ZincAboutIt

This may call for… … wait for it…. a celebratory ALLEYCANT drawing

Yes actually, I am. @Voidus what do you think? Once more into the breach?

*pokes head in* Hello everyone, is the light still on in here? :3

The sound of the bass music was muffled in the lavatory, but Stasia had no desire to stay there any longer than she had to. She leaned against the wall of her stall, careful to have chosen the one that was flush with the actual stone of the Cellar so that no one could read over her shoulder. She needn't have bothered, really, but sloppy habits bred sloppy agents, and sloppy agents didn't tend to live very long. In the stall beside her, someone was rather violently ill. Stasia wrinkled her nose and slid Thalise's envelope out of her sleeve. She ran her eyes down the list of names, memorizing them quickly, cataloguing the ones she knew of and the ones she'd need to research at a later date. One name in particular caught her eye. Shadowcastle. She'd seen one of their top brass holding court this very evening. Ava must be gloating now that the Blackwater Gang was ripping itself to bits. Jerum and Ivar Blackwater would fight over their brother's empire until it was nothing but scraps. Stasia gave a quiet 'tsk' before removing a lighter from her pocket and setting the little paper on fire. It burned quickly - Thalise had used flash paper. Nice to work with a professional. She flushed the ashes down the toilet, waited a few seconds, and slipped back out into the crowded club, making her plans. Technically, she should leave and get back to a neutral location to contact Vadinsky. But, it had been ages since she'd been on such an exciting assignment, and she hadn't even gotten the chance to dance yet. Besides, it wouldn't hurt to go case Shadowcastle's table. Perhaps she'd take a look at that merc that Ava had been arguing with earlier - that seemed promising. There was little doubt he was fencing Thread - most higher-end smugglers did, and that fellow looked like he knew what he was about. After a general circle of the bar and a few minutes watching the latest pit fight - a brutish-looking woman with tusks very nearly eviscerated an older man with an extra arm - Stasia slid up to the bar within listening range of the smuggler and his current audience. She ordered another drink, something lighter this time with a pleasing electric-blue shade and much too much sugar, and sipped it with a smile before activating her aural modification. Instantly, the noise of the club seemed to pierce her eardrums, but she was prepared for the onslaught and avoided wincing. Instead, she simply sipped and focused her hearing on the group a little ways away, letting her eyes rove over the crowd, looking rather bored. Inside, though, she felt the most alive she had in months. So much better than that accounting firm.

Stasia tapped two fingers on the tabletop and brushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. She smiled at the blunt dismissal. That was one thing she liked about free-lancers: they didn’t waste time. “Understood about the fee increase. It will be added to your Thread count. Keep your ear to the ground with any further regards to the Fidelium incident. You know the arrangement - if someone is offering you money for information, we’ll incentivize you to offer it to us first. If we have any more need of you, you’ll hear from my handler.” Stasia stood and placed a few more bills on the table before melting back into the crowd with a wink. “The next drink’s on the House.” @Fallapede

Stasia quickly palmed the envelope and slid it up her sleeve, intending to read it somewhere a bit more secluded before memorizing and burning it. Thalise’s guessing was unsettlingly close to Kurt’s own hypothesis: this wasn’t about the Thread. At least, not entirely. The Wraith had spent nearly two hours inside Lattice and Lattice, and had made off with only one hundred yards of Thread - maybe ten spools worth. But he could have taken ten times that amount if he really wanted to. She thought about the other Houses that had been hit: Chetting and Wells, Krasmov Brothers, Settingston Trust. Big names with big databases. And those are just the ones that have admitted to being hit. There was a possibility of something far more disturbing than a renegade robbing Thread. What if the real target had been information? Kurt had been very sparse on his details about her mission, “for her own safety.” Not least because technically she was legally forbidden to investigate based on her own conflict of interest. But he’d let something slip, and Stasia decided to go on a hunch. ”What can you tell me about the Fidelium?” This was dangerous territory now, even for someone who was used to sticking their hands into murky waters. The Fidelium was the STA’s own personal House, home to the government’s most confidential files on everything from the nobility’s inheritance records to who, where and when Tailored agents were sent out on mission to the Far Corners. On the night of the Wraith’s latest heist, there had been a general alarm sounded at the Fidelium - though it was later pronounced a false alarm and any rumors quickly ground out. No one from the STA had reported any foul play at the Fidelium. But then again, they wouldn’t. If the Wraith had managed to get inside the Fidelium itself… Well. No wonder all the House higher-ups were so nervous.

@The Ward's Guard @Mystic Syn

Stasia suppressed a sigh and nodded, slipping a stack out of one of her boots and setting it on the table. Negotiate. Stasia rolled her eyes inwardly, though kept her face carefully blank. These independent types were all so bloody mercenary, and it showed. Lattice and Lattice didn’t need to haggle like some rug seller. That was the whole point of a Sanctioned House. “Based on our most recent records, this is half of your going rate,” she tapped the money with one fingernail. “Plus extra for your discretion.” Discretion was implied - after all, it was bad for business if you became known as a snitch. But it never hurt to sweeten the deal. ”You’ll get the other half - including your Thread count - in twenty-four hours at the typical drop point. If your leads prove sound, we may consider putting you on contract - if that’s of interest.” No one was moronic enough to walk around actually carrying Thread, especially in a place like this. Kurt had already arranged it at a small post box office in a residential district up in New Lere proper. Stasia settled back in her chair and took another sip of her drink. Already, the acid bite of the veritae tasted sweeter in her mouth. Somewhere behind her in the fighting pit, a man screamed as onlookers jeered and exchanged bets. “Now that’s out of the way, shall we get down to it?” @Fallapede

Stasia paid the bartender and took a tentative sip of her drink, hissing slightly at the hard bite of the liquor that burned her throat despite the seltzer water and lime. Hell’s teeth, she thought, grudgingly tipping the barkeep before weaving her way toward the little table near the far wall. This was veritae, unsanctioned hooch, far from the refined grain liquors common in the pleasure districts of the upper city. She’d developed a taste for it a few years back when she did a stint informing on a minor antique-smuggling ring down here, but it seemed that the last six months at that milquetoast accounting racket had softened her. Too many sweet drinks bought by sweet boys in kafta coats and silver cufflunks. Her taste would just have to harden up again. Stasia took another sip, grimaced, and slid into the seat opposite Kurt’s contact. The woman was as described: blonde, average-looking enough to be forgettable if it weren’t for her long gloves. Kurt’s instructions had advised Stasia to “buy her own drink”, which was sound, as Thalise Zesh had quite a penchant for spiking a drink with more than alcohol. ”White-eye sent me,” Stasia said, using Kurt‘s least-favorite and most-interesting epithet, which referred to a botched Tailoring that had left his right eye milky white and blind to all but rudimentary shapes. “Typical information channels are being watched and everyone’s buttoned up tight as a lord’s vault. No one wants to be caught out in a possible STA Inquiry, but it’s starting to look that way if the Wraith isn’t brought in soon. Heard anything that might have slipped past the usual nets?” @Fallapede

It was an ugly night, even as nights in the Underground went. One of late summer's storms had hit New Lere the day before, and all the muck running off the city's glass towers and trickling through its gutters made its way down here, raining filth onto the undercity. There's a metaphor in there, somewhere. Stasia wove her way through the hot, murky streets, hood up despite the muggy air to assail the worst of the drizzle. She did her best not to think about what was slicking her shoulders as she passed through a cloud of steam that billowed out from a vendor's food cart; the stench of urine and garbage was briefly overpowered by the scent of steamed buns. Stasia stopped, peered at the vendor's offerings, and slipped the older man half a credit for two of the pale, fluffy pastries. He grinned at her with a mouth of largely-intact teeth, and she nodded back. She ate the buns hurriedly and with little ceremony, careful to duck her head to avoid eating New Lere's gutter leavings in addition to her meal. There was no telling what would be on offer once she arrived at the meeting point, but she somehow doubted that there would be steamed buns. It was best to eat when one found the chance. Stasia crammed the last third of her second bun into her mouth when she caught sight of the little "C" scratched into the old stone wall that lead down an unremarkable-looking alley. She finished chewing, swallowed, and ducked down the passage without ceremony. The first rule of sneaking was to avoid looking sneaky. No one gave you a second glance if you moved as though you were meant to be there. And I am meant to be here, she thought with a tiny, wry smile. It had been a while since she'd been given a job that required this type of covert observation. Stasia half-suspected that Kurt was feeling guilty for the six months she'd spent in an accounting firm this past year. Being sent down here was dangerous, but at least it was exciting. Her eyes quickly adjusted to the deeper gloom as she walked, and soon the shape of a man resolved itself from the dark, leaning against the wall. "Evening, love," he said, his voice easy. His posture was calm, but ready for trouble. Stasia didn't look like much of a threat, but that didn't mean much in New Lere. Anyone could look like anything. Stasia held up twenty credits between her middle and index finger. "Here for the latest vintage," she said. The man took her twenty cred and raised one dark eyebrow. "A bottle, or a glass?" "We'll see which one breaks first," she replied, completing the passphrase. The man pocketed the credits, then knocked three times against an old, overflowing dumpster that appeared to take up the entire back portion of the alley. Stasia nodded and walked around the dumpster to the opposite side to find another man heaving up a thick, iron door that had been set flush into the brick floor of the alley. A set of ancient-looking stone stairs descended into darkness broken by flickers of neon light that played against the rough stone walls. The growl of a heavy base line pulsed up into the night. She descended without a word, trailing one hand against the wall as the door was lowered back into place above her. Then, in the dark, Stasia began to Change. Her skin bled from a rich brown to golden tan, and a dusting of freckles appeared on her nose and cheeks. Her eyes shifted from hazel to bright amber, narrowing and tilting up at the edges. As she continued down the steps, she stripped off her coat and turned it inside-out, swapping the dingy grey for the far nicer deep blue that had previously hidden as her lining. When she stepped down into the Cellar, she was a totally different person. Or rather, she was herself. Her real self. Possibly the most infallible disguise she had at her disposal. She smiled as she wove her way through the press of bodies, the makeup that had blended into her darker skin now standing out deep and smokey on her lighter complexion. She'd be meeting her contact at half-past ten, which meant she had nearly half an hour to case the place, have a drink, and maybe even dance. The prospect made her smile a little wider, and she slid up towards the bar. It was cool down here despite the press of people and the summer weather, and Stasia was glad she'd kept her coat on, though she left it open. She was dressed well enough to avoid looking like a pauper but not so well as to be mistaken for a noble - a good middle ground. Her pants were sensible, black and tight enough for vanity but not much beyond. She'd allowed herself a little more leeway with her top, a slightly brighter blue than her coat and cut in some unorthodox places. Stasia grinned openly as she imagined what Kurt's face might look like if he could see her now. You send me to a club,Vadinsky, and I'll dress for one. She watched the crowd, letting her smile slip away into a more bored expression, eyes moving over the Cellar with practiced ease. If everything went according to plan, in thirty minutes she'd meet this other agent that Kurt had been talking about. And then, they'd watch some people try and kill each other.

@MacThorstenson

I've started checking here more regularly, so if anyone does want any additional planning input or suggestions or whatever else, I can appear more often and I'd enjoy chiming in here or there! I might even bring Vivica out of hiding and back into rotation so if you want to do anything with her plotline let me know. Please please ping me whenever I am needed, I pretty much exclusively use my phone nowadays since it's much easier to do things one-handed with the Zinclet clinging onto me. I miss everyone here and I do miss being creative and silly so if you want to chat or whatever, please feel free to notify me in the usual way (by incorporeal post, dream visitation, astral anguish projection, or cookie-gram, of course).

Go for it, I have no plans for it that I can remember. Truly my brain is like a sieve these days. Sorry I've been so very not-here! Life is just so grand these days I have no real need to escape :3

Alleine jerked out of the reverie she had fallen into, trying to process what she’d heard. It was all a bit much for her, but that bit about a third Metallic Art... now that was a secret people would pay for. And pay dearly. She looked up at the man, inspecting him further. He looked like the type to sell too easy and too quick. Someone she’d eventually have to get rid of, if she couldn’t control him. But, for now, perhaps it was better if they stuck together. ”Do you know what it says to me when someone steals my drink in a run-down rust hole like this one?” She whispered. “It says that he’s desperate. That he turned up here because he needs coin more than a Coinshot who’s out of bullets.” Alleine tugged on that sense of desperation just a bit, and any kind of curiosity he might be feeling towards her. She didn’t care if he noticed it. ”Do you know how much someone would pay to find out about this?” Alleine said. “I doubt either of us do. But I do know people who could find out. And I think it might be enough for you to afford your own drinks for a very long time.”

Alleine took another deep breath, feeling the grain of the wood beneath her fingers as she leaned against the outside of the tavern. She'd seen another woman enter, and she continued to hear voices from within. Someone must have survived, she thought. Slowly, curiosity began to filter in through her fear, and she peered through the tavern's grimy window. A group of people stood around talking to one another, that "Inquisitor" among them. It must be some sort of trick. According to the legends, those creatures were practically death incarnate. If everyone in there was still alive, then it must just be someone impersonating an Inquisitor. Alleine felt herself blushing, cursing herself for a fool as she recalled crawling across the tavern floor. She stood up straight, brushed off her skirt, and set her jaw before opening the door again. By some miracle, the glass of gin she'd ordered still sat on the bartop. "... think I need to sit down." Alleine looked at the source of the voice. It was that Soother fellow, the one who had stolen her drink. She pressed her lips into a line and moved back towards his table, keeping a wary eye on the others. That woman did look like a convincing Inquisitor. How had she made those spikes look so real? "What kind of 'meeting' is this?" She hissed at the Soother, hooking the tip of one finger into his glass and sliding back towards her before taking a drink. "This tavern looks like some kind of traveling circus." @Lecky Twig

Alleine looked over her shoulder at the sudden commotion, expecting some kind of barroom brawl, and froze. An Inquisitor was standing at the next table over, teeth barred in a snarl. ”By the Survivor’s bloody spear,” she whispered, feeling her guts turn to ice water. All dignity forgotten, Alleine slid back off her chair onto the floor, crawling away from the table and the Soother before standing and slipping out the front door. A few others had come to the same decision, edging towards the door. Alleine tugged on their sense of self-preservation as she passed, not wanting to see everyone in the tavern slaughtered if she didn’t have to. She pressed her back against the outer wall of the tavern, breathing in shallow gasps. Survivor, am I going mad? Had she just seen Ironeyes himself in that tavern? What kind of “meeting” was this?

Alleine cocked her head, considering pulling on his sense of good will a bit more, perhaps his desire to talk - but no. No, in situations like these, it was best not to risk her hand too early. "It can be difficult," she said, slipping a few coins out of her pocket and sliding them across the bar towards the man, "to remember things, especially considering how busy you are." It was enough for the drink, and a bit more besides. Alleine gave him a pointed look. "But if anything comes to mind, I'd love to know." Just then, another man passed by the bar, casually whisking her newly-poured glass of gin off the counter and seating himself at a nearby table. Her mouth was halfway open to protest when she figured that it was better to avoid making a fuss. No need to get all riled up, especially about something as silly as a -- Wait. Alleine narrowed her eyes, examining the man. He was Soothing her, and doing a damn fine job of it too. If she wasn't a Rioter, she probably wouldn't have noticed anything at all. It was only her years of experience with emotion - her own and others' - that gave her enough context to know where to look. She fished another two coins out of her pocket and set them down. "Another glass, if you please," she said, smiling. "I didn't think my friend would show up so early. If you could bring it to our table, I'd be much obliged." Then, she turned and walked towards the Soother, settling herself down across from him and leaning back in her chair. He looked well-dressed, but there was a tightness in his eyes that hinted at lean times. Besides, there were only two reasons to steal a lady's drink. You either wanted to flirt with her, or you were too wrung out to buy your own. He didn't seem brazen enough for the former. "I do hope you're enjoying that drink," she said, "considering how decent it was of me to buy it for you." @Lecky Twig

Alleine raised an eyebrow at the barkeep’s abrupt change in demeanor. The koloss-blooded boy slunk away into the back of the tavern as the bartender smiled at her. Charming, she thought. ”Gin, please, if you have it,” she said, sliding up to the bar and tapping one fingernail on the wood. “Whiskey if you don’t.” She returned the man’s smile, using a pinch of Zinc and stoking his bias towards her - just a bit. Most people didn’t understand emotional allomancy, generally just assuming that Soothers and Rioters slammed emotions into one’s mind like cudgels. That was nonsense. As with many things, less was usually more. Alleine had found that oftentimes, a bit of lace on the bodice and the right rouge got a girl at least as far as Zinc, and no amount of aluminum lining in one’s hat could block it. ”I’m passing through to visit my cousin,” she said, looking around and feigning a slight overwhelm. “I didn’t expect such a crowd. Tell me, do you happen to know what’s going on here? A man such as yourself surely hears all sorts of news.” @Ookla the Stick

Alleine slid the curtain aside a fraction of an inch and peered out before rapping on the ceiling of the carriage. It rolled to a stop shortly after, the horses’ shaking their heads, bridles jingling. ”Miss?” A voice called from the driver’s bench. “We’re a few blocks away yet, Miss.” “This will be fine, Sid,” Alleine said, burning a bit of Zinc and nudging his desire to help her. He quickly obliged, hopping down and opening the carriage door with a smile. Alleine smiled back, very nearly a genuine smile. Sid was easy to like, requiring almost no Rioting at all. He seemed to truly enjoy his work. ”Should I take your things onward to the boarding house, Miss?” ”Not yet,” Alleine said, taking Sid’s proffered hand and stepping out of the carriage. Unpaved grit crunched beneath her heeled boots, still wet from the morning’s surprise rain. The air was thick with the scents of wet dust and old wood. She slipped Sid a five boxing note. ”Stay close by for now, and you’ll get another five to spend at the saloon when I’m finished for the night.” Sid grinned broadly. “Yes ma’am.” He said, his Roughs accent slipping out in his excitement. He hopped back onto the driver’s bench and flicked the reins, and the carriage rolled onward. Alleine spared it another small smile before she smoothed out her skirt and reached up to adjust the black velvet ribbon tied around her throat. She resisted the urge to touch the slender scar beneath it; now was not the time for memories. It was time to get to work. She began walking down the street, fingers sliding into a hidden pocket in her skirt to remove a little vial of Zinc. She drank it quickly, careful not to smudge her lip rouge, and felt the metal kindle to life within her. If old Copps was telling the truth, there would be any number of fat pigeons ripe for the plucking here tonight. There were perks to keeping on the old Coppercloud’s good side. The stringy curmudgeon was unpleasant as a toothache, but his information was almost always sterling. Some up-and-comer had nabbed a nice little aluminum mine, and the various factions out in the Basin were tripping over themselves to find out who he was. Alleine grinned. So thoughtful of them to send me so many marks, she mused, turning a corner and stepping up to the door of the tavern. Depending on how well this went, she might even be able to take that holiday to New Seran. With so much bait set out before her, was it any surprise that the Adder had arrived? @Ookla the Stick

Things are re-awakening on our end over here, so this might be somewhere someone can jump in at a later time, at least plot-wise. I think this thread specifically may fade out as our characters enter another thread. But if anyone is interested in joining the DA more generally, feel free to ping me or any of the members. We're still recruiting! There's always a price... The words stirred something within Lita, a phantom memory, something that faded almost as soon as it emerged. A figure shrouded in the mist of her subconscious, a tiny throb of pain in her side. She shook her head a bit. Almost without thinking, Lita reached into her sleeve and withdrew the oddly heavy coin she'd found earlier that evening. She walked it across her knuckles as she slid the pin out of Laurelai's fingers and placed it back into her headdress. "Any price, you say?" Lita grinned. "I'll have to quote those words back to you at some point, I suspect. What is that saying...? 'The spirit may be willing, but the flesh is weak'? Many have claimed devotion right up until steel met skin." Her grin turned slightly predatory, and she slipped the coin back into her sleeve. "What would you say to sharing the next drink in my office?" Lita stood and tapped the end of her cigarette into her glass, listening to the dregs of the fine port sizzle as it met ash. "I promise you'll find the journey most...invigorating."

Hey everyone! I'm back from my new-baby hiatus and I'll work on catching up on everything that's been goin' down. Hope you're all enjoying coming down from the RoW book hangover like I am. I look forward to writing with you all again, and I'll be sure to check here at least a few times a week if anyone needs or wants me! I might even start making AV fanart again *gasp*. But that's only if Zinclet let's me have my arms free for long enough. She is a jealous mistress when it comes to attention. Have some cookies, on me! Free* allomancy for everyone! *disclaimer applies