|
Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Jan 7, 2008 22:06:31 GMT -5
Wraith stumbles from her bed, exhausted, hungry, and dazed from lack of sufficient rest, and another night of restless tossing and turning. At leastg she had a soft, warm bed to sleep on, and a roof that didn't leak over her head.
She completes her morning chores as though in a dreamlike state, moving like clockwork through the motions of dressing, tightlacing her corset, making use of the bedpan, brushing her hair, eating a light breakfast, and cleaning her teeth. She stares at her haggard appearance in the mirror over the nightstand; deeper shadows and fresh lines ring her eyes, giving her a wasted, and washed out appearace, more than what she was accustomed to.
I look like the walking dead. She realised, and laughed bitterly at the irony of her existence.
She leaves her rented room in the Open Shell, and locks the door behind her, taking only what belongings she would need; and her jink, of course. She wasn't foolish enough to leave that in her room, no matter how honest the clientelle seemed.
Wraith slips out into the darkness of the street, long before most bashers would rise from their beds, pulling her cowl and veil close around her face. Like a ghost, with soft, quick steps, she makes her way across the Clerks Ward, passing through the Sandstone District, and finally crosses over into the Hive. She stops to cast a small ray of light into a dull, tarnished copper penny, illuming her way, and continues on at a faster pace.
Her destination... the Weary Spirit Infirmary, a horrid place she didn't care to return to.
It rises from the mist and the surrounding slum, more like a delapidated prison than a house for the sick. Razorvine crawls up the walls and vertical bars cover the windows, making the place seem hostile and unwelcoming.
The image presented before her now, wasn't far from the sordid truth, despite what the faded flyers posted about the Hive proclaimed.
Touching the scrollcase tucked neatly into her beltpouch - it was a letter from Initiate Xanathis, adressed to Mister Tetch, chief surgeon of the Weary Spirit; more a symbol of formality than anything else - Wraith drew a shaky breath, and raised her hand to knock on the door.
"Excuse me, I apologise for disturbing you at such an early hour, but I understand that Mister Tetch is understaffed, and requires more assistants. I'm... I'm here to-to apply for that position." She waits patiently in the gloom, suddenly feeling sick with dread, as the first rays of gray morning light break through the shroud of mist.
|
|
|
Post by Stix on Jan 8, 2008 20:26:03 GMT -5
Random event chance
Clerk's Ward [dice=20] Hive Ward [dice=20] [rand=6162261421039534815809857570146932744373814263465239554631563063]
|
|
|
Post by Stix on Jan 8, 2008 20:39:56 GMT -5
From out of the suffocating blackness of the Hive comes the glint of a knife in the candlelight from a nearby home.
"Lie down on the ground, berk, and don't make a sound," demands a threatening basso voice....
|
|
|
Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Jan 9, 2008 0:26:20 GMT -5
From out of the suffocating blackness of the Hive comes the glint of a knife in the candlelight from a nearby home. "Lie down on the ground, berk, and don't make a sound," demands a threatening basso voice.... Wraith spins away from the door, catching the chiv's vicious glint, and hisses once the voice has made it's demands of her. She backs away, defensively moving from the barrier behind her, giving herself enough space to weave her magic, or flee if need be. There was no sense in busting the crass sod up too much, if all he wanted was enough jink to feed himself, or his family. But if he intended to beat, rape, or kill her, then the leatherhead had brought this down upon himself. "If you think for a moment that I'm going to lie down and do as you say, berk, then you know not whom you deal with." She warns in a flat, icy tone. Her purple eyes flash silver beneath her veil, and the soft light cast from the penny clenched in her left fist reveals a shrouded fiendling countenance, haunted by the ghosts of the Dead. "Leave now, before I'm forced to hurt you." She declares to the hidden spiv. There is no anger in her steady voice, only pity. Why was it that this man confronting her now was willing to resort to violence? Did he truly think that was the only way to get ahead in life, that every lone sod he crossed would submit to his demands? She didn't want to hurt him. The thought of it disgusted her. She would rather avoid a confrontation. But woe be to him if he ignored her warnings, and forced her hand...
|
|
|
Post by Stix on Jan 9, 2008 11:31:02 GMT -5
(Intimidate) [dice=20+1] (Thug Will Save) [dice=20+3][rand=8909589517245590862852460762587402547424440875877638041679808]
|
|
|
Post by Stix on Jan 9, 2008 11:42:22 GMT -5
Startled by being confronted instead of obeyed, the thug shrinks back a few paces in the darkness. Maybe the barmy wandering the Hive Ward alone in the black wasn't the easy mark he assumed she was... with that thought, he backs away steadily, keeping his gaze fixed on Wraith.
|
|
|
Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Jan 10, 2008 0:05:12 GMT -5
Startled by being confronted instead of obeyed, the thug shrinks back a few paces in the darkness. Maybe the barmy wandering the Hive Ward alone in the black wasn't the easy mark he assumed she was... with that thought, he backs away steadily, keeping his gaze fixed on Wraith. Wraith watches the thug slink back into the shadows, and advances a menacing step, just to show that she truly meant every word she said. She stops, covering the light source, and allows her eyes to slip into the infrared spectrum. They begin to glow with a fiendish light behind her gauzy veil. She stares at him where he hunkers in the gloom. "Begone, berk, and don't haunt these streets again." She declares, in a bold, authoritative tone, mustering all the inner strength she could find.
|
|
|
Post by john on Jan 13, 2008 21:40:24 GMT -5
John approaches the weary spirit infirmary, fresh from another Slaughter at the blood pit. He pays no attention to wraith at this point, probably not catching her in the alley as such, and looking for a place to get sewn up is important for him, wounded as he is from the blood pit. Not badly, but the blood is already crusting on his venerable armor and weapons.
|
|
|
Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Jan 14, 2008 1:12:39 GMT -5
John approaches the weary spirit infirmary, fresh from another Slaughter at the blood pit. He pays no attention to wraith at this point, probably not catching her in the alley as such, and looking for a place to get sewn up is important for him, wounded as he is from the blood pit. Not badly, but the blood is already crusting on his venerable armor and weapons. Wraith takes her eye off the cutthroat, but only for a brief moment, as she marks the new comer making his way aross the street toward the Weary Spirit. In the hazy gloom of the Hive ward, she catches a glimpse of his armoured figure, the blood oozing from his wounds... and that all too familiar helm of his. She blinks. "John?" She calls out in recognition, and shuffles toward him. "Is that you? Lady's Grace cutter, what happened to you?" Her soft voice is genuine and concerned.
|
|
|
Post by Stix on Jan 31, 2008 16:02:41 GMT -5
The door of the Weary Spirit creaks open, and a stench of infection, gore, and unknown filth wafts out from within. A guttering candle flame illuminates a haunting face: it's hard to say whether the man's flesh or hair is the whiter, and his bloodshot eyes threaten to bulge out of his skull. Drawn cheeks, an upturned nose, and an extremely tall and lean frame lend to his skeletal appearance. His apron has been stained a permanent dingy crimson-brown, but a wet glisten shows that he's been freshly toying with innards. Ridnir Tetch, master of this horrific house, is working late tonight.
"Hello, child," he says to Wraith, unblinking and without much regard. His gaze sweeps to John, and he cocks his head, eyeing the Taker like a lingering buzzard.
|
|
|
Post by john on Jan 31, 2008 18:35:27 GMT -5
"Life happened. I'm broken right now, so I need someone to fix it."
He looks at the lean man, his hard brown eyes screwing up in the glare of one buzzard to another.
"How much is it to get a sawbones to stitch the fleshy bits back together?"
He comments to Wraith. "I won't hold you to a deal I haven't completed yet. Once I find the targets I'll be asking you for payment, but until then I don't want to owe you."
|
|
|
Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Feb 1, 2008 3:14:30 GMT -5
The door of the Weary Spirit creaks open, and a stench of infection, gore, and unknown filth wafts out from within. A guttering candle flame illuminates a haunting face: it's hard to say whether the man's flesh or hair is the whiter, and his bloodshot eyes threaten to bulge out of his skull. Drawn cheeks, an upturned nose, and an extremely tall and lean frame lend to his skeletal appearance. His apron has been stained a permanent dingy crimson-brown, but a wet glisten shows that he's been freshly toying with innards. Ridnir Tetch, master of this horrific house, is working late tonight. " Hello, child," he says to Wraith, unblinking and without much regard. His gaze sweeps to John, and he cocks his head, eyeing the Taker like a lingering buzzard. Wraith grimaces as the door creaks open, and the foul abbatoir stench wafts out. She cringes, indeed shies away a little, as the all too familiar countenance of the gaunt sadist fills the doorway. Her gaze drops to his bloodspattered apron - t'would explain the constant screams she hears when passing this place - and her face pales; if such a thing is possible for one as faded as she. She shudders as he addresses her with the same cold tones as he does with all of his patients... before he pulls them apart, still screaming. Swallowing hard - it's an effort to not fall over and be sick all over the wall - Wraith forces a tight rictus smile. "Mister Tetch, I understand you may require a fellow surgeon's assistance in light of the plague sweeping through the Hive." She unties the straps of her satchel, and passes over Initiate Xanathis's sealed letter. Both bone scrollcase and tight roll of parchment have been stamped with the skullhead crest of the Dead. "I'm here to... to offer those... services to you." Her cheeks bulge, and she covers her mouth; swallowing back the bile and none too soon, either. Just the thought of helping this cruel and heartless man torture the penniless and unwary was enough to almost drive her away screaming into the darkness. But the Dustmen were watching her. "Life happened. I'm broken right now, so I need someone to fix it." He looks at the lean man, his hard brown eyes screwing up in the glare of one buzzard to another. "How much is it to get a sawbones to stitch the fleshy bits back together?" He comments to Wraith. "I won't hold you to a deal I haven't completed yet. Once I find the targets I'll be asking you for payment, but until then I don't want to owe you." Wraith cringes. Powers knew how much she wanted tell this squat little man to go, to leave this place and never return. Even though she owd him nothing, and he the same, she wasn't going to stand by and let Tetch tear him to pieces, either. The bastard probably deserved better than that. "John, please, are you even aware of where you are?"She cringes gain, biting her tongue, resisting the urge to scream at him to run away. It would certainly do her no good to ruin her reputation in the eyes of the Dead anymore than she already had. Offering another tight smile for the surgeon's sake, she bowed her head and said. "My skills have improved significantly since last I passed through these halls, and my sponsor has noted my past achievements. I leave the decision to... hire me in your... capable hands." She falters for a moment, as her eyes are drawn to the surgeon's haunted face, and the ghastly memories attached to it.
|
|
|
Post by Stix on Feb 1, 2008 17:48:24 GMT -5
"How fortunate for me," Tetch intones hollowly. He draws himself to his full height, bearing a ghastly resemblance to a marraenoloth. He accepts the scroll from Wraith, unfurling it in his knobby fingers. "Unfortunately, I cannot accept another patient at this hour," he says to John, scanning the text without interest, having already made up his mind.
He gazes dispassionately at the Dustman on his doorstep. "Uathach, return here a week hence. I welcome your assistance. In the meantime, see to your friend."
|
|
|
Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Feb 4, 2008 0:18:45 GMT -5
" How fortunate for me," Tetch intones hollowly. He draws himself to his full height, bearing a ghastly resemblance to a marraenoloth. He accepts the scroll from Wraith, unfurling it in his knobby fingers. " Unfortunately, I cannot accept another patient at this hour," he says to John, scanning the text without interest, having already made up his mind. He gazes dispassionately at the Dustman on his doorstep. " Uathach, return here a week hence. I welcome your assistance. In the meantime, see to your friend." Wraith waits patiently, her hands clasped calmly before her, although her darting eyes betray her wariness. She heaves a sigh of relief, disguising it as a tired yawn, when Ridnir Tetch announces that he has no room for anymore patients. Good for John then. She muses to herself, and tugs on her bottom lip. Again she meets the surgeon's hollow eyes, and bows her head. "It will be done." She announces just as flatly, although she can't help the sudden shiver that passed through her body. T'was just as well that it was cold out tonight. "Come along, John. I may be no sawbones, but I'll do all in my ability to put you back together. I have lodgings at the Open Shell, if you wish to return with me." She shrugs, though deep down, for his sake, she hoped the sour faced little man would comply. He was in no condition to go traipsing about the Hive on his own; even if he was a blood-spattered warrior. Bidding Ridnir Tetch farewell until the following week, the Dustman turns on her heel and trudges off; beckoning for John to follow her.
|
|
|
Post by Stix on Feb 9, 2008 22:23:02 GMT -5
Tetch bows awkwardly, keeping his hungry gaze fixed on the pair as he gently closes the door behind him, returning to his work.
|
|
|
Post by john on Feb 10, 2008 20:51:53 GMT -5
John hobbles off after Uathach and aspirates a bit of blood, spitting it in a gooey phlegm-mixed spew onto the ground and says, "I earned enough to cover the cost, I'd imagine."
He grunts and says. "Ugh, I just sounded like Fishy didn't I?"
|
|
|
Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Feb 10, 2008 23:21:41 GMT -5
John hobbles off after Uathach and aspirates a bit of blood, spitting it in a gooey phlegm-mixed spew onto the ground and says, "I earned enough to cover the cost, I'd imagine." He grunts and says. "Ugh, I just sounded like Fishy didn't I?" Wraith shrugs, and draws her cloak tighter about her thin shoulders. She wasn't trying to be rude; if anything she was eager to get out of this cold before it started raining again. It was always raining. She sighed morosely, and shivered. The prospect of working alongside Tetch again didn't thrill her, either. It gave her the chills. She shuddered again as the stench of the place seemed to haunt her steps. Or maybe lingering traces of it had somehow been impressed upon her memory. "Probably. Don't let the peculiarities of speach common to some of the Factions get to you so much. We all do it without thinking." She muttered, offering a halfhearted shrug, and slowed her pace enough to keep up with thye hobbling brute. Up this close, and obviously seriously hurt, he didn't seem so bad after all. She felt sorry for him, actually; although she was gladdened by the small mercy of Ridnir Tetch turning him away. T'was likely the sadistic buzzard had more than enough tortured patients to satisfy him that night. "Do you wish to stop for a moment so I can have a closer look at those wounds? You're in pretty bad shape there." She stopped to peer at him in the gloom, and cocked her head to the side. "Why do you call him Fishy, anyway?" She asked, quite unexpectedly.
|
|
|
Post by john on Feb 11, 2008 22:23:29 GMT -5
"His hands. They're like fins, if you look close." He shrugs and says. "No, not here. I'd rather find a place I can feel comfortable sitting down first. And I can walk a little ways more. Or fight. If it's needed." His eyes narrow, and he shifts his weight slightly, looking behind him surreptitiously. "I grew up here, it's not a place to be vulnerable openly. Iron within, Iron without. The flesh and heart are weak."
|
|
|
Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Feb 11, 2008 23:04:49 GMT -5
Wraith sighs and nods. "Truth." It was a sad reality about the Hive ward, and one they couldn't escape from anytime soon; not unless some serious changes were made to the power structures of the Cage, and fast. She moves on again, trudging along through the mist toward the Sandstone District, and the relative safety of the Clerk's ward beyond. "I-I've spent most of my life here, toiling in the Mortuary, or the Infirmary we've just passed now. I never knew my real parents. I adopted when I was very young. You wouldn't think so, in looking at me as I am now, but I was raised in a slightly better side of town. Doomguard Walk actually, though that house has long since been snatched from my hands..."
Wraith falls into silence after that, keeping a close eye on her surroundings, the Fated at her back, and her illuminated coin held aloft to light the way through the mist... [OOC: I think the continuation of this thread should move on to the Open Shell now, unless Stix has something else in mind. ]
|
|
|
Post by john on Feb 11, 2008 23:17:02 GMT -5
"A fated took it." John ventures. "We're in charge of collecting unpaid debts and taxes." He shrugs, neither apologizing nor taunting her with it, simply stating it as fact. "So where do you live now?"
|
|