NationStates

St. Taurensburg - Capital of Antonia

Children could be seen running around on the ice that covered the mighty river Cosscka, it had been winter for some time in the capital, so the river had long since frozen over and the ice under it had solidified into a material as strong as stone. It would only melt after the spring thaw, and even then, the ice took weeks under the sun to completely melt away. For the time being, the capital was a shadow of its self. Beyond the children playing on the ice, depending on which direction one was headed, you would either find the Royal District or what would constitute as the slums of the city. The Royal District remained relatively active during the winter months, but the slums were paralyzed from the lack of care taken to its infrastructure. For the most part, it was a city in hibernation.



The noise that Reuben and his entourage caused in the vast halls of the Crescent Palace created an echo that could be heard from kitchens below. Reuben, Duke of Solaria was the Lord Chancellor of His Majesty's August Court. This afforded him a certain amount of respect that went beyond his status as a Duke in the Kingdom, he was treated as if he was a monarch himself. As he and his own advisers made their habitual march to the throne room every morning, everyone he had come across gave him a respectful bow or a curtsy. He had grown so accustomed to his position that this no longer invigorated him as it had in his younger years, but it did feel good to get treated like a King.

The doors to the throne room were ceremoniously opened as the Duke strode through them, alone. His entourage had dispersed to their various assigned tasks, whether it was ascertaining the plots of various nobles currently quartered in the city for the winter, or making sure that the Duke and his family had secured seats at the theater for the upcoming play. Regardless, the Duke approached the Crescent Throne alone. A multitude of nobles were present.

"Your Majesty, it is with regret that I inform you that the shipment of Archonian wine you had ordered will be delayed. There are reports of the ice breaking on the Cosscka. As a result, the merchant has decided to take a longer, safer route instead of traveling along the ice. He wishes to convey his deepest apologies and the urgency with which he will complete the order."

As the Duke spoke, the King slowly shook his head. "Lord Reuben, that is absolutely unacceptable! Please do inform the merchant that he will not receive payment for the wine. By the time it arrives, it's quality will have diminished greatly. Tell me Lord Reuben, what good is an Antonian King that does not have the finest wine!"

The Duke, wincing at the raised voice of the monarch before him attempts to steer the conversation in a different direction, one perhaps that he is more prepared to handle. "Your Majesty, I believe there are more pressing matters regarding your Treasury. I believe it prudent that we conduct an accounting of all spending that has occurred during the winter so that we can determine if there are new taxes we need to levy. There is also the matter of Your Majesty's retinue, the upkeep for your knights has risen considerably as resources are particularly scarce during this harsh winter, we may need to diverge funds from Your Majesty's personal coffers to make up for the discrepancies in the Treasury."

"Once again Lord Reuben you are missing the point. I need this wine now. If you are not able to do this for me. Then I may need to find a Lord Chancellor that can." The King gazed upon the Lord Chancellor with some contempt before dismissing him. "Lord Reuben, leave now. I grow weary of your presence."

"As you wish Your Majesty." Reuben performed a bow before extricating himself from the throne room as quickly as he could while still maintaining a level of dignity that befits a Duke in front of a variety of nobles who congregate only to curry the King's favor by placating his desires. As the Duke walks out of earshot of the Royal Guardsmen standing vigil in front of the Throne Room. He greets a select few of his advisers, he used this time to vent his frustrations about his audience with King.

"Wine! Wine! I tell you, that bastard will drink himself to death while the whole Kingdom is dragged down with him. This is the beginning of the eighth week in which he has delayed all other matters of State for shipments of wine. Which I might add, along with all of the other purchases he has been making, is bleeding the coffers dry! If he continues down this path, his son won't have much to inherit. In the way of wealth or title."

The servants absorbed this rant in silence, there was not much they could say to their superior without committing treason or further enraging him. The Duke led his advisers back to his chambers where he conducted the official business of the Lord Chancellor. Waiting for him there was none other than another member of the court, who had incurred the ire of the King. Sir Peter of Taurensburg greeted the Duke with a pragmatic air, "My lord, I believe there is some pressing business we need to discuss."

[OoC]: This is just an intro to kind of establish some lore and get my fingers working again.

St. Catherine's Home for Wayward and Needy Children - St. Taurensburg
A few hours earlier

"Nicholas! Come back here right now!." Nicholas stopped, not much out of fear, but out of pure shock. He slowly turned around before coming face-to-face with the Headmistress. He had never been caught running away from the Home before. In his latest attempt to get some fresh air, he was not expecting to hear her voice." I am tired of the CIty Guard coming here looking for you. It has to stop, you are ruining my own reputation along with the reputation of this Home. Think about it, you aren't just hurting me when you run away and get yourself in trouble. You're hurting all of the little children that come here and wish to get chosen, is that what you want? You have to stop thinking of yourself for just a moment."

As Nicholas made a move to respond, he thought better of it and stayed silent. He saw no merit in attempting to argue with the Headmistress over whether it is morally right for him to continue to run away if it hurts other people as a result. Of course, Nicholas could spot a few flaws that make her argument presumptuous, but she boxed him into a corner he couldn't really talk himself out of. "Headmistress, I apologize for potentially harming your reputation and the reputation of this house. If only I had the proper, consistent guidance of a parental figure, maybe I could find some way to extricate myself from the trouble that seems to follow-"

"Okay, Nicholas just go back upstairs. I have no interest in your well-rehearsed story, there are thousands like it. Go and eat your breakfast with the other children." Hellen had heard enough, Nicholas had a way of exploiting his plight to garner emotional pity. it worked well enough with the City Guard the first few times, but after they continually became acquainted with the bright, troublesome teen from the Home for Wayward and Needy Children, those words fell on deaf ears. Nicholas dutifully ascended the stairs as Hellen went to answer a knock at the door.

The knocking got more urgent as she hurried to the door.

"Wait just a moment I'll be right there." She undid the bolts on the door before opening it quickly, some of the babes just began sleeping and Hellen felt she would go insane if they woke back up so soon. "Peter, what in the saints are you doing here?"

Sir Peter was her brother, but they had both chosen entirely different paths in life. As siblings, they grew up in wealth and comfort. They wanted for nothing, and their parents could afford whatever education they desired. Sir Peter was squired by the time he was 12, and Hellen had chosen to take the white and dedicated much of her life to the poor and unfortunate in service to the saints.

"Hellen, I must speak with you." Peter spoke in a hushed voice, it was early morning and while there were not that many people on the street, it would be extremely bad for both of them if someone were to overhear what they were going to discuss.

Hellen, taken aback, let him in, "Sure, brother. Right, this way." She led him into an adjoining sitting room that was just off the entrance of the Home.

Peter spoke first, "How is he?"

Hellen shook her head, "He is extremely difficult to deal with and he's growing more and more. He's the oldest child I have, people will start to ask questions. in terms of education, however, he is progressing at a rapid rate. I think he is more than intelligent enough to pass entrance exams at any of the colleges." Peter took this in. When the King charged him with the responsibility of taking his bastard and disposing of him, Peter could not bring himself to do it. So he gave him to the only person he could turn to without explaining too much.

"Well Hellen, matters seem to be worsening at the Crescent Palace. The King has fallen further into the abyss of madness as he mourns his wife, meanwhile, the nobles around him placate him in hopes of gaining his favor. It's a real shit show." Peter paused, wondering if he should tell his sister who Nicholas really is. "Hellen, I have to tell you something. But before I tell you, you must swear to the saints that you will tell no one."

Hellen hesitated," How could I possibly swear something like that? Do you not trust me?"

Peter spoke forcefully," Swear it!"

Hellen responded quickly," Fine, I swear it."

"Nicholas. He isn't just some orphaned youth, the fortunes of his mother? I know not. But his father is very much alive and breathing."

Hellen was overtaken with joy, "Great! Who is it? Would he be willing to take him or at least apprentice him? Does the man know that his son is here?"

"No, no, and no. His father is His Majesty himself, Nicholas is a royal bastard. We have to move him to safety, as it stands, there are some people who have found out about his existence. They don't know where he is, but they will find him if he stays here. I think they mean to groom him as a pretender to the throne."

The sign on the door said "Principal's Office," and the one on the outside wall said "Saint Martin's School for Wayward Girls."

The Demon hunter stood against the rear wall, side-on the demon--not facing him, but certainly not turning her back on him.

"Well, Demon," the woman said, emphasizing the last word, "you've really outdone yourself this time! The guild will want your head for this!"

"Oh, come on," the demon replied, his tail swishing in disgust, "they gave the thing to me. They might as well let me see how well it works!" As he spoke, he raised his hands and held them palms up, emphasizing his point.

The "Ohhh," the huntress said, her Brittish accent thick as honey, "leave it to you to take the one change they made to you and find a way to exploit it for...personal gratification."

"Hardly just for me," the demon replied.

Her head swiveled. She had forgotten that he had a foot-long tongue. He was licking his eyebrows...and looking straight at her.

She grew flushed. The worst part of it was that he was turned and she would probably end up none the worse for wear if she took him up on what he as making her think of.

But...

"Not today, Demon," she said with a smile. "You've got a little assignment to do first."

His tongue snapped back into his mouth. "Oh," he moaned, "not them again."

She smiled as his features contorted in pain. "Afraid so," she said cheerfully.

"What is it this time?" he asked.

She reached into her satchel and pulled out a strip of parchment. "Guard duty."

The look on his face changed to one of amusement as he looked down at the parchment. "Actually...this sounds like it could be fun!"

"Now now, Damnage" she countered, "as always, we will expect you to be on your best behavior."

"Oh," Damnage said with a grin, "don't worry, hunter. I've got just the..."

By then, not only had his voice dimmed to the point where it could not be heard, but he had turned himself completely invisible. The door to the office opened and closed, as if of its own accord.

She rolled her eyes.

"Another wonderful day in paradise," she said.

St. Taurensburg
Mr Brennan Sallwick
Lady Anastasia Allencroft

(If people are needed to help protect the bastard Prince, it would be these two. Though they will cost money.)

Mr Brennan Sallwick sat still in the coach, watching as the streets went by outside. It seemed no matter where you went in life, there was always slums. And it seemed here was no different. But if that wasn't enough, he had more reason to dislike this city other than its ghettos. It was too cold, and too inland. He hated being inland. His whole life had been spent near the sea, or conversely on it, and so the times when he was forced to come inland were times he could not appreciate. If you couldn't smell the waves and hear the sounds of whaling trawlers coming to port, then there was little reason to live. And the fish inland was always awful. But still, business is business, and he could not deny the money that could be made here. As the King of this land fell deeper and deeper into alcohol and payed less and less mind of his people, this was certainly a time in deed for a man of his work. Sure, to most he was Mr Brennan Sallwick, owner of Sallwick Whaling and Sallwick Mining, but there were many more things he did. He had not earned the money needed to start companies like that through being kind, but instead had earned them as a hit man. An assassin. A bodyguard at times, but rarely for good men. Those were the real skills he peddled, and the skills he passed on now to his apprentice.

He glanced over at her then, slouched against the window of the coach, her cheek pressed up against it as she snored softly. The two upper class women in the seats opposite him had looked upon the other Imperial citizens who had been on their ship with an obvious distaste, and he had watched as they whispered and gossiped to one another when they learned they would be forced to share a coach with two of the Imperials. He wasn't surprised by it though. Foreigners were often taken aback by Imperials, with their women who rarely wore dresses and runes of all sorts tattooed across their bodies. It was good luck to have those runes, though he hardly expected others to know it. It kept the spirits away, and brought fortunes to those who curried favor with the All Father. Those two women looked on at Anastasia now he saw, giving her a distasteful look. Little did they know that, had it not been for a series of unfortunate circumstances, the young woman in front of them would have been the daughter of the Allencroft Household, inheritor of vast lands and titles and the possessors of a long line of fishing ships and martial tradition. But, sometimes life worked out wrong, and so now she was apprenticed to an assassin and killer, masquerading as an honest business man.

Brennan leaned forward and made eye contact with one of the two women. She looked back, examining him carefully. He saw as she took in the dark jacket and pistol underneath it, and turned her nose up at his face. He cared little. "Excuse me ma'am, but would you happen to know how far we are from the inn?"

She did not immediately respond. She gave him a disapproving look, before saying, "what inn is it you are staying at?"

"The Wayward Pig," said Brennan, giving the woman a bright smile. He clasped his hands together, trying to give an air of being approachable, and she glanced down at the two magic circles tattooed on his hands, then back to him. He must have looked like a common thug to her. If she knew anything about his people though, she would know real Islesish thugs wore their tattoo's on their bodies, to hide them from the law. Each tattoo a playing card, each card representative of a crime they had committed. Brennan had many of those on his body. Many Suicide Kings, for murder.

"They say The Wayward Pig is a place of ill repute," said the woman. "why you would expect me to know where it is is beyond me, as I am above such stations."

Anastasia stirred next to Brennan, rolling her head on the glass and looking around at the coach through bleary eyes. "Where are we?" she croaked.

"St. Taurensburg," said Brennan to her, and pointed out the window to the buildings passing by. "Slum district, it appears. Though I suppose every city has one of those."

Anastasia sat up, tucking loose hair behind her ear and watching outside the window. She grimaced at it. She would rather be back in Townhill, the Empire's capitol. At least there, she got to stay in the grand Sallwick Manor and most of the contracts she took brought her to the Clover District, where it was beautiful and cultured. Here it was nothing but street rats and poverty.

She pushed that thought out of her mind. She didn't want to treat the people here different on a short glance. And besides, since her time having come to Brennan Sallwick, many of her closest allies had come from the lower classes, such as Mother Mary and Red Rudy.

"Why must young women such as yourself wear pants and tattoo yourselves?" said one of the women to Anastasia. "Dont you Imperials know its quite unsightly for women to be seen in such a way?"

"Dont women of your station know it is rude to question the customs of a foreign person?" said Anastasia, glaring back at them, "or are you two simply a pair of new money slobs trying to make yourselves seem like your better than the common street trash you really are?"

Brennan hit her on the arm with the back of his hand, making a solid thwack and causing Anastasia to wince away in pain.

"Ow," she said, "All Fathers Eyes Brennan, why do you insist on hitting everyone?"

"I only hit you," said Brennan. "Your not my daughter, and so I dont feel bad about it, especially when your doing such a poor job of ingratiating ourselves to the locals."

Anastasia scowled, and Brennan pushed open the window to the coach and leaned out, calling up to the driver.

"Excuse me, sir?" he said, "do you by any chance know how far it is until we reach the Wayward Pig Inn?"

"The Wayward Pig you said?" said the driver, leaning over some to speak more directly with Brennan.

"Thats right sir," said Brennan.

"Uh, its right up around this corner," said the driver, "though Im not so sure a nice couple of people like you and your companion would want to stay there. Its a place of ill repute most folks say, all kinds of odd business goes on in there."

"Oh not to worry," said Brennan, pulling his pistol out to show to the driver and causing the two ladies in the coach with them to gasp. "Me and my companion have both brought protection. Im certain there's nothing for us to worry about."

"I suppose I cant argue with that," said the driver with a chuckle. "Ill pull us right up and drop you off."

"Thank you sir," said Brennan, before pulling himself back into the coach and closing the window once more, putting his old beat up pistol back into its holster.

"There's a reason folks outside of the Isles view your people as uncultured," said one of the women.

"Oh dont worry," said Brennan, "most folks you meet from the Empire will be just as civilized as you, with only the tattoos and women being in pants to concern you. Me and my friend are the exception, not the rule."

Before either of the ladies could respond, the coach pulled up next to their destination, and Brennan sent Anastasia in to get them a room. She obliged, stepping out of the coach and sliding her sword into her belt, before shutting the door and crunching across the fresh snow that was falling. She looked both ways before crossing the street, observing that it was mostly empty and lifeless. All she saw was a group of street urchins, rounding the corner up the street. Inside she could hear the sounds of light conversation, thought she couldn't see anything in the inn due to condensation on the windows. With a step forward, she walked off the sidewalk and into the road, crossing the street up onto the second sidewalk and into the bar, all in what appeared to be a very comfortable and almost elegant pace.

She looked around the inn when she entered, examining it. A pair of patrons by the door looked at her as she walked in, but leaned back into their drinks and conversation soon after. There was an old piano on one side of the room, though no one playing it, and a fire crackled in the corner. It still felt cold and drafty regardless. With a sigh, Anastasia walked over to the bartender, and leaned on the bar trying to get his attention. He looked over at her, grimaced, and went back to cleaning a mug with a rag that seemed to be doing anything but. Anastasia gave him an indignant look, before snapping her fingers. "Sir," she said.

"What?" said the man, his voice deep and growly. He didn't turn fully around, only looking at her out of the corner of his eye and only turning his head slightly.

"I want a room," said Anastasia. "Two rooms actually. One for me, and one for my employer, the man right outside with the coach."

"How long?" said the man.

"I don't know, two weeks?" said Anastasia. "We'll pay for more if we're here longer. Money is not an issue, only discretion. As long as you keep our presence here quiet, we'll slip a little extra your way."

The man seemed to think, contemplating if he wanted to agree to this. He looked Anastasia up and down, and she gave him a haughty look back, grasping a set of knuckle dusters in her pocket. He glanced outside to Brennan carrying a trunk across the street to them, and pushing the door open with his foot. Finally, he looked back to Anastasia, seeming to study her clothes. They certainly were fine, with the black velvet collar and gold trim. If anyone was to have money, it would be this young woman. It might even be worth it to rob her, or get some buddies to do so.

"Fine," he said at last. "Fifteen a week."

"Excellent," said Anastasia, reaching into her coat pocket and pulling out a small roll of paper notes. She pulled out thirty, and handed them over to the bartender. She knew she was being ripped off, but didn't truthfully care. They had plenty of money, the purpose of this trip wasn't really to make it. It was more so to make connections. So she gave it over willingly, and without a thought. The man snatched the money out of Anastasia's hand, and reached under the bar, procuring two keys. He placed them on the bar, and Anastasia took them, before heading over to help Brennan carry the trunk up the stairs to their room.

This time, the sign over the door said "The Swigging Swag"--good names were never the bar owner's strong point. This was not a problem, though, for the unassuming brown tavern that abutted the unassuming brown street with neither much dust nor much fanfare.

At a particularly quiet moment, the tavern door opened and the bartender, a man whose face seemed eternally masked in a smirk, opened the door and walked around the corner, obviously intent upon relieving himself at a nearby corner.

Around the corner, a shadowy figure lurked, attempting to peer into a nearby window. The bartender either did not notice or did not care, though, as he just continued walking to answer the call of nature.

Content that he was unseen, the shadowy figure lifted a small hollow cylinder from a pouch on his belt and placed a small needle-like dart into it. Taking aim at the figure of a boy that was visible through an opening in the building beside him, the figure smiled. He raised the blowgun to his lips and...shook his head as his vision seemed to blur for a moment.

No matter. The task would be completed in a matter of seconds. As he let loose a nearly-silent blast of breath, the assassin felt a quick thrill of satisfaction.

And then things went inexplicably, completely wrong.

Instead of hitting its target, the dart hit a bede of old sealer on a ladder against the building's outer wall. As the assassin watched, the ladder dislodged from the wall and came down on the opposite wall on the opposite side of the alley--cracking the supporting struts on a rainwater vat directly above him. In a moment, it had overturned, leaving him covered in a huge shower of liquid. Worse yet, he yelped slightly as the water hit him, causing the bartender to take notice of him. It was a strange coincidence that the water stopped flowing at just about the time the bartender finished answering the call of nature, but the assassin paid it little heed as the bartender walked near to him.

"Are you alright?" the bartender asked.

Frantic noises from within the building told the assassin that his quarry was being led away. He looked up.

"I'm...fine," he said finally. The bartender was unarmed and not on his targets list, so he felt no inclination to harm him.

"Can I put you up by our fireplace to help dry you off? Maybe a drink to ease your burdon?"

"Thank you," the assassin said in frustration, "but I shall do as I am."

"Alright," the bartender said, "in that case, I'll just go back to my work." He ambled off.

Inside of the bar, Brother Mandlebrot, the patron angel of EXTREMELY unlikely events, sat, nursing a glass of milk.

"Sssssoo, thweetie," Mandlebrot said, "you think he notithed?"

The bartender's smirk intensified and, for a moment, his skin became a ruddy shade of red and horns could be seen emerging from his head. Then he regained his composure.

"Nope," the turned demon bartender replied. "They never do."

"So how'd ya do it THIS time?"

"Oh, just a little water magic."

"You sly devil."

The demon bowed. Protection duty wasn't the most exciting job out there, but it could have its moments. Like when the "water" on the assassin's robes started to dry.