softening. "We always have use for a strong fighter. You may join my forces. Prove yourself, and you will receive great rewards." 

The girl was muttering again, quite rudely. He did not wish to kill a child; she would someday learn subservience.

     "My Lord, you need only but call upon me should I be needed." Said Rhode, hurrying out into the rain. He knew better than to stick around the mad, ultra powerful or in this case, both. But for some reason, something drew him to linger outside the nameless bar. There was a charged feeling in the air, like something important was going to happen in the poorly lit pub upon this stormy night, and Rhode didn't want to miss it.

[I think I am here. he/him]

23 hours ago, Sorana said:

“Would you care for a dry set of cloths?"

“No, I’m fine, thank you,” I say and turn to Taron. I need to make sure I don’t get too comfortable. Even though he may not like the wet clothing, I’m not one to risk wearing someone else’s clothing in their own house. And besides, I like my clothes ow they are. They say it isn’t a proper night where I come from if it doesn’t rain.

Inside I take off my fedora, allow it to reveal my ruffled up black hair. But instead of giving it to Taron I keep it with me. It’s a nice hat, and I would hate for it to go missing.

“Are you against smoking in this house?” I ask. It’s only polite.

[+Sorana she/her]

1 hour ago, Ookla the Maybe-Existent said:

“Are you against smoking in this house?” I ask. It’s only polite.

"No, of course not." You walk over to the stairs and give Taron a small sign, to remain with Sloane. As every gesture of yours it's perfect, an elegant flick of your hand. "If you are interested, I have quite the assortment of cigars. Taron could show them to you, if you want to smoke something else but a cigarette."

Your eyes rest on the wet rim of his pants for a moment and then you grimace a little when you image him leaving little wet, muddy spots all over your carpet. And his coat.  Instead of disagreeing, you gesture towards some hooks on the wall. "You can hang up your coat by your own, if you prefer to handle it yourself."

Looking up to his face you judge his face without his hat for the first time. It's a nice face, the ruffled dark hair falling a little into his forehead and you wonder how it would feel beneath your fingers. It's exactly the kind of hair that calls to be ruffled through a little more. You lift your hand and straighten your vest, invitingly gesture towards the stairs.

"If you want to, please follow Taron upstairs, he will show you to the study. I hope you apologize me for a moment, so that I can change my set of cloths."

You smile at him, when you watch him stand there, the fact that he's even keeping his head with him thrilling. "I can assure you, that I intend to be a good host." You take up your earlier word-play, before you turn around give in to the urge to finally get into a clean pair of pants. You can nearly feel the dirt, how it falls in your shoes and on your carpet. Disgusting.

Edited December 24, 2019 by Sorana

[AonEne he/him in an enby way]

Quote

I'm afraid I'm going to have to drop out of this! I might show up again later but for now Piper's singular post will just be a slice of life or something. Sorry

 

[I think I am here. he/him]

On 24/12/2019 at 11:39 PM, Sorana said:

You smile at him, when you watch him stand there, the fact that he's even keeping his head with him thrilling. "I can assure you, that I intend to be a good host." You take up your earlier word-play, before you turn around give in to the urge to finally get into a clean pair of pants. You can nearly feel the dirt, how it falls in your shoes and on your carpet. Disgusting.

“I don’t doubt it,”

I say. Just like everything else his timing is perfect. I’ve never seen him smoke before, but an assortment of cigars certainly sound appealing.

“And I might take you up on that offer of smoking more than a cigarette.”

I allow myself to follow Taron deeper into the establishment. On my way I hang my hat and coat by the wall, admire the taste in the house, and walk up the stairs. As I follow Taron my mind can’t stop thinking of Raphael. Who is he? What does he imply? I feel as if the answer is just out of sight, a tantalising morsel for which I can only obtain by saying here, around Raphael. Which is fine by me.

“Does he have a lot of visitors over?” I ask Taron, wonder what type of person he is to be serving someone like Raphael. But I can’t quite place it.

Edited December 26, 2019 by Ookla the Maybe-Existent

[+Sorana she/her]

29 minutes ago, Ookla the Maybe-Existent said:

“Does he have a lot of visitors over?” I ask Taron, wonder what type of person he is to be serving someone like Raphael. But I can’t quite place it.

"No, sir. You are the first." Taron replied politely and opened the door to the study. He quickly stepped inside and made an inviting gesture towards one of the two armchairs facing a fireplace. A small fire warmed the room, two walls dominated by huge wodden shelves and two windows.

"Please have a seat. The master will be here soon." He added as some kind of explanation and walked over to a drawer. His steps were light, unobstrusive, and his movements small. Everything he did was dedicated to efficiency and to minimize any disturbance of those he served. Retrieving an elongate box he carefully placed it on the small table between the armchairs.

"May I offer something to drink?" he inquired politely, a small, nondescript smile on his face while he crossed his hands behind his back and waited for a reply.

============

You hear Sloane follow Taron up the stairs, while you hurried along the second set, leading towards his private rooms on the second floor. Inwardly you cursed the house again, who needs two floors, when you could simply fit everything in one, large groundfloor. Each step seems agonizing, when you imaginze, that you can feel the cold wetness of your pants slowly soak your socks. And you carpet. You shake your shoulders, as skin was crawling by the time you open the door and it wasn't completely closed again when you start to open you pants. You discard them into a casket next to your wardrobe and rub alon your legs with a washcloth, to make sure they are clean. Better. Relaxing, you shoulders sag down a little and you choose a clean and pressed dark pair of pants and dress again.

Critically you look at yourself in the mirror and finally open your braid, so that you can brush you hair and rebraid it, to make sure each strand is exactly where it's supposed to be. Your arms move with confidence at the familiar movements, while your thoughts return to Sloane. When you are quiet, you can hear muffled voices out of the study, not clear enough to understand a word, but loud enough to be reminded that you aren't alone in this place anymore. Excited by the prospect to spend an evening talking, playing with clever comments and witty phrases, all leading up to the one moment when you open that door in the cellar. If he is fun. If he proves to be a good guest. But somehow oyu suspect, that he will. With a small piece of cloth you polish your fingernails and finally clean your teeth as well.

Satisfied you stand in front the mirror again, twitch your cloths a last time around, before you leave the room, your steps meassured and your face composed again.

 

[I think I am here. he/him]

On 26/12/2019 at 10:51 PM, Sorana said:

“May I offer something to drink?" he inquired politely, a small, nondescript smile on his face while he crossed his hands behind his back and waited for a reply.

“If you have whiskey, I wouldn’t mind it.”

Some part of me feels justifiably cautious about accepting alcohol and cigars from someone I’ve met just tonight and who I know is shady company, but thankfully being a Returned has taken care of my worry of toxins, even if it means I can never get drunk again. It’s fine. In my spare time I’ve found other hobbies. Detective work. Occasionally gun practise.

“First one, huh?” I remark, try to keep a fine line between amusement and suspicion. I shouldn’t discounts Taron because he’s the servant. As far as I know he may be even more conniving than Raphael, though somehow I doubt it. Doesn’t mean he couldn’t be dangerous, though. In most murder cases, the butler is the culprit.

“I guess I’m one special person.”

[+Sorana she/her]

1 hour ago, Ookla the Maybe-Existent said:

“I guess I’m one special person.”

"Of course you are." you remark when you step into the room, and wave Taron aside. "I wouldn't have invited you, if you weren't."

You walk over to a vitrine and retrieve two glasses, lift them into the air to marvel at their spotless surface. They were perfectly clean, you know that Taron keeps a special eye on these things and yet you know that the gesture has to draw Sloane's eye and that alone is reason enough. You place them on a drawer and retrieve a bottle of red wine and fill one of them. The wine is a deep, dark red, nearly black in the light of your fire and you smile at the rich taste of it. It's a dry one, dry with a dark aftertaste you greatly enjoy.

Then you withdraw a second bottle, half-filled with an amber-coloured liquid. "Do you prefer your whiskey peat-heavy or not?" You inquire while you reach for a second bottle, whose liquid is a little darker. "I have to admit my assortment of whiskey is small, I can only offer these two. Turning around to him, you hold both bottles slightly in his direction, a wordless offer to choose the one he prefers.

[I think I am here. he/him]

23 hours ago, Sorana said:

Then you withdraw a second bottle, half-filled with an amber-coloured liquid. "Do you prefer your whiskey peat-heavy or not?" You inquire while you reach for a second bottle, whose liquid is a little darker. "I have to admit my assortment of whiskey is small, I can only offer these two. Turning around to him, you hold both bottles slightly in his direction, a wordless offer to choose the one he prefers.

“Quality over quantity. I like the smoky taste,” I explain and nod to the peat-heavy bottle. My eyes gravitate to the glasses. Perfectly clean. I assume a servant would help in that regard. And he must be skilled, too. The seat I sit in is comfortable, soft fabric meets my roughly cut trousers. I’ve only been in a seat this comfortable once before, and it was while I was being tortured by a high-level mafisoso. He also liked his theatrics. But he lacked a certain... sophistication I see in Raphael.

I scoff at my use of big words. No matter how fancy I talk, I’ll never be Raphael. I know that. My job isn’t to be Raphael. My job is to be Mr. Sloane, detective for hire. And if playing the conversation game will lead me further in understanding who Raphael is, then that’s what I’ll do. I feel a prick of excitement, and then another. It’s like the moment of suspense before the bullets fly through the air, but somehow different.

“Then I guess you’ll have to tell me how,”

I respond to his earlier comment. His comment that I’m special.

“There’s only a handful of things a person like me can do for a person like you.”

[+Sorana she/her]

23 hours ago, Ookla the Maybe-Existent said:

“There’s only a handful of things a person like me can do for a person like you.”

You incline your head a little to indicate that you heard his reply and slowly fill a tumbler with some whiskey for Sloane. Just a little more than a finger, so that the whiskey can breathe before Sloane starts drinking. Turning back to your guest you pick up both glasses and place them on the table between the stools before you fetch the box with the cigars. Usually you would have Taron do this, but you can't resist to stop in front for him, open the box with a fluid motion and hold it out for him to pick one. It leaves you close to him again, just a tad closer than strictly neccessary.

"Don't make yourself smaller than you are, Sloane." You finally respond to his last comment, while you wait for him to make his choice. Your eyes glide over his ruffled hair and his eyes, whose colour you still can't decide on. Freed of the shadow of his hat, the flickering fire draws shadows on his face and the room that make it difficult to decide for sure. And yet - they are dark and dark suits him just fine.

"A lot of it depends on what you are willing to offer." You go on, your eyes never leaving his face. "I could use your services." you start with repeating the obvious, before you lower your voice a little, enjoying the suspense, the tension in the air. Sloane. you never expected to find such a gem in such a bad tavern. This evening has so much potential, that for once you can't fully control what will happen is alluring, calling you to wade deeper and deeper in this sea words and gestures, if only to know what might happen. "But there are other possibilities as well. Ones that might profit both of us. Ones, that might be more - " you make a deliberate pause before you finish your sentence,  "fun."

Edited January 1, 2020 by Sorana

[I think I am here. he/him]

23 hours ago, Sorana said:

Ones that might profit both of us. Ones, that might be more - " you make a deliberate pause before you finish your sentence, "fun."

I look up at Raphael. The cigar box is held in the air and I glance down at what’s within. Lonsdale, Churchill and a handful of other brands look up to me. It’s been a while since I’ve said hello to any of them. I raise a hand to pick a cigar but my thoughts are replaying the last few seconds over again. The professional and calculated movement, the careful phrasing and pause — his delivery is spot on, but it’s what he offers that really gets my heartbeat up. I have a choice.

Lonsdale. Known for a light, flavoured smoke.

I could quit now. I could leave, or I could do some detective work, get some money — serious money, by the looks of it, and be on my way none the wiser. It’d be a wise enough decision, alright. Quit while I’m ahead. Stay to what I know.

And yet, the allure is strong to resist.

Churchill. Known for a thick, heavy smoke. Not recommended for first-timers.

I came to Raphael’s house to discover who he was. What he does. To unveil the curtain and see the man within, behind the cleanliness and good clothes and careful perfection in his gestures. To discover Raphael, truly. I look into his eyes, make sure to articulate my words properly as I move closer to him to reach for a Churchill-brand cigar and reach in my pocket to take out my lighter. If he thinks I’ll be wooed off of the trail with the offer of work, there’s another thing coming.

“Then let’s have some fun, Raphael,” I say quietly.

Edited January 2, 2020 by Ookla the Maybe-Existent

[+Sorana she/her]

16 hours ago, Ookla the Maybe-Existent said:

“Then let’s have some fun, Raphael,” I say quietly.

You smile at his words, enjoy that he uses your name again and and straighten again. While you walk over to the second armchair you condiser the remaining cigars and finally pick a Robusto. It's smoke is not as thick and heavy as a Churchill's, and you enjoy it's spicy taste and the still thick smoke a lot. Sitting down in the chair you relax and place the box on the table between the two of you. You won't smoke a second one, but given the amount of cigarettes Sloane consumed so far, you suspect he might be interested in a another one later.

Looking over to Sloane your eyes rest on his lighter for a moment, before you lean back, lift a hand to Taron. He places a gas-lighter in your hand, the metal cool against your fingers and you flip it open with a quick motion of your thumb. Holding your cigar close to the flame you start warming it up before fully lightning it. The faint smell of tobacco fills the air and you look up at Sloane again.

"What do you think of fairytales?" You ask him and settle more comfortably into your chair.

[I think I am here. he/him]

“Fairytales?” I ask. I hold the cigar in my mouth one hand and bring up my lighter with the other. As I light my cigar I wonder if Raphael meant ‘fun’ in a different manner. Maybe it isn’t subterfuge or alluring to something. Maybe he finds fairytales fun. I can’t say I wouldn’t find it loony — but no. He doesn’t seem like that kind of man, from my admittedly little experience. I have the inkling he’s building to something so — storm it — I oblige.

“Kids’ stories. Bedtime tales.” I shrug and take a puff of my cigar, my lighter slipping neatly back into my pocket. “I was never too keen on them myself. World’s full of enough lies already.”

Edited January 3, 2020 by Ookla the Maybe-Existent

[+Sorana she/her]

6 hours ago, Ookla the Maybe-Existent said:

“Kids’ stories. Bedtime tales.” I shrug and take a puff of my cigar, my lighter slipping neatly back into my pocket. “I was never too keen on them myself. World’s full of enough lies already.”

You finish lighting your cigar and hand the lighter back to Taron. The smoke is rich and spicy and for a moment you do nothing but look into the flames, listen to Sloane sitting beside you. It has been a while since you last received a guest and while you don't admit it, you fear that he will leave as soon as he took a step into your cellar. Tilting your head to the side you observe him for a while feel a spike of excitement when you watch him sit there, puff your cigar.

"Most of them have a little bit of truth, deep hidden inside." You reply and hold your cigar over the table to avoid getting ash on your cloths. As usual Taron already placed an ashtray there. "I use them as inspiration, as a treassure of information and possibilities." You smile at him again, hope that the firelight enhances your face in an advantageous way. Firelight is tricky, hard to control. No practice of the world can foresee how the flames will move.

"You will see." Your smile widens a little, when you openly tempt him, your fingers tapping your cigar in a wordless addition. Later. Once you are done smoking.

"Tell me about yourself." You ask him instead. "Some interesting tidbit."