Riseagain: The World Above - IC

[Aero Blue]

Characters - Lore​

---

Faces of papyrus complexion make their procession through windless Inferia, the spiral of the Ringed City, and the murk and mire of the Soup Bowl. Ink-etched, these visages spoke simple-enough words, voiceless; 'Wanted', 'Only Alive', and the promise of a prize that confounds the middling-man's imagination. In only a single dimming-and-rising of the colorless sun, these bounty posters have pervaded the Kingdom's walls and caverns, and its streets, born dutifully by the ironclad hands of the Guard. They are of two faces, elegantly drawn with presumption more scientific than artistic, twin vagaries depicted to the best of some tucked away drawer's ability.

They are recognizable by some. The man is a near ubiquitous fixture of Inferia, the harping one-eyed 'revolutionary', full of grand promises and platitudes; Hirava of Hot Air. The prize attached to his visage is not so high, and the drawing's pouty expression is almost as if resentful of the fact; his capture is secondary, made significant in toto by the other. The other is of a girl. The girl, perhaps, given the bounty.

The iron-clad step of the Guard, permeating through the kingdom, is as the incessant pounding of drums sounding for war. The cacophony of the aspirant masses pollutes the ambience in its own messy discordance, men and women from every walk and race joining the hunt.

---

The Cheapest Inn in all the Ringed City

There are many reasons, one imagines, to drink. There are, some would say, less so in the way of justifications. Hirava, he of endless (blustering) rhetoric, had made an attempt at formulating his own. He was - is - a revolutionary. Revolutions came in circles. His mind often wandered in circles after a great deal of drinking. Thusly, drinking was both well-reasoned and well-justified, especially when he had enough merit tokens for the establishment in question.

"Circle, circles… what rhymes with circles? Drown my lungs with swill… turn me purple… purples." He titters to himself.

Hirava is drinking, an arm resting against the counter, the other helping in downing the contents of some low-grade swillfish. It is as he has always done, after a round of his rousing 'sermons'. He is, pointedly, ignoring the myriad gazes fixed upon him. Judgmental pricks.

The Barkeep, as quintessentially old as can be, looks on with some blend of sympathy and disgust. There is a price on the man, he knows, yet he is loathe to exchange the drunk's freedom for his own well-being. That, and he's unwilling to risk the hernia that could arise from the attempt. If it were the girl, perhaps. He shakes the unsavory thought from his mind as he stares at his patron, casually gutting another fish for his consumption.

The barkeep realizes: Hirava does not know he is marked, by some unfathomable feat of incredible ignorance.

The Cheapest Inn in all the Ringed City is not also the Largest Inn in all the Ringed City, and so today it is perhaps the most Densely Packed. Men and women, humans, dwarves and elves jostle for position along the walls of the establishment, and it's eight or so tables. They are here to hunt, which means they are not here to drink. This disappoints the barkeep; one is an ogre whose head reaches to the ceiling, and his capacity for drink could line a proprietor's pockets for the whole year.

The counter is vacant, save for Hirava's idiotic posterior. The hunters know that the moment one approaches, chaos ensues. After all, no one worth their salt will split the bounty of some small-fish.

And so only one is leaving with Hirava.

---

The Elevator - The Soup Bowl

There is a quiet screech as the platform of the Elevator slides along the translucent tower. The base of the Elevator's glassy spire sits in the center of the waters, and it radiates a quaint aura of light from the reflection of the colorless sun. It is but a dot amidst the murky green of the Soup Bowl, a tantalizing hint of what lies above.

The platform descends, and after a short time, a vessel emerges from the spire's base. Hard, black-wood, emblazoned with the red-white heraldry of Inferia; its passengers, the whispers say, are even more hunters and Guardsmen from the tiers above. Along the boardwalks of the Soup Bowl, jeers and howls of disdain and disapproval can be heard, ranging from unintelligible to palpably obscene.

The vessel makes for an impromptu dock - which is to say that it makes for the least eminently distasteful patch of boardwalk. Already, a contingent of denizens await. They are not a welcoming party. If Hirava isn't spewing his shit in the Soup Bowl, then he's up above, in the Ringed City. The vessel, once it dispenses with its current medley, will serve as their ferry.

But for only a few of them.

A man, severe and of the stick-up-bunghole comportment, regards the gathered lot from in front of them, smoothing over his Inferian garment with unusually large hands. His directive was simple; the Ringed City was not to be overly disturbed by hooligans from the Soup Bowl. The reverse was of no particular import.

"We'll take but ten of you unruly curs up above!" he says, loud and bombastic.

Something tense stirs amongst the contingent.

 

[Kiririn]

~~~Sabah Shortstalk ~~~​

The Elevator - The Soup Bowl​

---

There was somethings crawling inside the crowd.​

Too small to be seen underneath the myriad bodies standing upright, one would instead detect them through the shrieks of flailing terror among select few members of the crowd, angry growls breaking into mad fights, terrified pips of submissive-looking individuals groped. Par for the course for the Soup Bowl were it not for one thing: These occurrences were clearing a path. One did not need to trace the malignant energy within these crawling somethings to see whom they belonged to.

Sabah Shortstalk did not hide. Standing atop the back of a bloated, humanoid-seeming, rag covered thing crawling on its fours, he adamantly glared ahead. Two leather leashes were clenched in his fist, one connecting to the spiked collar of his current ride, and another to the collar of the similar creature behind him and his steed. Both crawled on their fours faster than one might expect with backwards bending legs and ankles tilted at far too low an angle, but only the one behind him had matronly breasts, a large pack strapped to its back, and the distinct sounds of bottles jingling inside 'her' body.

My god, no-one was stopping him, his party had already made it onto the vessel, why had no-one---oh, there he was. A large man yelling some garbage about how Sabah was 'boobiepot' and a 'manchild'. What even were those things? Silly man. Sending a pulse of purpose aura down the leash and into the body his ride, which already writhed with Sabah's 'purpose', the 'steed' glared up at the approaching lunatic. When he teetered close to the edge of the boardwalk in his approach, the 'steed' snorted and withdrew a throwing dagger from its robes that was swiftly flung into the man's thigh. He yelped, teetered more, and fell into the waters below. Bubbling blood could be seen in the dark murk.

A shame. Sabah recognized that face from somewhere. Maybe he could have utilized it. Seeing no use crying over split milk, blood, or flesh, Sabah hopped down onto the creaking wood, not paying the guards mind at all as he looks to his pets, "Hansel. Gretel. Rise again." They do.

Towering 6 feet tall, these massive, rag covered siblings stand to their feet, their backwards bending legs snapping back into place so they might have some resemblance of humanity. They were once human, up until the time they'd decided to answer the age old riddle of 'what happens to lost children who meet witches' except being 'lost' was a euphemism for a crippling drug addiction, as 'finding a witch' was for agreeing to anything for an endless high. Sabah had meant every word in that deal.

To be fair, he couldn't tell how much consciousness was left to enjoy the cheaper of his drugs, but they followed commands nonetheless. The pair were one of Sabah's greatest works yet. Only their face and hands remained human, the rest of their soft, translucent skin was covered in a hodgepodge of overlapping fish skin, hard reptilian scales, exposed nerve endings, and artificially enlarged chitin. Their rags covered almost the entirety of their bodies, and seemed more like a coat of fur than anything else - yet a few things remained exposed. Their faces, their hands, and in Hansel's case, Gretel's cleavage. Yes, you read that right, the boy had Gretel's breasts, Sabah knew seeing hermaphrodite-seeming humanoid abominations that bore the uncanny resemblance of twins was quite terrifying. Sabah might have been spooked too - had he not made the damn things.

Gretel, the less bloated of the pair, was Sabah's living terrarium. Under the once-girl's skin was a swarm of useful creepy crawlies, as many as could fit. They were isolated from each other through clever contortions of the body's physiology and, as was in Hansel's case, months upon months of daily Purpose Aura pumping. Hansel's case was far more unique, he was a pack mule in every sense of the word, a weighty and cumbersome entity even in comparison to Gretel. Under his skin were packs of Sabah's best moonshine, assorted contraband, and favored body parts; it all needed to be smuggled somehow and Sabah would only bring his best contraband along with him. He needed to make as many connections as possible in the world above.

As they stood, taking point around their master, they unsheathed their weapons, a pair metal clubs with jagged spikes in Hansel's case and a large two-handed scimitar in Gretel's. Sabah then revealed the final element of his entourage with a whistle tuned to trigger the release of select pheromones from the siblings' bodies. . . .beckoning the crawling somethings. They emerged from the crowds, sniffing their way to the siblings. They were hands. Five fingered and with one thumb trailing at the stem of their palm, acting as a tail, they bore a disgusting appearance. All but the middle finger were pulsing muscle capped off by hooves of bone at the fingertips, allowing for swift and mobile movement. Veins sprawled around their skin and a pair of eyes and a single nose could be found at the backhand. Their middle finger was encased in serrated bone and had a bladed tip. People were screaming.

While before they were guided by simple purposes, 'Grab', 'Poke', 'Maim there', with the activation of the pheromones the small animal brains inside their bodies triggered, circulatory systems activating, turning them 'alive' and thus negating any prior purpose for the ones imbued within these brains: "Return". They did. Evading boots stomped their way they crawled over to the siblings and into their rags, connecting the base of their stems with the exposed nerve endings that lined the siblings' bodies. A 90% return rate if Sabah was counting correctly. How pleasant.

Pulling down his own sleeve, Sabah revealed a lighter somehow embedded in his wrist, contorting the artificially grated muscles to flick the switch as a second tongue within the base of his throat uncoiled, slithering out of his mouth. A smoking pipe was wrapped up in its length, a fermented concoction of his own stomach acid and insect powder within. The tongue slithered back into his throat as he bit down on the pipe, lit it, and took a huff, calmly gazing out into the crowd to see who else would approach.

Of dubious powers and even more dubious intent, the first three of the Soup Bowl's champions had arrived.

 

[kixinorbit]

Absolute chaos-- that's what it was. And Cairn could do fuck all about it.

But what could you expect?

Show a poster promising tokens and suddenly everyone and their brother fancied themselves a bloody bounty hunter.

Shouldering past a growing crowd of people crammed around a wanted poster, all trying to look as inconspicuous as the next, Cairn had slipped away into a pub in search of breathing room. Usually, Deader attire was enough to afford him walking space, but then those posters went up all over Inferia. Now, it was nearly impossible to move for the crowds of people clustering around the images throughout the city, all claiming they knew a lass who knew a lad, who knew a whore, who knew an old bloke who'd seen that girl only yesterday.

Of course, no one he knew of had actually ever seen "The Girl" in person. Ever since Hirava had begun handing out those ridiculous cards, Cairn had kept his eyes peeled for her. He kept expecting to find her body in some back alley in the Soup Bowl—but she never turned up anywhere. Hirava, on the other hand, had kept right on spouting his revolutionary agenda with fervor on any street corner that'd have him.

And now Hirava's days were numbered. Hell, he'd even seen children gathering 'round the posters, some of them clutching knives. Which, he thought, he'd likely have to clean up at some point in the next few hours. Or not. This wasn't the Soup Bowl, but children were children and who knew what would happen in the "Hunt for Hirava." Not that the bounty was a large one—but Cairn had seen people murdered over a shiny rock, so he had no illusions as to what people were capable of when tokens were involved.

Fingering the fingers that were tucked away inside a pocket of his shroud-like cloak, Cairn continued to recline against a rough wall of the Cheapest Inn in all the Ringed City. Currently, the inn was empty, save for the impossibly old barman who'd spared him only a passing glance, and a single patron at the counter. The vacancy was likely due to the manhunt that was quickly gaining traction, and he watched through the doorway as more and more people began to gather around the posters outside.

When he'd come to the conclusion that he wanted to help this pair of revolutionaries, Cairn didn't know. It was foolish. He did know that. Was he really willing to risk the life he'd built for himself on some fluff-eared street-preacher and his miracle child?

Possibly.

It all seemed so counterintuitive, but many things that happened seemed that way to Cairn. Most recently, he had applied this same argument to "The Girl" and her supposed ability. If she could Restart the world, or if she was crazy enough to try, why not let her? What was so wrong with letting someone up to the surface if they thought they could make the world right? It seemed like letting her try would benefit Bulbous either way. She went up and fixed the world, she went up and died from the toxic environment, or she went up and got eaten by a big-ass dragon. The world is either fixed, or she's made an example of. That should be a win-win situation that Bulbous could claim credit for. It would prevent or, at the very least, stifle future revolutionaries.

And then the hunt began and Cairn was left wondering why. Would going to the surface prompt the dragon to abandon Inferia? Was some greater catastrophe waiting to befall them? Or were they simply afraid that she may actually be able to make the world right and they would lose power?

Was the world really even ruined at all?

Now, what with the posters and apparent desire to make the pair a public spectacle instead of allowing the Guard to bring them in quietly, something didn't sit right with him. And it wasn't because of something he'd eaten.

More and more people were beginning to trickle into the bar, but Cairn's attention was drawn to the tuneless singing at the counter.

He paled.

How had he missed that? True, he hadn't paid much attention when he'd come in, but he hadn't expected the man to be sitting in a pub.

Surely it wasn't him, though. Right? He wouldn't just be sitting there for the world to see?

Right?

He'd come around to this part of the city to listen for rumours, not find the blithering idiot drinking his troubles away.

Fortunately, many of the other potential hunters seemed to be sharing Cairn's bewilderment and refrained from action. Was this some kind of game? Or by some miraculous streak of idiocy, did he not realize he was a wanted man?

No, he reasoned, there were posters going up all over the city. He had to know.

...right?

But even if this was intended to be some kind of revolutionary public spectacle, Cairn was quickly growing uncomfortable. While that was partially from the number of bodies crammed into the small establishment, and partially from the stink coming off the ogre, he was growing increasingly wary of the gathering hunters that Hirava seemed so oblivious to. The second someone moved or coughed or breathed too loudly, hell was going to break loose.

This wasn't what he'd planned at all. How he was going to attempt to spirit the man away in the midst of the weapon-wielding masses, he had no idea.

Suddenly, Cairn's decision to support the pair seemed incredibly unwise.

 

[sun.]

When the air's become too bilgy for someone who grew up in the dirt, and too hot for someone who can spit flames - demonstrably capable of transforming many solid matters into sulfur-scented cinder - there is but one question to be asked:

What in the fuck is going on?

It was a rare question for Zinnith, sustaining the hurtful implication of her being in the know only 99% of the time, rather than the desired 100%. Her frustration manifested in a smoulder befitting of a younger woman, a girl really, juvenile and uncomfortably in need of something, or rather someone, to put their head on the block, so as to satiate the Wyrmling's desire to feel in control. Z.M. absentmindedly swirled the elongated glass, scouring the crowd with animosity. What a positively vacuous bunch. The Cartographer, a hulking brute of a man, was seated besides her in the warmest corner (which, in The Cheapest Inn in all the Ringed City still left much to be desired) of the tavern.

The Cartographer was an odd fellow. Presumably human, and seemingly confirmed as such by the man himself; or rather, the poor bastard he had carried by the collar of his dirty and ragged garb, when he had come to Zinnith for the first time, six years ago.

The Cartographer was mute,
or perhaps just chronically not in the mood.
The distinction is moot
given that his voice hasn't been heard by Zinnith or anyone the two have ever encountered together in at least half a decade. His appearance wasn't exactly that of a man's though. His physique exceeded what one would consider human limits, his muscles bulbous and bulging, a terrible mess of writhing charcoal flesh. His complexion was not that of a dark-skinned man's, but rather a nightly smudged black. His leg's were absolute trunks; a metaphor not only indicative of their size and girth, as the oddly disproportionate muscles, the twitchy veins, and a plethora of scars mimicked the wood grain of an old and feline-abused tree.

His face was flared towards the bottom, almost snout-like, but Zinnith had a fairly accurate suspicion that it was actually a formerly mundane mug, torn apart by some terrible beast. The way his chin (read: what would be a chin and jaw-area) and nose (read: what would be a nose) melted into a triangular fan of distorted flesh suggested gnarly wounds, left without the aid of substances or magicks, and instead struggled to heal in any way possible, resulting in this disfigured and featureless (read: deprived of lips, a definite jawline, or any trace of a nose) visage.

What was left of his - again, presumably - once human appearance were alert amber orbs, beady but clear. They followed Zinnith's circular motions, recognizing the sub par liquor's colour as their own.

"You'd think they'd scramble to cash in on the fool, but here we are, I suppose," the horned woman muttered more to herself than her entourage. Her lips touched the glass, feeling the liquid run down her throat with a cheap burn that reminded her off home - Now she really wanted someone to piss her off. Slamming the container down on the table, she scoffed at the fatty sheen of the neglected furniture, and placed her soft palms flat on the booth, pushing herself up with the dramatic effort of an elderly woman.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we appreciate the glares and hollow exclamations of valor, but I'll take it from here."

The very sarcastic and very audible announcement drew gazes from the tightly-positioned crowd, as Zinnith sashayed towards the counter with graciously outstretched arms, as if bathing in feverish adoration of her fans.

Or something like that.

"So, then, you are either unimaginably stupid or genuinely heroic. But, given that you still owe me for my wares, I'm strongly inclined to believe it is the former, mister revolution."

Her boots echoed against the dirt-coated floor with dreading finality, her tail dancing with salacious glee and almost obscene vigor. Her voice had transformed in the middle of her sentence, a terrible, reptilian snarl wavering each word with the instability of a predator who had no use for zigzags or other such shenanigans, and instead went straight for the kill. Finally, Zinnith's body slid in place next to the hunched-over man. Her elbow propped on the counter, Zin's cheeks almost squished her gleaming left eye shut as she let her face rest on top of her hand, eyeing Hirava.

"I gave you plenty of time to pay, wouldn't you agree?"

And so, The Cartographer nodded his head once, stoically but with the panache of a more physically-incapable toady.

"And I even afforded you the luxury of not announcing just what you even owe me for. You know, they call me a deviant sometimes, but...

She shook her head and, with furrowed brows, leaned in so close that Sir Hot Air could feel the arid head of a woman's soon-to-be fiery breath. A hungry smirk flashed a row of fangs yearning to sink into warm red.

"At first, I figured, perhaps a bit of justified force would be required, but I think there's better ways, my darling. See, we'll just have you go with our friends in the Guard, and, well... you'll be a very handy example to other spalpeens and I'm getting back at least a bit of what you owe me. Doesn't that... doesn't that sound so very good, hm?"

Hirava's cheeks were treated to the discrepancy between Zinnith's scaly back of her right hand tapping against his cheekbones, while the warm flesh of her left palm cupped his jaw with playful appraisal.

"Now, I do recognize that this chain of events likely doesn't sound as enticing as inserting your purchase into who-knows-where, but I feel inclined to mention that if you do not agree, then this lovely boy will rearrange your map to mirror that of the In-Between, sooo... shall we?"

She gestured with grandeur towards the stunned crowd, who hid the entrance of The Cheapest Inn in all Ringed City housing the dumbest revolutionary in all of Inferia.

And yes, that is why he's called The Cartographer.

 

[Hecatoncheires]

[bg=#000000]The barman is getting nervous, now.

This is because the barman is aware of two things.

The first being the rumours that abound regarding the horned woman that's made the first move on the most unlucky son of a bitch ever to holler from the street corners of Inferia. You hear plenty when you're the publican of the Cheapest Inn in all the Ringed City, after all, and most of what he's heard relating to Zinnith Margrave makes his skin crawl.

The second is he's all too aware of who's busy day drinking over on the left side of the Inn.

This is, after all, a Þórirsson-sponsored inn.

You'd be forgiven for mistaking this day drinker for some sort of mole mutant, given the tanned flesh that's almost entirely made up of scar tissue, but the lurid ginger hair that clings to him puts paid to such a notion. He's seated at one of the few battered tables that has yet to be destroyed in a brawl, emptying the contents of a bottle of moonshine into his mouth with a practised ease that can only come from years of semi-professional boozing. Gnarled hands clutched the bottle, years of wear and tear making it hard for them to straighten out but ideal for gripping a bottle.

Or someone's neck.

You decide.

Urist Þórirsson Kjalar Bludgenheimr XIV, better known to the residents of this underground society as Bludger, sets the now empty moonshine bottle down and smacks his lips with satisfaction. Good batch: he makes a mental note to place another order with that Sabah fellow. Yet day drinking will now have to wait, since by now the Cheapest Inn in all the Ringed City is rapidly filling up with every manner of would-be bounty hunter imaginable and Margrave herself has just made an appearance. Poor Hirava's never been this in demand in his life, and the silly old fuck hasn't even quite cottoned on to the fact yet.

Sauntering from his table spot to the bar, Bludger makes a point of setting his empty moonshine bottle down on the grubby wooden surface as his craggy face leers a grin towards Hirava and Zinnith simultaneously.
"Jæja núna. This is rather awkward," he observes, tone as amicable as the vocal equivalent of two rocks having hate sex can be, "Seems we're both gunning for the same prize, Margrave." His head twists towards the assembled mob of would-be bounty hunters, and his grin widens to alarming proportions. "Alright then, fólk, you've had your fun. This is now clan business you're intruding on. And Margrave business, apparently. If you're smart enough to know what that means, make for the door. If you aren't?"

Somehow, the grin widens even further.

"Well then, rassgati, make my fucking day."[/bg]

 

[Nemopedia]

Cormorant Garamond; Metamorphous;

Saree Nett

On a rare day of chance Saree had decided that he needed a drink. Not a drink just anywhere, but the cheapest booze at the shadiest place in the ring. The place where bar fights were the likeliest to happen and from which his family earned the majority of their income. He was looking for the sort of company he frequently had to treat, the blubbering fools with too much bravado after a pint or two. The reason he stated was simple. Because he needed it. The family just let him, already happy to see the guy out of his room. They hoped that whatever the reason was --even if it was a tavern wench-- it was there to stay.

Truth to be told the male was looking, cautiously putting out a toe for information. Ever since the spreading of the pamphlets a desire had burned within, one that whispered to him to get out. The sort of mental voice that spelled trouble and which Saree ignored. Yet, this time he gave in. What had moved him to give in was unknown and the half-elf decided that it was not worth knowing now either. For now he decided to sate his curiosity and hopefully crush his good hopes in any sort of breathing creature. The Cheapest Inn sounded like a good place for crushed hopes and curiosities.

Also because Saree happened to know that Hirava was a frequent customer. He was a recluse, but not an ignorant fool. The man knew how to keep an eye and an ear out and there were clients plenty that he had to treat despite his refusal of destiny. Clients who talk.

What he was ignorant of was the time. He had not expected to walk into a scene so advanced already that he felt like an intruder on stage. The actor that forgot his lines, the player that appeared just a moment too late and after his peers had decided to move on without him. Opening the door towards the Inn Saree stepped into a tense situation, eyes all set on a particular spot before turning at him to see who dared to disturb.

"Evening," was the first word that escaped him, awkwardly and uncomfortably. Reading the mood in their eyes Saree knew he had entered the stage at its unluckiest time. The mood was tense, explosive and just needed an ignite to set off. The dark-elf seemed to be that trigger as his eyes moved up to the front of the stage where he recognised the revolutionary. A dwarf and a wyrmling near, both smiling wickedly and ready for blood.

What a timing he had. Gulping Saree stood rooted in the entrance, waiting for what was to come and not daring to move. From somewhere in the back an item flew past his vision, reaching a table just in front of the bartender. A battle-cry was roared and suddenly the Inn came to life.

 

[The_J]

Ada Gottfried

Not a movement in the room. Not a sip, not a cough, not a single word. Until, of course, the most draconic of the patrons finally did that which no one else had had the cajones yet to do. Of course, almost all of this was posturing; threats, demonstrations of power, showing she was dangerous. Her stoic, deformed friend remained silent - now, he was the one to watch out for. Vague memories stilled in Ada's head of who the two might be, but nothing concrete as of yet.
Naturally, such bravado invited challengers. Just the one, at first. A dwarf, very polite, trying to ensure that only he and the dragon would be the ones to duke it out for their prize. Not likely, thought Ada, glancing at all of the mercenaries, bounty hunters, and punters trying to get lucky that surrounded her. She'd stayed within their mass, making sure she was less likely to be recognised. She enjoyed a good rivalry, but far too many people that might come here would recognise her. Bandits, thieves and assassins, all with a bone to pick - most likely her spine, to be picked from her back. A hooded jacket could only go so far, in concealing her identity.
What it could do, however, would be to become a full upper body and helmet of steel plate armour, incredibly durable, unusually flexible, and lighter than it had any right to be. A clanking of steel sounded as she shoved her way past the other patrons, their shoulders met with steel gauntlets.
Her voice rang slightly within the full helm as she spoke. "As much fun as it would be to-" she began, before someone threw a glass, smashing it on a table next to the barman. Someone shouted, and those within the bar began to fight each other, scrambling around to be the last one standing, presumably the one to get a hold of Hirava.
Like they had a chance.
Ada unclipped the buckler from her belt, holding tight as it grew almost instantly into its full form as a kite shield. She drew her dagger pointing down, tossing it lightly in the air to make it spin, and the point raced out a lopsided arc as the blade became longer and wider, growing a large pommel and straight crossguard before it landed in her right hand as she moved towards Hirava's table. She launched a lunging stab at the fire-breather's centre mass, with her shield up in front of her to block any counterattack.

 

[RJS]

CASER


From an alleyway behind The Cheapest Inn came the muffled sounds of argument. If somebody were to venture down it, they would see what appeared to be an eclectic collection of rags that had sprouted a sock puppet. The puppet was vividly coloured, with a messy shock of hair and larger than normal buttons for eyes. Of course, the only ways into the alleyway were watched. Little quadripedal spiders with a single eye squatted in an inconspicuous location at either end, while a third watched over the chaos within the building itself.

"Right, but if the surface is so habitable, then why do the nobles bother trading with the dragon?"

...

"For the last time, it is a...you know what, fine! Even if it's a camouflaged alien ship, why would the nobles trade with them?"

...

"WHAT ALIEN TECHNOLOGY YOU PARANOID IDIOT!?" We have been into every noble house up there, so how come we haven't seen it?"

...

"Oh of course it's invisible. Of course it is. Because bullshit is so much easier than accepting that your lunacy is wrong. There are no aliens, and if the surface is habitable then the dragon isn't telling. What else can we do?"

...

"No, I am not risking my life sneaking all the way out the top of Inferia to get myself killed solely to satisfy your insane obsession!"

...

"I'm not afraid of being wrong, I'm afraid of dying you utter nutcase! Thankfully these five minutes are up, so I bid you good day sir! Good day I said!"

Caser sighed. Why he had chosen to wear Mr Fruitloop today he had no idea. Must be the rumours circulating the city. Profitable rumours, nonetheless. The number of people to whom he had sold information on Hirava's whereabouts was gargantuan. As for why he had come along to watch, piloting a critter up into the roofbeams of the inn to watch the fun? Well, Hirava was a giant ass, and watching the chaos unfold quite appealed to his sense of entertainment. It already seemed like Blodger and Zin were kickstarting things, as well as the Nett child? He assumed it was from the very distinctive markings. Well, well, well. Quite the crowd today. He lingered in the alleyway a little longer. If nothing else, it would be worth it to get information on the whereabouts of the Nett child. He sat, watching all three critters, but mostly sniggering at the feed of the chaos within the inn.

 

[sun.]

An ugly laugh escaped Zinnith's dark lips, her arms crossed in front of her chest. The Wyrmling threw her head back in amusement with exaggeration, squinting at Bludger's coarse appearance. "I'll pass," she gave with a primal snarl backing her words, threatening her competitor with the terrible whistle of her draconian heritage. "This varmint owes me, and I don't take lightly to people who abuse my good will, so, you know..." She gave a lackadaisical shrug, then rested her hands behind her back. Finally, she bent over, bowing down towards the stocky Dwarf with a toothy grind, and the juvenile condescension of a curious child.

"Unless you really intend to start another turf war, I would suggest you take your little cloppers into your hands and move."

With triumphant bravado, she straightened her back and returned to full height, nestling a claw into Hirava's locks, ragdolling his little head towards her like a trophy to parade around.

"Hey, if the guards let you, I'd be happy for you to have him when I got what is mine, and-"

But her mockery was cut short, as the bar suddenly erupted in chaotic conflict. The Cartographer moved closer to Zinnith and her prey, who sneered at the pathetic displays of violence around her. Letting her gaze wander through the crowd, she tilted her head to the side - almost resting it on Hirava's quivering shoulders - and looked on with wonder at the woman sporting a proper shield and sword charging her,

"Hmph," she grunted, smoke and cinders escaping her flaring nostrils. Without a word or sign, the hulking brute stepped in between the two women, his flesh bulging unnaturally upon the sword's impact. "Quite barbaric." After what seemed to be a stasis of evaluation, during which Zinnith sized Ada up, The Cartographer's massive paws reached for the hilt, pulling it out of his bloodless physique without so much as a grunt - not a show of pain resistance, but of lacking vocal chords.

The Wyrmling scoffed with contempt, her confidence finally cracking to make room for genuine disdain. "We're talking," she snarled through reptilian screeches, and reached out towards Ada, her fingers all splayed, exposing the marked palm of her hand. With bursts of smoke still lingering all around the woman's facial features, an invisible force began to pull at the attacker's sword and shield, slowly increasing its force to pry away the weaponry from its rightful owner, towards the Wyrmling.

 

[kixinorbit]

More and more, "unwise" was seeming a wholly insufficient word to describe his decision.

He'd planned to do this quickly and quietly. Find Hirava. Hide Hirava. If needed, he had plans to lure Hirava.

He had not planned for the "smuggle Hirava out of a tightly-packed pub in the middle of a manhunt" step being an imperative part of this whole operation. And he certainly hadn't planned for the "fight Zinnith Margrave and Þórirsson dwarf-boulder" step. All in all, it was not something he was willing to take on.

(It should be noted that Cairn is not a cowardly man, nor is he a wholly unskilled fighter. He possesses an appropriate amount of courage and an acceptable amount of skill, which enables him to survive his work. He, consequently, also possesses enough common sense to know when a cause is a lost one.)

And this? This was not a fight he was going to win. It was too much effort and it was far too risky. It would take much more than his questioning the government to so openly forfeit his position in the Dead Division. And besides, he would be able to question Hirava once he was imprisoned. That was something he could do discretely and without getting his teeth smashed in by a wyrmling. Or a dwarf. Or whatever the hell the Cartographer was.

Slowly, very slowly, Cairn slid his lanky form backward, pressing himself against the wall. It was really quite remarkable that the crowd still waited. The tension was palpable, though they were likely reluctant to engage with the present contenders. Zinnith had grabbed the man's head and (fuck, was he even still alive with his head lolling around like that?) was apparently not planning to relinquish her hold at any point in the near future.

It was all absurd, really. And what did he even want with revolutionaries? No—he would wait. Go home, have a drink, then come back and clean up the inevitable corpse pile this whole mess would result in.

And then the door opened. The creaking hinges drew tense expressions toward the newcomer, who seemed to have no idea just what he'd stumbled into. With a raucous shriek, someone hurled a glass across the inn. For a moment, everything seemed to slow and Cairn winced as he watched the shards of glass spray across the table and onto the floor.

The shattering glass was apparently the catalyst the crowd needed, and the entirety of the inn erupted into a cacophonous roar and clash of bodies.

Dodging the initial wave of the sweaty masses, Cairn managed to duck toward the door. A chair smashed somewhere to his right and a man in a tattered coat stumbled into his path, clutching a cut on his arm. As if to express his outrage, the man took a wild swing at Cairn, who drew back, evading the blow. Before he could further retaliate, the man was bowled over by a shrieking woman who was brandishing a broken bottle as a weapon. Attempting to fight his way through the surging sea of enraged patrons, Cairn slipped between flailing limbs with enough grace to avoid any real hindrance.

Until an elbow caught him in the face, dislodging his mask and setting off an unfortunate chain of events. The sudden jolt sent Cairn stumbling backwards and just managing to avoid getting trampled by charging woman with a shield. This, however, put him in the path of a short man wielding a broken piece of something, which he dodged—effectively causing the man to hit the ogre with the something, who abruptly turned to find the sorry sonuvabitch who'd hit him. Trying to clear out, Cairn was shunted to the side by the short man and he half tripped over the elf who'd unintentionally started the damn brawl to begin with. And, before he could ever really regain his footing, Cairn found himself being hoisted into the air, the ogre's hand clamped around his waist as it grunted a sort of displaced triumph and dangling him upside down like some sorry excuse for a swillfish.

Fucking fuck.

Unable to reach his daggers, Cairn sank his teeth deeply into the ogre's hand. With a snarl of outrage, the ogre flung Cairn away, plunging him back into the sea of brawlers. Dazed, the Deader staggered to his feet, vaguely aware of the huge creature now swinging wildly, bowling people over in a swathe around its huge bulk. Head spinning, Cairn smeared most of the blood away from his mouth with the back of his gloved hand and attempted to again locate the door.

If Hirava somehow survived this ordeal, Cairn was going to kill him himself.

 

[Joan]

fright

Mirala "Mira" Ceril

---

Mira sat near one of the inn's few windows, idly turning a wooden cup over in her hands. Her ever-present smile stayed easily and naturally on her face as she studied the crowd, ignoring the uncouth comments being flung her way. She had heard it all before, and she knew that such men were often more full of hot air than anything else. Besides, her concerns were elsewhere at the moment.

She recognized quite a few people in this inn, but if any of them happened to look her way, they would see a slightly shorter human woman with close-cut dark hair, tanned skin, and pale green eyes. It was one of her lesser-used illusions, and none of the people here would recognize it. She was grateful for that. There were already too many high-ranking players in the inn--she could only see Zinnith Margraves in the corner and Bludger of the Þórirsson clan at the bar, but that was already too much. As she glanced over the occupants of the inn again, shifting the cup toward her palm, she spotted a hooded figure that looked somewhat familiar, but before she could figure out who it was, she spotted somebody in full Deader garb. She recognized his lanky build almost immediately, and she blinked in shock. The hell's Cairn doing here? This isn't at all within a Deader's line of work, unless he's going to try and collect the inevitable bodies...his face doesn't agree, though. He's scared shitless. But why?

She decided to worry about Cairn's motivations later and glanced back toward the bar, cup moving toward her fingertips. She could hear him mumbling something about circles and swill, and she pulled the cup back, smiling even as her thoughts whirled in confusion. He really doesn't know. How can anybody be so blind? Even if he hasn't seen the posters, he should at least be aware of who's behind him and realize that he's in trouble.

Normally, she would never have bothered with somebody with such a low price on their head, especially not when the guard had been the ones to post the bounty and half the city seemed to be after them. This was a special situation, however, for two reasons. The first was that getting Hirava would potentially lead to finding the girl, who was worth far more. The second was the letter tucked into one of her many pockets, offering a much prettier sum for Hirava's delivery than the one on the posters. Even that, however, wasn't worth the attention Hirava was drawing.

And yet...What if the girl wasn't a fraud after all? The guard were going ballistic over it, so that had to mean something. They wouldn't waste this many resources on a simple fraud...would they?

Mira had been deliberating the same questions for far too long, and it cost her. Before she could make up her mind, Zinnith suddenly stood, and Mira instinctively tightened her grip on the cup. As the wyrmling moved forward, Mira quickly adjusted her grip, sliding the cup forward and primarily supporting it with her two forefingers and thumb. She needn't have bothered, since Zin quite deliberately spoke loud enough for the entire tavern to hear. She spoke with her usual grandiose manner, casually threatening Hirava and treating him as if she had already claimed him. Her behavior held the tavern in stunned silence, but Mira could feel the tension boiling just beneath the surface. It wouldn't take much to set the crowd off, and when that happened, it would be a slaughter. After all, only one could leave with Hirava.

So why am I still considering it? Dammit, Mira, your survival's more important than some two-bit revolutionary and his false hope! Despite her attempt to convince herself to leave, Mira was still conflicted. What if the Reset girl wasn't a scam?

As she continued to deliberate, Bludger moved forward, presenting a challenge to the rest of the stunned tavern, and she could feel the tension building. Zin responded confidently and with a sneer before cementing her claim by casually twisting a claw into Hirava's hair, making it impossible for anybody to try to take him without her knowledge. Mira's hand tightened on the cup even more, and her lips tightened as well, somehow making her smile grimmer. With that simple gesture, she realized that, despite all her survival instincts screaming for her to just leave, she had, at some point, committed to seeing this through.

There was movement at the door. Mira didn't even need to look that way to know what would happen next. The tavern was a powder keg ready to blow, and the entry of a mildly terrified stranger was all that was needed to set it off. A glass flew through the air, and Mira stood with the crowd, reaching down to slide a dagger out of her boot, still maintaining her grip on the cup.

Before she could reach her dagger, a roar sounded from above her. She glanced upward, and her eyes went wide, though her smile never faltered. There was an ogre above her, swinging down with a massive fist. She had seen it before the tavern erupted into chaos, but it had been several feet away from her. She hadn't expected it to reach her area of the tavern so rapidly, but none of that mattered now. What mattered was survival.

Her eyes were only wide for a moment, but then they narrowed, and she ducked easily to the side, forming an illusiory copy of herself in the position where she had been moments ago and adjusting her own face to blend in with the crowd. Her fingers reached up and tapped the ogre on the underside of the arm just before his swinging fist met the face of her illusiory copy. He was rewarded with the satisfying sensation of sinking his fist into weak human flesh, and the illusiory copy crumpled to the floor. Mira pulled her hand back and melted into the crowd, vaguely noting the ogre's pleased expression and his back moving away from her at a somewhat alarming pace. Moments later, she heard an angry snarl behind her, and she picked up the pace, weaving through the crowd with ease and agility befitting of her elven heritage. Thankfully, the snarl did not seem to be meant for her, judging by the sounds of crashing bodies on the other side of the inn, but it paid to be careful.

She was able to slip through the crowd without further incident, tugging the dagger out of her boot along the way. As she approached the front of the crowd, she spotted the hooded figure from before, and she cursed internally. It was Ada Gottfried, yet another person she would much rather avoid. Still, Zin seemed to be a match for her, using her strange magic to pull the metal of Ada's weapons toward her. And, despite the fact that she had just been attacked, she still had one hand in Hirava's hair.

Shit...this was never going to be easy, but seriously? The three people she wanted most to avoid were all in the same place, fighting each other for a two-bit bounty, and this bounty actually meant something for once. Not only that, but she knew that if she pissed Zin off, it would no doubt come back on her somehow. Yet she was, after all, in disguise, and a plan was already forming itself in her mind. She just had to hope that it would actually be worth anything.

She moved toward the side of the crowd and tightened her grip on the wooden cup, altering its appearance to that of a rusty metal cup. She slipped forward, using the crowd for cover until she felt like she was in a good position to throw past the Cartographer. Then, grim smile still on her face, she stepped out of the crowd in full view of the trio at the bar and let out a shout to draw their attention, altering her voice to give it a shriller tone, keeping the dagger she had drawn out of sight and holding it in a loose grip.

"Fuck off, fire-spitter!" With the grim smile still on her face, she threw the cup forward before ducking back towards the crowd, mentally counting the seconds it would take to make contact. She kept her back within line of sight for that long, and the moment she figured it would have hit, she dove between two brawlers, adjusting her appearance slightly to blend in. Her hair was now brown and shoulder-length, with long elven ears poking out, and she returned to her normal height.

She stayed near the front of the crowd, concealed behind several brawlers, still watching the chaos in front of her. Hopefully, the illusion had tricked Zin and had caught her off-guard, giving the others an opportunity to attack, or maybe it had caused her to release her hold on Hirava. She partially expected the Cartographer to just knock it out of the air, but maybe that would provide an opening somebody could use. However it went down, Mira trusted her illusion to protect her, and she felt little concern for her own safety. Her focus was on Hirava.

 

[Aero Blue]

The hirsute creature-of-the-hour's nerves had flared with a cold fire and burning chill. Awareness had returned to Hirava, of past and present alike. The past: he had, perhaps, committed minor wrongs and irritations against the Þórirsson and Margrave estates alike. The present: he had, perhaps, earned what he incorrectly perceived as the full depth of his dilemma, caught between wyrmling-dominatrix and muscle-tumor-with-limbs.

For a brief moment, he was triply 'blessed' with a another state of awareness, one which came with an abject fear. The future: he was, perhaps, going to get his dick kicked in.

Gaze pried in the right direction by Margrave's intruding claw, however, Hirava realizes the enormity of his underestimation, and the giant shadow of the impending shit-storm. He gazes upon the various faces within the establishment, and sees - for the most part - crude avarice and the ugliness of the violent. He sees, furthermore, his own face and bounty, floating papyrus scattered amidst the melee.

Still an uncomfortable captive of the wyrmling, Hirava finds that his fear subsides, enough to indulge in a reaction most unreasonable.

"YES! YES! YEEEEEEEEEEES YOU GRAND MOTHERFUCKERS!" Shouts of gravelly, smoke-lunged celebration, of man-child ecstasy pervade even through the crashing and clanging of the brawl.

Having a price on your head is, after all, the bare minimum for bonafide hall-of-fame revolutionary status. That particular accomplishment warranted two cheers. The third cheer?

The third cheer is because, now, his hands are free.

The door Cairn the Deader is so insistent on looking for prys itself from its creaky hinges, and accelerates - along with a myriad of displaced stools, ruined tables, and portions of the establishment walls - towards Hirava's location at speed. Already, he can hear the barkeep's anguished distress. That, he muses, is just the first part of the spell. The second part, the culmination, is much more fun.

The constituent wooden rubble and shrapnel force themselves together in a wagon-chariot construction, pieces uncomfortably lodging into one another like a poorly-matched marriage arrangement. Makeshift wheels spin in place, as the vehicle begins on a rampaging trail through the brawling lot and towards Hirava.

The plan, on paper, was simple enough. The thing would run these pricks - Bludger, Margrave, kite-shield girl, or hulking brute - the fuck over, or they'd clear aside and he'd jump on for a free pass out. Hirava smiles; if he was going to be their big game, he'd have to play his part and make a grand escape.

In any case, there was not much longer before the Guard arrived.

 

[Eru]

The Soup Bowl's boardwalks have erupted into bedlam, all in a few short moments. What an unmanageable lot these people were. Sometimes, the elf girl wonders why she even bothers.

---

---

"S'cuse me. Do you have the time?" A burly man, with scars along his hair-covered arms, already in a loss as to some of his mental faculties due to the creepy-crawling limbs scurrying through the crowd, holds his hand to his head as he stared down a small girl on the docks, dressed in a greenish-gray cloak over a pair of high-topped boots. She couldn't be past 16, yet here she was, down in the Soup Bowl among the worst of human dregs. The man gives a cracking laugh. "It's time for you to go back to whatever cave you crawled out of, little missy," he replies, his laugh twisting sinister with the sudden procurement of a fishbone dagger from somewhere within his garments. "You're not getting on that boat. Not on my watch."

Uni eyes the man with distaste, disgust, and disappointment. "Why can't you fuckers ever just give a straight answer? So ominous." She holds up her left hand, a mischievous smirk leaping to her face. "As for the time: it's ten-to-kill." Her hand shines with a sudden burst of blinding white light, which shoots forward, growing and twisting and stretching and looping, looping around the burly man who is seized by the tendril of light. A second later, the light dissipates, and Uni's arm has been replaced by that of an octopus, now grasping the man tightly at the waist. He gasps, as if the wind has been knocked out of him, and a few others now turn in sudden shock at the event, looking at the inhuman limb with incomprehension.

A growl. "Out of my way, cur." The amphibious orange tentacle tightens around the man, and he is now gasping for air. He is suddenly lifted from the dock and dashed into the swill-ridden waters of the Soup Bowl, the last thing he sees being the beastly snarl upon Uni's face. There is a loud splash, and then the man is gone, for the moment. Uni's arm again becomes wreathed in light, twisting and shrinking in the space of a second, and then her hand returns to its usual physicality. She snarls again at the crowd around her, and shoves a path forward through the now yielding bodies.

A few steps onward, the hulking forms of the cat's body horrors are easily noticeable among the crowd. The name comes to Uni's mind, and she mutters it with a remnant of disgust. Sabah. Though his methods were, to her, horrifying, she had to admit that they were clever. Today, they were only in the same place by chance, instead of assignment, and so Uni passes by the trio with nothing but a glance. Now at the forefront of the docks, Uni reaches up to the clasp of her cloak, undoing it and with a swift motion inverting the cloak upon herself. The inside color now becomes out, a resplendent red with a quality that seems to be unearthly clean in this deep, dank place.

---

Uni stands before the boat captain, and waits, patiently, while the volume of the crowd behind begins to rise again.

 

[Starlighter]

yllis

In the backdrop of the disturbing scene playing out on the docks of the soup bowl, one small pixie buried in the depths of the crowd went entirely unnoticed, much to her great annoyance. Huffing airily and aggressively muttering under her breath, Yllis aimed to squeeze between a spindly elf and an obnoxiously obese human. As if reading the intent in her thoughts, the meaty human jostled the elf, and a spat broke out. Irritated to have her way blocked by the bickering pair, she ducked sideways in an attempt to slip past them. An opening just big enough for her to pass through opened up as the human body slammed the elf, and she sprang through it.

No sooner had she escaped the two brawlers, a heavy steel rimmed boot belonging to a grossly oversized foot stomped quite precisely on her baby toe.

The dainty, scowling pixie erupted. "EIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIAH!" She screeched for all her miniature lungs were worth at an ear splitting decibel likely enough to make most everyone of a species inclined to be taller than her flinch. Simultaneously, her frying pan snapped upward in a two handed swing propelled by a rage induced jump. Her aim fell true, and the flat of the pan smashed into the nose of the offending boot's owner with a highly satisfactory crunch.

Despite the howling her blow elicited, she was not to be so easily recompensed. The pan dropped with a thwump onto the boot itself, leaving a hefty dent in the stiff leather and transforming the howling into a squeaky whimper interspersed with frantic hopping. Smirking to herself, she gave the human ever so slight of a shoulder tap. "Next time, deary, do watch where you're stepping, hmm? Aiyaaaaah!" As she yelled, she gave a mighty shove. Already off balance, the human toppled over and promptly fell over the edge of the dock, plop into the broth, as it were.

Immensely pleased with herself and giggling quietly, Yllis picked her way down the edge of the dock without further difficulty. Upon reaching the spot where the boat had landed, she was at last able to make out the cause of the ruckus - her most favourite customer. The rude one, always ruining her delicately balanced concoctions with that blasphemous bug powder. She wrinkled her nose in disgust and shot him a nasty look before setting her attention to the man in charge of ferrying the gathered hoodlums upwards.

Putting on her sweetest, most innocent voice and batting her lashes for effect she said, "I'd like to go up, please and thank you!" Only after this did she notice the red caped girl standing close at hand. Her eyes widened and her face brightened with a glorious smile, but her focus never wavered from the man before her. Instead, she made a slight hand motion that could be easily missed by any unaccustomed to look for it.​

 

[Nemopedia]

Cormorant Garamond; Metamorphous;

Saree Nett

By some miracle the chaos didn't include Saree, yet. Still rooted at the door the party broke loose, fists planted into the nearest face and chairs breaking under the force of their unintended use. Shouts were heard, bravado was felt, all of which the half-elf lacked as he finally made a move to the left to step out of the way. A body crashed through the doors of the inn, landing on the street as the aggressor stalked after the lump of meat. For a bit the male wondered if he should go after and see if treatment was needed, but then thought sternly to himself to know better. Nothing was alright in this scene and the Nett family house wasn't far removed from here.

Just as the thought escaped him a chair was slammed over his back. Falling forward dizzy and silly of the pain Saree groaned to himself as he rolled over. A glimmer of madness came for him and he rolled away again, letting his attacker crash onto the floor. "Hey," he tried, but didn't get the chance as the man went in for another attack. Witlessly Saree crawled up, grabbing hold of what used to be the leg of a chair and swung. The brawler backed but realised Saree's inexperience and a toothy grin spread over his face. Gulping Saree braced himself, finger tracing over the wood to draw a rune.

Before another attack could happen Saree felt himself pulled away, or rather the wood. Like some sort of magnet the former chair was moving towards one point of the inn, the half-elf dangling after it clumsily. He stepped over half-wits that had knocked each other out, he leapt over tables almost falling, but he never let go. Whether it was because he didn't want to, was only clear to himself. That he looked silly was undoubted. His magic was known to be unreliable when his mind was scattered and he would not be surprised if he had accidentally drawn 'glue' instead.

Next the half-elf knew he was dangling in the air, the wood in his hand having merged somewhere near the top at the rim and his legs dangerously close near the wheels. Pulling and climbing himself up vigorously the recluse of Nett realised that he just gotten himself a free ride out of the inn. A thought that both strangely excited him, but also horrified him as he realised who the driver was.

 

[Hecatoncheires]

[bg=#000000]Dwarves have never been big on sport, in the traditional sense of the term that other races use. Business, venture capital and mercantilism have been their greatest vices over the years, habits going back to the time before the surface went to shit and everyone wound up with strange symbols etched into their skin. But if they had found time in between making money, fucking people over financially and digging underground trade routes to formalise some manner of sporting endeavour?

It would have undoubtedly have involved bar brawls.

And Bludger would have been quite the renowned athlete.

Letting out a bark of laughter as the assembled bounty hunters simultaineously dive for the door, the target or each other, Bludger launches with the traditional opening that dwarves all across Infera love so dearly and publicans despise: hooking his arm through the underside of the nearest bar stool with a sweeping motion, he sends the wooden sitting utensil-turned-projectile hurtling into the assembled crowd.
"Afli!" he cackles, watching the stool splinter itself into pieces across the chest of some unfortunate hunter who wasn't able to get out the way in time. The glass he was so recently drinking from quickly follows the stool, shattering itself across the brawling, struggling crowd.

Bludger's grinning like a kid burning ants with a magnifying glass, now. He was expecting some boring debtor retrieval job, yet now he's wound up in the midst of his favourite pastime.

His anticipation is probably why he doesn't notice the magically-spawned carriage careering towards him until its almost too late.

The contraption plunges through the mob towards the quartet at the bar, knocking aside all in its path, and Bludger has just enough time to declare, "Oh tits!" before it's on him. Stocky muscle tumour and magical carriage meet with an almighty crunch, and for a moment it looks as though the Þórirsson clan might be down a son. Of course, its rather tricky to kill a dwarf: their stubbornness is well known amongst the citizens of Infera.

And in Bludger's case, its particularly prevalent.

Hirava's magical escape vehicle now has a new front adornment as it makes like a bull in a china shop through the inn. A particularly irate and stony one. Flesh shifted into dark, notched granite, trails of pale blue magical energy running through the cracks, Bludger pulls his face free from the carriage's front and snarls, "I'm gonna pull your testicles off for this, you little shit!"

This may be an exaggeration of some kind: dwarves are known for their wild, playful threats of extreme violence.

It should be noted, however, that Bludger doesn't look like he's joking.[/bg]

 

[RJS]

CASER


Caser's eyes widened in vicious glee. Well, this is something new. What a pleasant surprise. He wasn't normally too keen on the unexpected, but this was just too much. Nobody had seen Hirava in action before, so this was news to everyone. Judging by the shape that was forming, Hirava seemed to be intending to get the hell out of the situation he was in...and so this necessitated swift action. Turning his eyes to the puppet, he sighed. Here we go again... He checked the critters watching the ends of the alleyway once more, and once he was satisfied, he closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and then

he was on the rafters of the bar, small spindly legs clutching on tightly as he gazed down onto the chaos on the bar floor. Hirava's chariot was starting to fully form now and cause a suitable amount of chaos. All he needed to do was time his drop just about...now. He plummeted, tucking his legs against his body, before a heavy impact shook him and he bounced. Quickly unfurling his legs, he gripped tightly, casting his gaze around. Bodies flew past in a near blur as the bar slid by. Made it on...just he thought as his leg slipped off the edge. Rapidly scurrying to a more secure location, Caser took a deep breath and then

he was crouched in the alleyway. Stretching the stiffness out of his limbs, he turned his head to look at Mr Fruitloop.

"Let me guess. You want to talk about the surface."

...

"Because that is literally all you ever go on about! Ranting madness about a burned-out husk!"

...

"If I'm brainwashed, then so are you! You're a figment of my imagination after all!"



"Look, I'm sorry, ok? Dealing with you can be...frustrating some days. What you say is just so ridiculous!"

...

"...Damn. That's a good point. I guess...maybe there is a bit of my imagination that wants to believe there's something up there."

...

"Heh, and I thought I would be the one doing the convincing. Anyway, we should get moving, because I want to stay in range of that critter. If Hirava plans on hiding, I'm guess he'll be trying to go down, not up.

...

"For the last time, there is no alien food on the higher levels, so he isn't trying to avoid that!"

The bizarre mutterings faded away as the small goblin began to thread his way towards the elevator.

 

[kixinorbit]

Having finally cleared his head and stumbled clear of the main mass of brawling, Cairn found himself turning toward yells coming from the front of the inn. Was Hirava cheering? For fuck's sake, was the man completely daft?

Before he could ponder the meaning behind such an outburst, a shrieking wrench of metal drew his attention toward the door... Which, it seemed, just to spite him, was now hurtling through the air toward the front of the inn. Cairn regarded the flying door with a flat look, then watched mutely as a chair leg whizzed past, an elf attached.

"No." It was a quiet utterance, not spoken to anyone in particular, but to inform the universe of his decision to withdraw his participation. "Absolutely not."

Turning on his heel, the Deader slid past more of the flying debris, making his way toward the now-exposed exit. With his declaration of utter resignation seemed to come a sort of cosmic, impermeable force, allowing him to stride through the crowd unabated. Blows missed him, projectiles overshot him, and he stepped, unscathed, into the street. Well, mostly unscathed. He'd be lying if he said his hips weren't aching from where he'd been grabbed-- and a headache was already blossoming from when he'd been tossed to the floor.

He was, however, intact. Which is more than he could say for many of the hunters. Or the inn.

Stepping over a man who'd been tossed bodily from the tavern, Cairn rounded the corner of the building. He was relieved to find the narrow street deserted, though he did pull his hood back up to cover his dishevelled hair and darkening cheek. His mask had broken and fallen away when he'd been elbowed, but it didn't much matter. Deader attire included a cowl for truly harrowing situations, and Cairn pulled the fabric up over his mouth and nose. The Guard would likely be arriving soon and he really didn't want to get involved.

Glancing up at the overhang of the inn's roof, Cairn considered for a moment, then climbed onto the grimy window ledge. Inside, he caught a glimpse of the continuing insanity, a hodgepodge carriage now fully assembled near the bar. He thought he saw the elf still dangling from a bit of wood, now accompanied by an angry dwarven figurehead. He did not, however, stop to really take in the scene. Instead, he rocked up onto his toes, grabbed the overhanging roof, and hauled himself up.

Slinking to the far edge of the roof, he crouched down to wait, lurking like some ill-sculpted gargoyle.

 

[Aero Blue]

The Soup Bowl - @Starlighter @Kiririn @Eru

---

The ferryman, with his stony disposition betrays himself, uncertainty - and even, perhaps, fear - informing the curvature of his eyes. Assault and murder, and abominations of some ghastly nature perhaps lends credence to what he has known all along: the denizens of the Soup Bowl were no good, no good at all, and the Spines that chose to reside there were the worst of the lot.

Almost immediately after the respective 'exploits' of Sabah, Uni and Yllis alike did the contenders separate themselves from the pretenders. Brief moments of chaos unfolded, all too similar (although perhaps none quite so macabre as the cat-kin's) to the ones previous, before the faint-hearted gradually subsided away from the encroaching vessel. From the embers of desire and broken ambitions did the rest emerge, congregating nearabouts the three (and Sabah's unholy goliaths). Known elements of the cesspool one and all, Questionables with name and face of some infamous renown.

A dark man steps forth, making a step stone out of a brute that had tested him. He bears a fishing rod of redwood, its line ending not with bait, but with the severed right ear of his adversary. The meager rags do little to conceal his twig-like constitution, the indents and bumps of bones and joints protruding from his brown flesh in ways that are almost scientific. Two jagged lines of teal run over his cheek, gaunt and malnourished. He should be broken, and yet he walks the path of others broken before him. Consomme the Angler.

Two men in finery unbecoming, glamorous garb ruined by the rust and dust of the Bowl. The first is garbed in vestments of ruined, splotchy white, a tricorn sitting much too precariously loose atop his narrow head. His visage is rendered pink, a permanent red flush congealing with the chalk-powder adorned upon his face. The second man is balding, his features furrowed so fiercely that he seems as if attempting to stare down, through and within his prominent red moustache. He has appropriated a woman's ball-gown, baby blue and embroidered flowers withered by time. They are eminently ridiculous, yet no one lends voice to the observation.

Bodies bled open lie in their wake, fallen by blades sheathed as quickly as they had been drawn. Tomas Bisque and Bouilla B. Borscht. Two men whose feet had supposedly touched the Palace floors, and who had been cast down for some unknown dishonor.

A girl in rags of perfect grey shuffles along, her mane of hair arranged as if flung about her visage by the non-existent wind, a mask of wispy black. Her arms stretched like serpents, boneless and jointless, bending and molding like formed putty as they unfurled around the necks of the hapless few unlucky enough to serve as 'display'. Noodle.

An older lady, slack-eyed and face sunken from the lack of teeth, trudges steadily forward, her steps pained, her entire form creaking along her hunched back. The stretched red silk of her cheongsam leads to an unusual bump about her shoulder. One can see it easily enough, peering from beneath the folds of her cloth; a second head. Focus long and hard enough, and one can hear it, its screams soft and barely perceptible, sounding and dying within the cradle. She is Gazpa Cho the Listener, and there is no one around her.

The ship docks, and for brief moments the sounds of the crowd diminish as its passengers descend, and the fateful few ascend a lowered wood-ramp.

---

The ship departs the docks, and it is sometime before the group of Soup Bowl peons is addressed.

"Was that literal and actual murder I witnessed unfolding?" A voice intones, eminently unperturbed by the thought of matters such as law-breaking and the loss of life.

The crew is composed a contingent of Guardsmen, the more experienced of them stoic, the less consumed by a gut-churning ill at ease. An elven woman stands center of deck, garbed in black leathers and playing at severity, her narrow, avian features shifting from dispassion to mirth with neither rhyme nor reason. The index finger of her left hand prods, almost obscenely, within the folds of her ponytail.

The ship itself is an uncanny scene, the flooring and walls of the vessel lined with painting and engraved images of a man depicted almost as caricature. Tall, powerfully built, a tanned face with cleft chin and prominent nose. Eyes almost insect in their nature, left and right pupil haphazardly aimed. The Superintendent, commander of the Inferian Guard's Soup Bowl Division. King of the Deep, perhaps, if such a thing were to be acknowledged or recognized.

The woman takes care to measure her steps, nimbly evading depictions of the Superintendent's face with something resembling cautious reverence. She walks cross-face the newcomers, pointedly ignoring Sabah's flesh-golems, while distributing sheets of filled papyrus and inked quills.

"Nonetheless, welcome, welcome to our hopefully short-lived voyage. I have the pleasure of being Domina, Lieutenant of the Inferian Guard." Disdain is palpable in her sharp, measured words, although her face is held rigid in rehearsed cordiality, "I bid you the most passingly adequate set of fortunes in your hunt above. There is, however, just the minor matter of contractual agreement. The bounty has stirred up spirits in the Ringed City and beyond, and we simply must have your acquiescence, per hand-crafted signature, that you will practice suitable discretion in your various endeavors. As you will."

The contracts, should the fateful few choose to indulge, reads as follows:

My repugnant cesspool-dwelling friend:

AGREEMENT:

The Inferian Guard hereby promises safe passage to you lowly scum through the Soup Bowl, up the Elevator, into the Ringed City. Such services will be rendered with the understanding that you cretinous lot will agree to act within the confines of Inferian Law, allowing for the variety of provisions that come attached with officially-issued warrants and bounties.

The member of the cretinous lot shall agree that it will not, of course, be making permanent residence in the Ringed City if it is not already a certified member-entity...

The verbiage continues, riddled with scathing remarks and mind-numbing legalese. It ends as follows:

The cretin shall also promise their servitude and unquestioning obedience to Sada Domina, Lt. They will pledge themselves to her as she embarks on her quest to win the bounty for her sweet, loving, and kind man the Superintendent. Oh what a joy it shall be! I tremble with joy just to behold the thought of caressing his cleft chin with my fingers as we celebrate in our joined victory!

________________ Sign here, idiot.

Post Objective/Details

The contract, should you choose to read it, is the work of an enemy Spine! (read: a hostile spell). The spell itself manifests upon reading the contract. At the early stages of the spell, the reader will experience feelings of nausea, light-headedness, or other strange, but typically congruent side-effects (I leave it to you). At reaching the later stages of the contract, the reader will be plunged into a sensory illusion (again, up to you) of something vaguely pleasurable and which involves signing or offering agreeance to something. Fully agreeing to whatever it is the illusion offers compels the body to sign the contract for real. If the contract is signed, it must be upheld… meaning servitude to this weird, rude leather-clad lady.

The spell can be overcome by force of will, or just a strong enough urge to act contrary to the details of the contract or pursue some other desire (which typically manifests as symbolic visualizations that distort the Domina's illusion until it breaks). Feel free to handle this as creatively (and differently, quite frankly) as you can think of.

You are, of course, welcome to not even bother reading the contract. Ask me if you've any Q's.

 

[sun.]

Zinnith's magnetic pull yanked the enlarged weaponry out of her would-be attacker's hands, neatly putting them into the draconid's control. A smug smirk spread across her features, distorting her visage with unreasonable glee, where it bordered on the inappropriate. "Nice silverware, you degenerate whore," she hissed with venomous contempt, carelessly tossing the acquired items to the floor. With heavy, stomping steps and broadened shoulders - and a struggling Hirava dragged with along - Zin approached Ada. A vague, unformed plan of violence had manifested in her mind, as the Cartographer jumped into action, taking the approaching cup right to the face - or, in his case, what would most closely be described with the word "face" - the dull, wooden thud being drowned out in the bar brawl's frenzy of a soundscape. Zinnith, however, noticed it all the same, her bodyguard's massive figure impossible to oversee.

An annoyed "tch" sounded quietly. Zinnith kicked the cup into the crowd, making sure to let her heel kick into Hirava's shin on the way back, forcing him to squirm against her tight grip. Her shoulders rotated backwards, her stance becoming predatory. Shooting a small but scorching burst of fire, Zin created an empty space of respect around her, the darkened floor proof of her work. The smoke coming out of her nostrils billowed in the lowly Inn and clouded her tall silhouette, which merged with her captive's.

"We're leaving."

Her voice had taken on a matter-of-factly tone, much different to her taunting speech from mere minutes ago, and it left little room for negotiations. Yet, the magical scrap-chariot approaching at rapid speed forced her to delay her and her entourage's departure. The dwarf, of course, had already jumped on the forsaken creation, turning the whole thing into a ram, with destruction in its path. With a hiss, a burst of seething orange escaped her maw once more, setting the wooden pieces in the vehicles front ablaze, but did little in the way of halting its course; and of course, she knew, it'd do little but make that damn Bludger sweat like a pig.

The satisfaction of having forced even a little bit of discomfort onto the dwarf didn't last long, as the glimmering, Bludger-enhanced front of the wagon grew in size; pushing herself out of its path, she left her captive to get run over, using his body for additional momentum. Well, she wouldn't get her money back, but at least he got what he deserved.

Good enough.