The Clockwork Circus [IC | Closed]

by **Lagene** » Wed Apr 10, 2024 5:06 pm

Joseph sets off to work the next morning, lots on his mind. He puts in extra work today, because he knows what he must do. He shoves the puzzlebook in his bag and jogs off to Petcher's. This increase in wage gives him hope, and he makes sure to thank Dan. He makes sure to buy another 2 weeks of food at the tangletown market, and sets off to the tenaments before picking the kids up from school. (-6 VIS, +12 Gilders) (-4 Gilders, 2 weeks food)

Joseph finds Amelia and gives her 9 gilder, one left clinking in his pocket from Sanjan. He would make sure to lecture her about not stealing, but after some thinking, he gives Amelia that as well. "I know you need it, and I want you to have it." he says, and the ripple of truth in his words is enough for both of them to see. With the rent jar full, he sets off to the strange man wanting a puzzle book. He hands it over, and recieves the promised 4 gilder. (-10 Gilder - To Amelia) (+4 Gilder)

Finally, Joseph Picks up the kids. After hearing their tales of the day, he lecture Sanjan about not stealing. Joseph teaches them a new game, Tag, and they play it until it is time to go to bed. They settle down for bed content, bellies full. (-1 VIS, Obligation Vice) (-1 VIS, Sleeping)

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Thu Apr 11, 2024 3:55 pm

The Week of Earthen Roads

Winthrop

It was in relatively good spirits which the Scion strode toward the Phanion Bridge, the northern route to his place of employment at Crimwick's. Not perfect humor, but definitely what could pass for the same if one were inclined to intellectually squint; the biting winds of the whatever the local pagans called the winter months had receded, his tenement hadn't been involved in the recent scrum of law enforcement activity, and the cheery voices of the tuned metals in his pocket called to his own internal symphony.

Such was his good humor that is was only temporarily dampened when he came upon a great mass of humanity all shuffling in tired resignation toward the Phanion, several hundred deep. Being taller than most, even if he stooped to mask his height as a matter of course, a quick glance over the downtrodden multitude betrayed the reason for their lack of forward progress; a Gendarme checkpoint.

Logical, if irritating. Outlanders with a penchant for terrorist activity trying to free the city would use the bridges to leave the Jade District, hoping to disappear into the murk of the Ash Harbor or the Circus itself. Some uninspired functionary must have thought a few loud and obnoxious law enforcement officials were simply guaranteed to intercept such criminals, for a mind afflicted with anarchism must be scarcely capable of higher functions - or some such drivel.

Winthrop shook his head under his coat, a silent chuckle convulsing his frame. No, the reasoning didn't even have to be that ill-founded. The chances of such a dragnet actually catching the culprits was no doubt minimal, but the opportunity for the public peace officers to shake down the populace? Priceless. And if some of those bribes and confiscations of 'suspicious' goods and items happened to wind up in the pockets of the politicians who had ordered the roadblocks, well, these things are hardly unknown.

The trouble was that he personally had no desire to make a closer acquaintance of any shakedown scheme, his Guilders being limited, his existence in Hsin-Yao on sufferance as a refugee, and his livelihood and potential for advancement in his chosen profession bound up with the tools in his pockets

Thankfully almost as swiftly as the problem presented itself, a solution arose.

Off to one side of the Diadem Lane the Scion spotted one of the workers from Crimwick's, a copper-monger by the sobriquet of Alanze. They weren't exactly what he would call friends, but acquaintances on the way to work was good enough - and Alanze was taking a small dirt path to one side of the Bridge, down toward the Gray Fork where the wash of the Tsuneg-Tsa lapped against grimey piers sinking into the polluted water and innumerable small craft plied their various sordid trades.

The coppersmith seemed surprised to see the giant fall in beside him, but not unhappy. A few drinks put much fond memory in some men's minds, and so it was when Winthrop flipped a coin to one of the ferrymen clustered around the Wainstain's Yard and the muck-stained piers, he and half a dozen other men happily crowded onto the ramshackle conveyance with no signs of pique over the other smith's presence.

One of the foremen nodded at Alanze and Winthrop as they stamped through the thick iron doors of the foundry, five minutes early for the starting whistle. A few men with less ingenuity had yet to show up, and no doubt been held up by the traffic the gendarmes had provoked - but Winthrop would not be one of the men the masters complained about this week, no sirrah.

For those who knew a bit about the city, business could continue as usual, no matter the petty squabbles of bureaucrats, Suzerains, and madcap red-addled factory workers. Nobody had time for such nonsense in the grinding poverty of the Circus.

by **The GAmeTopians** » Fri Apr 19, 2024 4:08 pm

Turn Five

Kassia Alani Baker

It was just as well that she'd been fired from the Cog and Chain, really. That much was clear as Kassia breathed deeply, taking in the crisp night air, her Blades a reassuring weight in her hands. Their sheen caught the streetlamps on occasion, but after a month in the Circus it had become a simple matter to hide them from suspicious or curious eyes. The only man with whom she would share the sight of her beautiful weapons with tonight would be dead by the morning. There was something almost poetic about it, which she pondered on her way through the dimly lit alleys.

Her quarry probably wouldn't appreciate the poetry.

by **Lazarian** » Fri Apr 19, 2024 8:33 pm

WEEK FIVE

THE BLOCKADES PERSIST

Like an ominous portent, the roadblocks and checkpoints erected in the wake of last week's bombing in the Jade District remain. The officers tasked with manning these fortifications grow weary of their menial duties. Unfortunately, this situation has transcended the realm of mere security, metamorphosing into a political quagmire. Bureaucrats in the governmental offices of the Jade District cling to the illusion of safety, their shrill proclamations accusing the Gendarmes of indolence and corruption for failing to apprehend the elusive saboteur stalking the streets of the Jade District. Rumor has it that something else has been bombed in the last week - though what, exactly, has been kept under wraps.

BLOOD IN THE STREETS - CONTINUED!

The bitter feud between the Red Scarves and Azure Coats rages unabated, the streets serving as the grim canvas upon which their conflict is writ in shades of crimson. The intensity of their clashes, if anything, has escalated since the previous week, each side seemingly emboldened by their adversary's transgressions. Yet, the Gendarmes remain steadfastly aloof, content to observe from the sidelines as blood pools in the alleyways. Emboldened by this perceived indifference, brazen packs of men bearing the colors of their respective factions patrol their territories with a newfound audacity, their presence a visible affront even in the light of day. To tread these streets is to court danger, and as the sun's dying embers yield to the veil of night, only the foolhardy dare to venture forth.

A GRIM REMINDER

A grisly spectacle greets those traversing near Tangletown Market this week - for the Redhook Gallows, that most visible of execution sites, has been adorned with a morbid display. Two men, their origins undoubtedly foreign to the land of Thenia, dangle lifeless from the gallows' sturdy beams, their corpses left to swing in the morning breeze as a grim reminder to all who pass.

But the grotesque scene is further desecrated by the crude graffiti that mars the nearby announcements board and surrounding streets, scrawled in crimson paint – "GO HOME," "THENIA IS FOR THENIANS," "KNOW YOUR PLACE" – accompanied by a litany of slurs and obscenities that assault both the eyes and the sensibilities.

Yet, perhaps the most chilling aspect of this macabre scene is the Gendarmes' seeming indifference. For nearly two days, the bodies are permitted to remain, their silent accusation echoing through the streets as the authorities drag their feet. Their tepid assurances of an impending investigation and the promise of justice ring hollow against the backdrop of such brazen disregard for the immigrant populations of the city...

A NEW REGENT FOR THE INTERNATIONAL SETTLEMENT

In a surprising move, Lord Endric Scurlock announced his retirement from the International Settlement's Court of Regents yesterday. He cited health problems, as well as a desire to: "spend [his] winter amongst family." This means that a new chairman will be chosen by the current regents and the court of directors to ascend to regency. This position is one of great power in the International Settlement, and many say the regents are frankly the penultimate authority in Hsin-Yao. There are many possible candidates, but no date has been set for the economic trials which will weed-out the less worthy applicants.

PENELOPE LAGAKOU

Slumber should provide respite, a nightly relief from the daily struggles of life in Hsin-Yao. But for Penelope, despite her best efforts, the dreaming realm offers no such sanctuary. Again. If anything, her nightmares seem to intensify with each passing cycle.

Icy tendrils of dread slither through her psyche as familiar spectral tormentors resume their vengeful assault on her senses once more. Her mother's dessicated husk looms, those hollow sockets burning like accusatory brands. The Ragfair Ripper, Quin Quao, stalks her dreams, his bloated visage looming in the shadows and alleys of the dreamscape.

And always, there is the grey-cloaked silhouette hovering at nightmare's periphery - the cold muzzle of its pistol following her each stagger and stumble through the labyrinthine dreams. These shades do not relent. Each dawn finds Penelope jolted into wakefulness by her own hoarse screams. Her body soon reflects the relentless psychic toll - cheeks hollow, eyes ringed in dark circles of exhaustion. It's becoming increasingly difficult to even make it to Tallazan's theatre, much less perform at any acceptable standard. [+1 Stress, -1 VIS next week, no Focus next week]

"You know, there are...remedies for uneasy minds," Tallazan mutters one morning as Penelope arrives looking particularly haggard. "A certain bartender at the Buttonhole is an accomplished procurer of laudanum, opiates - the good stuff to dull the nerves, as it were. If you wouldn't mind sharing a few more...insights into the occult? I’d be happy to put you two in touch."

[Tallazan will unlock a better spate of options at the Spoke & Buttonhole in exchange for more knowledge. He can be trusted…right?]

Despite her delirious state, the evening's summoning goes largely as intended before a large crowd. Tallazan’s Theatre has been at max capacity these days - and it looks the part. Shabby wallpaper and mothbitten curtains have been replaced with fresh-painted walls and sheets of embroidered silk. Worn chairs have been thrown out for wide, cushioned benches. Yes, this place is acquiring a reputation, it seems.

The apparitions manifested lack the dramatic intensity of recent weeks, thankfully. No long-lost relatives, nor bloodied murderers. But spirits from the beyond are still spirits, no matter who they may be. Two figures appear in the fog, long ropes dangling from their necks onto the floor. One whispers a warning to Penelope.

“Get out! Get out while you still can!” it hisses, before she dismisses it to whence it came. [+1 Stress. +3 G in tips.]

As the last spectral vapors dissipate amid the auditorium's thunderous applause, two shadowed figures can be seen in the very back of the theatre. They stand, watching, and once the crowd makes its way out of the theatre, they approach. A dominating presence radiates from the taller man in the impeccable suit, his features somehow perpetually obscured by the brim of a large hat. Beside him strides a lithe woman in a jet-black evening dress, with a silvery veil and an elegant bonnet obscuring her countenance.

With a dismissive gesture toward Tallazan, the dapper gentleman addresses Penelope directly. He introduces his companion first.

"May I have the pleasure of introducing ourselves? This is Visionary Samara, my dear - and I am Eidolic Rendor. Emissaries of an organization which truly appreciates your...talents. Not mere gawking peasants or pathetic amateurs, but revered adepts of The Mysteries."

His voice pulls taut like a silken garrote as manicured fingers alight upon Penelope's wrist. He kisses her hand with deference, giving a slight bow. "It seems a pearl of your considerable gifts remains unappreciated amongst these swine. Our society would certainly change that."

Samara procures something from her purse and then extends it - an elegant card inscribed with an address. 13 William's Lane, International District, Hsin-Yao.

“Find a way past the gates and prove yourself to the groundskeeper. Then we’ll talk more, love.” she says with a sultry whisper, before turning away. The two fade into the shadows as quickly as they emerge.
[Find your way to this secret society - and perhaps they may have something to offer?]

The two recede into shadow as quickly as they manifested, leaving Penelope to ponder their cryptic overtures.

Not long after their departure, just the next night after, another delegation finds her. A clique of scholarly men and women attired in the subdued attire of academics present their own inquiries. Professing membership in the "Tianjin University Historical Society", they style themselves as "passionate antiquarians" dedicated to unearthing lost artifacts and occluded lore from ages past.

"We have heard much about your talents, madam, and were hoping to procure your services on a part-time basis as a conduit to the dead. So much has been lost and lies waiting to be rediscovered, for those who dare to reach for it!"
[3 Gilders for 1 VIS. Simple, easy work.]

As if these propositions were not enough for her psyche to digest, Penelope finds herself drawn to begin scouting her new potential neighborhood of Ash Harbor at week's end. She crosses the river bridges into the industrial port district, its stench and smoke swirling about her in thick, cloying miasmas.

NEW LOCATIONS FOUND:

The Freyja's Bounty
This rowdy pub has established itself as a neutral territory of sorts in recent years. No colors or allegiances are allowed within, making it one of the few places where the hardcases from all the warring outfits can wet their whistle without fear of retaliation.
[Patrons leave ranks and grievances at the door for the promise of a night's hard drinking.]

Gantry 17 Warehouses
Looming over the west docks like brooding sentinels, this series of massive cargo warehouses sees an endless flow of crates and containers pulled from the behemoth merchant ships that dock here. The gantry cranes groan day and night, orchestrating an incredible transfer of resources.
[An entire economy's lifeblood courses through these halls of echoing industry.]

As she returns home, she notices something magnificent beckon from beyond the river. Far across the waterway, the East Bund stands in monolithic majesty. Towering buildings - fine architecture - clean air and tidy roads. A luxurious district, where a place more befitting one of her talents and lineage surely awaits. Her rightful place can be glimpsed momentarily…before a thick haze of smog descends upon the harbor once more.
[Penelope yearns for a place such as this.]

END OF TURN 6

The night's cloak draws tighter around Hsin-Yao's winding arteries as Penelope makes her solitary path homeward. She moves through the streets like a wraith, eyes downcast to avoid unwanted eye contact or advances. It is still busy in Tangletown, despite the sun beginning to set.

Suddenly, the hair on Penelope’s neck rises, and her blood freezes. She cannot help but turn and look - and there. Amidst the crowd - a silhouette resolves into grim familiarity. The very man that stalks her dreams. The grey trenchcoat. The obscured features. The left hand shoved urgently into a pocket, clutching something undoubtedly cold and metallic.

It's him. The Man in Grey.

Penelope's heart clenches in her chest as all breath vacates her lungs in one catastrophic exhalation. Hands shaking, legs leaden, she finds herself rooted to the filthy cobblestones while the figure seems to get closer, aggressively pushing his way through the crowd.

Deep within, some primal core activates - the limbic system alights, lurching her into action. Three instinctual drives clamor for supremacy over her consciousness:

[Run! RUN! Every fiber screams in desperation to flee this waking nightmare by any means necessary. Get out of his reach no matter the destination - nothing else matters but immediate escape!]
[FIGHT! She will not simply resign herself to a cowering demise like so many of her family, waiting in a cell for the guillotine to strike them down! He will not extinguish this last flame so easily. Fury blazes through the fugue.]
[Call for help! Make an appeal for salvation, whether from the civilians congesting the streets or the legions of the dead lurking just beyond the veil. Surely someone will help. Surely.]
[BEG. Maybe he will show mercy. Why here? Why now? Surely she isn’t hurting anyone, so far from home, all by herself?]

LILY ISHENKO

LILY: TURN 4

The burdens of her recent endeavors weigh heavily upon Lily, leaving her tense and in dire need of reprieve beyond the occasional moments stolen in Pinfold's company. Recognizing this, she dedicates some much-needed time to slumber. It proves a boon, for the nightmares that typically plague her rest are kept at bay, and the extended respite provides her with a renewed sense of focus and mental fortitude. [VIS recovered regularly.]

As she prepares to cover Pinfold's shift as a doorman at the shady nightclub, Lily ensures that her newly acquired blade remains ever-present, a constant companion to aid her in navigating the seedy environs.

An air of discomfort hangs about her as she approaches informs the bouncer of her purpose, her nervous shifting drawing a disapproving once-over from the seasoned guard. "Well, I don't think that'll go so well. You're not much of a replacement," he mutters, his words laced with skepticism before resigning himself to the situation. "But I'm off in five minutes. So...go for it."

Surprising all, perhaps even herself, Lily proves more than capable of handling the rowdy patrons that cross her path. While she may lack the imposing physical presence typically associated with such a role, she deftly navigates each encounter through clever words and a deft, cajoling tone. The shift, though far from uneventful, passes without major incident, and Lily finds herself the unexpected recipient of Pinfold's meager earnings – four gilders that she must now decide whether to return or keep for herself.

As she turns to depart, a broad, familiar figure emerges from the shadows, a hand tapping her on the shoulder.

“Fine work, young lady. Yet again.” a broad man rumbles with a smile. He has enormous ears - she’s seen this man before. Big Ears Dhu, wasn’t it? Yes - the one who had tipped quite generously. She exchanges pleasantries for a moment, before he extends an offer.

“You know what, Lily? I like you. If you’re ever in need of any...extra work? I think I can think of a thing or two.”

NEW LOCATION DISCOVERED:
The Brass Garter

Tucked away down a dingy alleyway, the sounds of raucous laughter and clinking glasses spill out from this ramshackle nightclub. A battered brass garter swings lazily above the doorway, beckoning patrons inside where well-lubricated performances of all sorts play out on a small stage. Clouds of opium smoke hover beneath the low ceilings, adding a hazy ambiance to the den of iniquity within.

[This place certainly leaves nothing to the imagination – from the front door to the back!]

Buoyed by her successful shift the previous week, Lily approaches her apprenticeship with renewed vigor, collecting her stipend and procuring sustenance along the way. Her efforts this week, while not rising to the lofty heights of her recent triumph, are nonetheless deemed satisfactory in the eyes of her superiors. As a result, she receives the coveted promotion, elevated from mere apprentice to a full-fledged artist in her own right. [Lily's new rate is 8 Gilders for 3 Vis, or 5 Gilders for 2 Vis.]

JOSEPH KALIBJAN

Joseph sets out for another grueling day's labor, mind already crowded with the mounting stresses bearing down upon him. But he channels that anxious energy into his duties at Petcher's with redoubled vigor. Extended hours and a willingness to take on any supplemental shifts - no task is too demanding if it means a few more gilders to sustain his humble family.

Dan van Pechter voices his appreciation for Joseph’s reliability and dedication. "So many have simply stopped showing up without notice." he laments to Joseph during a rare lull. "I’m sorry you came to Hsin-Yao when you did. It didn't used to be this lawless around here, but things have seriously deteriorated since the war."

The man's gruff features soften somewhat as he regards his stalwart employee. "Your dedication and reliability have been a blessing in these increasingly chaotic times. Thank you for that, my friend."

Joseph accepts the earnest praise with characteristic humility before setting off to complete another self-appointed errand. When at last the destitute refugee is located amidst the decaying tenement warrens, Joseph presses the entire 10 Gilders into her calloused palms.

“Oh, bless you.” she weeps, embracing him warmly. “Gods bless you. I’ll pay you back someday - I promise. I really do.”

Returning to his own lodgings, Joseph must next administer a paternal rebuke to young Sanjan - because yet again, she hands him another crumpled Gilder without explaining where it’s come from. [+1 Gilder]

Despite his lecture, she remains stubbornly defiant.

"The nice man said I earned it!” she protests. "The rich hoard it all away in their fancy houses while we're left with crumbs. Taking from them is only fair!" Sanjan's arms cross defiantly, chin raised in an unseemly challenge to Joseph's authority.

Where has this rhetoric come from? Joseph presses further - surely the priests at the Door of Hope aren’t saying such things, are they? But all attempts to ascertain whether the church's teachings could possibly endorse such behavior are deftly deflected. Sanjan simply clams up, refusing to expand further. Clearly, some nefarious seeds have taken root within her fertile psyche - but from what tree have they fallen?

For tonight, Joseph can only attempt damage control by introducing a new familial diversion - a raucous game of tag to burn away the day's tensions in peals of unbridled juvenile laughter. Bellies full and issues temporarily tabled, exhaustion finally sweeps over the makeshift household as all settle into their rough pallets. A rare moment's joy amidst the troubles of life. [-1 Stress]

Yet Joseph’s attempts at sleep this week prove fleeting at best. Sanjan's words echo in Joseph's conscience long into the restless nights, fueling fires of worry. The intermittent hammering of distant gunshots reverberating through the Circus ruin any remaining chances for restful slumber.

By week's end, he has run himself ragged, between the poor sleep and double shifts. Dark rings darken the hollows beneath his heavy-lidded eyes as a bone-deep weariness weighs upon his frame. Even the most resolute of men cannot maintain obstinate endurance indefinitely when confronted with such exhaustion! [+1 Stress. -1 VIS next week. -1 Focus next week.]

END OF TURN 6

Joseph at last returns home from Pechter's - only to find the tenement's entrance blocked by a phalanx of muscled, red-scarved louts evidently playing the role of self-appointed sentries. The quartet's apparent ringleader, all corded sinew and hateful ink, lumbers forth to address Joseph with a mocking sneer.

"Oi, here's how it is. This whole building's under Saxon's protection now, y'unnerstand? Ain't safe for outsiders with the Coats breathin' down our necks jus' 'cause we ain't Thenian. Luckily fer you, my boss Saxon don't discriminate over race or nationality.”

He cracks knotted knuckles for emphasis.

“Long as you pay the protection fee, o'course."

The twisted, tar-stained leer blossoms across the enforcer's cracked lips. "Few gilders each week, an' we make sure nothing...unfortunate befalls ye' or yers, even in the circus. How's that sound?"

OPTIONS:
[Pay the protection money. No sense risking antagonizing this gang on your own. -2 Gilders.]
[Attempt to negotiate. Explain your circumstances and limited means. Appeal to reason.]
[Tell Saxon he can take his "protection" and shove it. Make a break for the entrance while you can. They won’t hang around long enough to wait for you to come back - this is just a shakedown.]
[Find another way. Make your own option, should you please.]

IAN DESCH

Ian’s trip to the stipend office is met with a bitter realization – this place, once a source of sustenance, has closed its doors for good. The stipend that once provided a safety net is no more. He must now live off the crumbs of his own endeavors, sustaining himself on the scraps of imagination bartered to print-houses.

Undeterred, Ian immerses himself in his craft, ink and words flowing from his pen as new chapters of "A Dragon's Land" take shape. The writer's block that stumped him last week dissipates. While it may be pulpy and campy, it is something that he is proud of - a testament to his dedication. The editor at Chengway's is pleased, for the schedule is back on track, and Ian's efforts are rewarded with six gilders. [+6 Gilders]

With the chapters delivered, Ian embarks on an exploration of the city's labyrinthine streets. His footsteps lead him to the Jade District. Somehow, he manages to slip through the checkpoints with little suspicion - a crippled writer, the bomber? Ha, unlikely.

And in a surprisingly lucky twist of fate, he stumbles upon where the telegram station stands. It sits close to an- ancient fort - now a modern police department - and the battlements and patrolling guards instill a subtle sense of unease within him. This place was not meant for him - but with enough cash, that can be paved over.

NEW LOCATION DISCOVERED:
The Jade District Telegraph Office

The Jade District Telegraph Office hums with a mechanical thrum, a contrast to the ancient city outside. Gleaming brass instruments and intricate wires fill the bustling hall. Skilled operators tap out messages in a rhythmic dance, their faces illuminated by the flickering gaslight. The air crackles with a strange energy, a potent mix of urgency and anticipation. Here, whispers travel at the speed of light, carrying news, secrets, and the weight of the world across the continent. Every click of the telegraph key echoes a heartbeat, a testament to the ever-shrinking world and the insatiable hunger for information.
[A hub tying the world together, through wires and words alike.]

At the Midnight Market, Ian exchanges his hard-earned gilders for the Palm-Pistol. It fits perfectly in his palm. Simple, elegant, and deadly. Even if it is a woman’s gun.

As the week draws to a close, Barry seeks Ian out in their hidden rendezvous spot. His words carry the weight of urgency and determination, as he unveils a plan to support their cause.

"A boat is leaving Ash Harbour in three weeks for Wraizar," Barry divulges, his voice low and conspiratorial. "The captain helming the ship is a cousin of one of our agents. He’ll smuggle in weapons for us - the tools we need for the upcoming operation. The Imperials have got eyes on everything coming in and out of the harbor, but he has a connection that'll look the other way. All we need to do is provide the funds."

Barry's gaze shifts, a hint of trepidation flickering across his features as he continues. "I've connected with a bulk weapons dealer in the Circus. Big Ears Dhu, with the Green Banners. He's nasty, but more reasonable than the others. Every penny you can scrape up will help.”

He sighed, shaking his head.

“I haven’t had much luck convincing the folks in the International District to help us. My connections have been reluctant to get their hands tied up in our affairs, not with the revolution here in Thenia and the instability with Bre Tann and their colonial holdings in the Scattered Isles."

With a nervous shake of his head, Barry's parting words are a sobering reminder of the gravity of their situation. "Stay safe, Ian. It's getting dangerous out here."

SIR WINTHROP EDDLETON - “The Scion”

The meager fare simmers over crackling flames - a thin gruel reanimating withered scraps of brassica and indeterminate meat shavings scavenged from butchers' leavings. This, unfortunately, does not meet the mark. Winthrop stares into the half-consumed bowl, stomach turning in repulsed revolt. The gristly matter sits flavorless and foul upon his tongue, this questionable "mystery meat" utterly unworthy of gracing the Scion’s palate. He deserves better than such an insult to his heritage and standing! Winthrop sets aside the unfinished meal with anger. The indignity of being subjected to this culinary debasement is too much to abide any longer! [+1 Stress]

The Jade District around him slumbers on in blissful ignorance this week, most residents unconcerned by the recent bombing outrage that rattled the city center. Winthrop sleeps easily enough despite the occasional distant cadences of marching feet, and finds himself hale and hearty for the upcoming week. [VIS recovered regularly.]

Through his clever maneuvering and avoidance of security checkpoints, Winthrop manages to escape the gendarmes' intrusive checkpoints. There are no issues this week, asides from the slight delay in gettin

His daily labor at the respected Crimwick Forge reinvigorates Winthrop's soul, even as the extended routes required to avoid the security cordons cost him valuable coin and nearly jeopardize his timely arrivals more than once. But he applies himself with utmost diligence throughout the arduous hours, his newly crafted fine tools singing out their plangent tones as he works with an intensity born of ambition. Winthrop's exceeding focus, his newly created fine tools, and his extra time spent see him achieve his typical excellence - marvelous pieces flowing from his anvil's issue like finely wrought music.

Alas, such excellence in a mere week's span, while inspiring due praise and appreciation, does not quite ascend to the masterful heights required to so swiftly grant promotion. The irritating reality occurs to Winthrop that despite his best efforts, workplaces seldom adhere strictly to rigid meritocracy when determining hierarchy. More than just diligent works may be required to rise.

Still, he has earned a purse's padding of two gilders for his exertions. Not bad, even if it falls short of his loftier ambition. [+2 Gilders]

With what remains of his time, Winthrop sets out to scout his new neighborhood seeking purveyors and markets able to provide better sustenance, as well as steady sources for the raw materials of his handicraft. His tentative explorations bear bountiful fruit despite occasional sidelong stares and checkpoint barricades obstructing northern paths. Reputable grocers, ironmongers and specialty woodcrafters - the Jade District's commerce bones yet maintain the city's lifeblood, heedless of impermanent upheavals.

NEW LOCATIONS FOUND:
Chenglong Iron & Steel
Anchoring the northern end of Quality Metalworks Row, right across the bridge from the West Bund, this two-century-old foundry and smelter complex has supplied Hsin-Yao's manufacturers and artisans with high-quality cast iron and steel stock for generations. A perpetual haze of smoke and clanging emanates from its archaic but formidable facilities.
[An endless font of raw ore made material for the forges of the city's metalworkers.]

Huashi's Quality Sundries
This tidy provisions store sits unassumingly on a Jade District side street, easily overlooked. But inside, the shelves groan with all the ordinary necessities and foodstuffs that the households of the neighborhood require - herbs, grains, oils, salts, dried rations and more. Neat, clean, well-packaged - a fine assortment of quality nourishment.
[All the fundamental comestibles and dry goods needed by any respectable family dwelling.]
[Good, high quality food can be purchased for 3 Gilders for 1 Food, or 5 Gilders for 2 Food.]

Chang’s Crates & Crafts
Down a narrow alley snug between a modern police station and an ancient bank branch, the scents of sawdust and wood lacquer emanate from this unassuming coopery. Within, artisans can be seen hunched at their lathes, meticulously crafting barrels, casks and storage containers for shipping valuable goods.
[Trusted woodworkers, carpenters, and crate-makers providing sturdy vessels for shipping and more.]

END OF WEEK 6:

Alas! Winthrop, despite his best efforts, cannot evade scrutiny forever. No matter how careful he trods, no matter how skilled he is at avoidance - fate and misfortune shall demand their due. While returning home from lawful pursuits one evening, he makes a swift turn around a corner and quite literally stumbles into a trio of uniformed gendarmes.

The cluster of officers show clear irritation at his ostensibly innocent blunder. Judging from their exhausted faces, it's been a long and thankless day for these men - a fact which does little to mitigate the cruelty entering the lead officer's eyes.

"Hey, watch where you’re going. Don’t you know there's a strictly enforced curfew on these streets after sunset? No outsiders or foreign nationals permitted past sunset. This isn’t the Circus." the senior gendarme sneers.

The words ring utterly hollow, contradicting everything Winthrop has witnessed during his time in the Jade District's relatively tranquil environs. He's seen numerous foreigners and immigrants traversing these streets unaccosted, even into the late night periods. There is clearly no such regulation in place for these privileged sectors.

The gendarme's mouth pulls into a greasy smile as he produces a small citation book from his jacket. "I'm afraid I'll have to document you for the violation - that'll be two gilders as a fine."

One of the underlings hastily interjects. "No, it was three gilders for that one, remember?"

A frustrated scowl creases the officer's features before he resets into a saccharine mask of feigned patience. "You're right, my mistake. Three full gilders to settle this legally. If I were to take you in for processing, it would be at least two days in lock-up before you could see a magistrate. But I'm willing to let you off easy just this once, provided the fine gets paid right here, right now."

His tone remains mild but underpins the threat with stark clarity. This is nothing but a bald-faced shakedown, plain and simple. What, exactly, shall Winthrop do about this?

OPTIONS:
[Pay the extortionate "fine." While galling, three gilders is preferable to any legal entanglements, even fabricated ones.]
[Attempt to verbally defuse the situation and talk them out of this farce. You've seen no evidence of curfews being enforced.]
[They seem to believe you a meek outlander ripe for intimidation. But you are the Scion. Their cudgels are at their sides. They are dangerously close to you. And they are tired. Small. Weak. Your amygdala and ego alike beg you - teach these fools a lesson. You will get the jump on them.]
[Or chart your own course. The path forward is yours to determine.]

ALLISTAR CRAVEN

Allistar purchases a shiv, a simple yet effective tool of defense. It is not embellished in any way - simply sharp and pointed iron. As he holds the short blade with its leather-wrapped hilt in his palm, he is reminded that simple things can be formidable in the right circumstances - just as a simple man can achieve greatness when fate demands it.

After the strain of his recent mission, Allistar recognizes the importance of rest and recovery. He allows himself a respite this week, and his efforts are rewarded with a renewed sense of clarity and vigor. The persistent pain that haunted his every step fades to a tolerable twinge, and he feels his focus and visual acuity sharpen, fortifying him for the challenges that lie ahead.

Sustenance, though bland and tasteless, is a necessity, and Allistar ensures he has enough provisions to sustain him for the next two weeks. The nourishment, while lacking in flavor, serves its purpose, fueling his body and mind for the tasks at hand.

Driven by a sense of purpose, Allistar dedicates himself to volunteering at the Door of Hope, a testament to his unwavering loyalty and readiness to take on any task he is called upon to perform. He finds solace in helping the less fortunate, reading to children in the school, distributing bread at the soup kitchen, and tending to the sick.

However, the sights that greet him in Tangletown are disheartening. He cannot help but notice the weary eyes and pallid faces of those who stumble through the streets, whispers of the recent conflicts between the Red Scarves and Azure Coats lingering in the air. The aftermath of the lab's destruction has rippled through the community, leaving a trail of sickness and despair in its wake. [Perceptive]

"Just evil fighting evil," Father Werner assures him, offering a comforting pat on the back. "Nothing for us to be concerned about. We will be here for those who seek redemption, and we will repair the damage caused by such a conflict."

Driven by a thirst for knowledge and a desire to harness the power of science for good, Allistar spends his time tinkering with the lab equipment in his room. His efforts yield promising results as he combines various chemicals and powders, creating an incredible amount of smoke that chokes his room for hours. The potent combination of potassium nitrate and flour proves effective, and though he gasps for air as he opens the windows, he recognizes the potential utility of such a smoke bomb, should he find himself in a perilous situation. With a newfound determination, he resolves to acquire more materials to continue his experimentation. [+2 Smoke Bombs, -2 Beakers]

As the week draws to a close, Father Werner summons Allistar once more, opening his small black book with a solemn expression. "Brother Allistar...as you know, there is war in the streets," he begins, his voice grave. "A man rides the streets at night upon great black steeds, selling all sorts of illegal weapons from a wagon, dispersing death wherever he goes. His name is Johannes van Faulkner - a giant beastly man from the Deuschter Isles. He must be convinced to sell his wares elsewhere; this gang war threatens to become too bloody and draw the eyes of the government. That shall only make the situation worse. Can I trust you to take care of this?"

With a grim smile, Father Werner finishes his spiel.

"The Allfather commands us both."

JACOB EVERSON

JACOB: TURN 4

The lure of restorative slumber proves irresistible, and Jacob seizes the opportunity to indulge in some much-needed extra rest. After all, a healthy mind is a prerequisite for productive work. [VIS recovered as usual.]

Jacob approaches the shop - Galder’s Gadgetries - with renewed confidence, adjusting his freshly acquired waxed coat and ensuring the concealed dagger within remains securely hidden. With purposeful strides, he reaches the door frame and raps firmly, announcing his presence before entering, poised to embark on a job that could finally grant him a foothold in the private investigation business.

Within, an elderly man sporting a long handlebar mustache and large round glasses subjects Jacob to a cursory interview – if it can even be called that. Presumably, this man is Galder.

"Are you a detective? Will you take 10 gilders for solving the case?" he inquires, his voice tinged with exasperation. He’s had a very valuable set of merchandise stolen from here, and the Gendarmes seem content to sit on their hands and twiddle their thumbs!

It’s not very much money - but Galder assures Jacob that he knows people who know people. It’ll be worth his while, for sure!

After a grueling day of unloading freight from ships to the port, Jacob collects his hard-earned pay from the Boatswain, informing the seasoned sailor of his intention to depart after one final week of work – a decision prompted by a more promising job opportunity elsewhere.

The Boatswain responds with a grunted well-wish: "Best of luck, lad. If it doesn't work out, we'll always be here. Ships and boxes ain't going nowhere."

So. An investigation. A missing set of merchandise. Jacob sits down with Galder, getting the details. It was Monday night. Galder had departed the shop, locking the doors tight and shuttering the windows. The merchandise was kept securely in a safe, which appeared to have been opened with the use of…explosives? There’s black marks and ashes around here.

That’s it? That’s all Galder has? No wonder the Gendarmes see fit to leave this one as a cold case. But that’s what he has - for now, at least. How will Jacob proceed with the investigation?

KASSIA ALANI BAKER - “The Delicate Blade”

Kassia's slumber remains undisturbed, a brief respite claimed amidst the ceaseless turmoil that folds inward like encroaching waves. Whether at dawn's first light or dusk's dimming embers, she rises to toil, her rest punctuated by the demands of labor.

As she ventures forth to procure sustenance, Kassia's discerning eye scans the marketplace, seeking enterprising grocers who might deliver their wares directly to her doorstep – a convenience that would undoubtedly spare her precious time. Her search bears fruit in the form of a vendor within Tangletown Market, a man offering to ferry produce for the modest sum of one additional gilder for every four gilders spent. Is his food particularly appealing? No, not at all. But food is food.

Kassia's dedication to honing her physique is unwavering, and she seizes upon her newfound prowess in shadowboxing, engaging in rigorous training sessions during the day to spare her neighbors the clamor of her exertions. Her muscles burn with the fire of determination, her knuckles hardening as her strikes grow swifter and more precise with each passing moment. It will not be long before she ascends to true mastery – a skilled pugilist.

As night's veil descends upon the city, Kassia, her blades restored, slips into the shadows to pursue her true life's work. With the streets already awash in the crimson tide of gangster blood, there is surely ample opportunity for one possessing her refined touch, the delicate blade that separates her from the brutish fray.

The Midnight Market is a veritable tapestry of fliers and postings, each one a siren call to those who dwell in the underworld's shadowy depths. The Azure Coats are hiring - even ‘dirty foreign pigs’ are welcome amongst their ranks, if you can look past the wording of that advertisement. The Green Banners, too, seek to enlist killers and assassins into their fold, while the ever-present Red Scarves extend their own overtures to the desperate and the damned. Smaller gangs seize upon the chaos, their own recruitment efforts adding to the cacophony of enticements.

"Don't want to die for Saxon for pennies?" reads one poster, its black triangular sigil stamped defiantly upon the parchment. "The Raizers will treat you right."

It is an odd sight, this proclamation standing defiantly in the open like this, yet the Midnight Market appears to be hallowed ground – a haven for the underclass and the criminal, where the only true enemy is the lawman and the Suzerain.

One particular flier catches Kassia's eye, its bold handwriting scrawled in a crimson hue: "KILLERS NEEDED. MEET US AT THE GEAR AND GASKET. ASK FOR OLIVER. SEVEN GILDERS." The offer seems reasonable enough, and she snatches the poster, stashing it carefully before slipping back into the night's embrace.

What follows is a display of sheer, unbridled brutality, a ballet of violence that would shock even the most hardened denizens of the underworld. Kassia proceeds to unleash an absolute maelstrom of death upon not two, not three, but four hapless gangsters, her blade weeding out their ilk with a ruthless efficiency that borders on the sublime. Brutal, elegant, graceful – if she were forged for any singular purpose, it was this, the bloody danse macabre that unfolds in the wake of her passage.

LISHA LANG - “Scarlett”

Lisha's slumber remains undisturbed by the escalating cacophony outside this week, her rest deep and restorative, fortifying her for the pivotal day ahead. As the morning light filters through the curtains, she rises, well-rested and ready to face the challenges that await.

Her footsteps lead her to the infamous Deadspit Lane Fleapit, a den of illicit activity where she intends to secure a fight. The Red Scarves, though not the same ones she had bested weeks prior, have a presence here, their men scattered throughout the arena. But they are not alone – men clad in azure coats and others with emerald handkerchiefs tucked into pockets or tied around wrists mingle in the crowd, suggesting that this place serves as both a recruitment ground and an entertainment venue.

Finding a match proves effortless. The organizers swiftly schedule her for two bouts, their eagerness fueled by the testimony of a man who had witnessed her decisive victory over two adversaries just days before. "Bloody Scarlett!" he exclaims, and his endorsement carries weight.

While the Fleapit lacks formal organized gambling, Lisha easily finds willing participants eager to wager on her matches. With a gilder on the line, a 1:1 bet, the men and women of the establishment are all too happy to bet against the stranger in their midst. A neutral official, seeking to avoid any chicanery, offers to hold the cash for both parties. A reasonable precaution.

Lisha's first matchup pits her against another brawny woman, a former dockworker of Bre Tann origin, bearing the moniker 'the Jade Anchor'.

The bout commences with a powerful flurry of jabs from Lisha, but Jade deftly dodges and deflects with expert precision. Undeterred, Lisha launches a vicious haymaker, only for Jade to meet it with her forearm, deflecting the blow and leaving Lisha vulnerable. Jade strikes her in the chest with a knee, and Lisha gasps for air. A knee? In boxing? Is that allowed?

By the cheers of the crowd - yes. There are no illegal moves here in the Fleapit. [-1 VIS next turn!]

As Lisha falls back, her subsequent swings prove futile, Jade swaying and evading with graceful ease. An overconfident uppercut from Jade misses its mark, but the seasoned fighter remains unfazed, her speed and strength equal to Lisha's – a realization that sheds light on the eagerness of the bettors.

In a daring maneuver, Lisha catches Jade's leg mid-kick and hurls her opponent to the ground. But Jade's resilience is remarkable, as she uses the momentum to spring upwards, denying Lisha any advantage. A flurry of jabs and kicks follows, one strike catching Lisha's jaw and sending her stumbling, stars dancing before her eyes. [-1 VIS next turn!]

Desperation fuels Lisha's wild swings, but Jade senses weakness, her kicks and jabs precise and unrelenting. Lisha feels the sickening crack of ribs as she stumbles backwards, trapped on the defensive, unable to land a single blow. [-1 VIS next turn!]

Closing in for the kill, Jade's overconfidence becomes her undoing. Her aggressive jabs leave her exposed, and Lisha, despite her spinning head and aching ribs, dodges through the storm, delivering a powerful jab to her opponent's skull. Jade staggers back, clutching her bloodied nose, as the crowd erupts in a frenzy.

Seizing the opportunity, Lisha presses her advantage, pouring every ounce of her remaining strength into a relentless onslaught. Cross! Left hook! Cross! The third strike lands squarely on Jade, disorienting her. A powerful kick follows, and Jade gasps for air, clinging to the ropes of the makeshift arena.

But Jade is no stranger to combat. The former sailor recovers swiftly, grappling Lisha to the ground, forcing her into unfamiliar territory. Lisha's focus is tested as she battles to avoid being overwhelmed, the two grappling fiercely, clawing for any advantage. Jade's weakened state hampers her ability to lock in a chokehold, but her experience in close quarters proves formidable. The crowd holds its breath as the fighters exchange expert strikes, Lisha's blows powerful enough to down any hired thug, yet Jade, through talent or sheer luck, manages to deflect, evade, or block them all.

As swiftly as it began, it ends – Jade's arms encircle Lisha's neck in a vicious headlock. "Yield," she spits through bloodied lips and a bruised face. "It's done."

Lisha struggles, her vision blurring as Jade's grip tightens, but eventually, she relents, pounding the mat in submission. The official solemnly hands her gilder to the victorious better, a stark reminder of her defeat. Lisha's jaw, ribs, and arms throb with blossoming bruises, the sting of monetary loss insignificant compared to the weight of her failure. [+1 Stress for losing the gamble. +1 Stress for defeat in the ring.]

Yet, not all is lost.

"Jade's an enforcer for the Banners. She tears most new fighters to pieces. You did well, for what it's worth," declares one of the matchmakers, pressing five gilders into Lisha's hand as compensation for her valiant effort. “And we’ll keep your scheduled match on the register for the next week.”

HARI YAHNRIC - “Doctor Veins”

HARI YAHNRIC: Week Two

After weighing his options, Hari ultimately opted to take the position at the Sparrowhawk Croft, lured by the promise of a more substantial income. While the workload would be demanding, it aligned perfectly with his calling. In his first week, he assumed the roles of floor supervisor and lead surgeon, diving headfirst into the tumultuous currents of his new responsibilities.

The work proved arduous, far more challenging than even his extensive experience could have prepared him for. The Sparrowhawk found itself inundated by a relentless tide of the poor, the destitute, and the desperate, their suffering a damning indictment of the government's apparent inability – or unwillingness – to provide adequate care for its most vulnerable citizens. Hari did his utmost, but even his considerable skills were stretched to their limits, the sheer magnitude of the crisis leaving him feeling overwhelmed. What a truly deplorable state of affairs this place was, he couldn't help but lament inwardly. Was this truly the best that the esteemed government of Hsin-Yao could offer its people? For shame. [+1 Stress. Tough work like this eats into a man.]

Still uncertain of the city's layout and the location of its markets, Hari continued to take his meals with the monks, offering his medical expertise in exchange for their sustenance. While the Fathers were initially reluctant to share their meager rations for such a small portion of his time, Hari's skills proved invaluable – a rare commodity in high demand. Thus, they acquiesced, content to provide him with his weekly meals as recompense for his assistance in tending to the poor and wounded.

Hari's slumber, when it came, was mercifully uneventful – a seamless transition from wakefulness to oblivion and back again, uninterrupted by dreams, visions, or hauntings. He kept those sights confined to the waking hours, thank you very much.

The remainder of his time was dedicated to familiarizing himself with the city, scouring its winding streets and alleys in search of a marketplace and suppliers capable of providing the unsettling materials necessary for his experiments. In this endeavor, he proved highly successful. Good old Hari had been around the block more than a few times – he knew the right people to ask, the right places to look, and the city's secrets gradually unveiled themselves to his keen eye.

NEW LOCATIONS FOUND

Ecstasi & Co. Apothecary
From behind an unassuming door near the Ragfair Tents, a strange sickly-sweet aroma perpetually wafts. Here resides a clutch of disavowed chirurgeons and apothecaries who peddle a wide array of controlled analgesics, narcotics and arcane pharmaceuticals - no prescriptions required. Those of coin and addictive cravings form a constant queue on its step.
[A whispered remedy for any malady - at a terrible price.]

The Midnight Market
In the late hours of the night, long after legitimate storefronts have shuttered, a clandestine network of merchants and fixers conduct their business across the rain-slickened rooftops surrounding Tangletown Market. Reached only by rickety fire escapes, drainpipe ladders and ramshackle catwalks, this open-air bazaar emerges under the cover of night like a rooftop blight. Canvas awnings are lashed between chimneys to form cramped booths and warrens where all manner of illegal goods are discreetly hawked.
[An illicit market that lurks above the streets, where boundaries are few and risk is currency.]

Dremour Chemical Plant
Deep in the bowels of Hsin-Yao’s industrial zones, plumes of noxious smoke fill the sky - the ground is stained with the chemicals which with some frequency mix with the rain and descend upon the terrain and the populace in equal measure. But the valuable goods which it produces, and the weakness of its victims, make any sort of retribution for this business unlikely.
[Various chemical goods are manufactured within. A creative mind might put them to use.]

HARI YAHNRIC: Week Three

Sleep, that elusive respite, comes mercifully uncomplicated for Hari this week – a small blessing amidst the tumult that surrounds him.

The matter of rent, however, proves less tranquil. Ten gilders are demanded by the landlord, a brute of a man who seems to believe that bellowing is the only acceptable form of communication. Hari frowns as he surrenders the money, his facial expression met with indifference by the avaricious landlord, accustomed as he is to such reactions from his tenants. The man greedily snatches the rent, ignoring Hari's displeasure before dismissing him with callous disregard. Hari grits his teeth, a fleeting thought crossing his mind – as a doctor, a man of science and skill, does he not deserve better than this squalid existence?

His ruminations are cut short as he steps outside, his gaze falling upon the written threat to the thief, a stark reminder of the perils that lurk in the city's darkened corners. Steeling himself, he makes his way to Sparrowhawk, bracing for another week of tending to the sick and wounded amid the relentless chaos.

True to his expectations, the scene that greets him is one of utter bedlam – a veritable bloodbath exacerbated by the influx of pneumonia-ridden beggars and frostbitten souls, strung out and unwilling or unable to seek the sanctuary of warm clothing. They exhibit little gratitude for his tireless efforts, his fellow doctors proving equally frustrating with their lackluster training and constant need for correction. Exasperation mounts within Hari as he navigates this unending cyclone of misery. [+1 Stress.]

Yet, his duties do not end there. Once more, he volunteers his services at the Door of Hope, tending to the wounded who seek refuge within its walls. This time, the friars greet him with warmth and eager desperation, keenly aware of the value his time and energy represent.

Having hopefully located a market, Hari barters skillfully, procuring a coat well below cost (-1 VIS, +1 Focus) and provisions to sustain him. While a threadbare coat for two gilders and cheap food for one gilder are hardly luxurious, they will suffice. A blanket is available for purchase, but Hari turns his nose up at the functionally useless item, deeming it an unnecessary expenditure.

The remainder of his time is dedicated to a more clandestine pursuit – the acquisition of chemicals for his experiments. Earlier in the day, he procures several vials and glasses from his workplace, the harried staff too preoccupied to notice their absence. [+3 Beakers]

But his true coup lies in the acquisition of much more interesting materials than simple glass beakers and vials. Lurking in the dim hours of the night, he haunts the periphery of the Dremour Chemical Plant, sifting through dumpsters and waste buckets in search of his prize. And then he finds it - leftovers from the chemists here. An explosive chemical and a biological agent, substances rife with potential for the enterprising mind. As the odd-colored liquids swirl and bubble within the confines of the glasses, Doctor Veins cannot resist a smile, the first in quite some time. Very nifty, indeed. [+1 Explosive Chemical, +1 Biological Chemical]

HARI YAHNRIC: Week Four

Sleep, that elusive companion, remains an uneventful constant in Hari's life, a reprieve from the chaos that swirls around him.

Yet, the week's local news brings with it a sense of unease, both from abroad and within the city's walls. The arrest of a councilman, one who had championed laws aiding refugees like himself, casts doubt upon the future status of those seeking sanctuary within Hsin-Yao's borders. Hari ponders his prospects, concluding that the Gendarmes' apparent indifference to all but the most egregious offenses bodes well for his continued residency.

The prospect of wine flowing through the Mudway elicits a shake of his head. No doubt, he muses, they'll soon be inundated with the unfortunate souls who succumbed to the siren call of free intoxication, inhaling the toxins of the muddied waters and sustaining injuries from broken glass and drunken brawls. Sure enough, his grim prediction proves accurate as a steady stream of such cases begins to trickle in.

This week, however, Hari finds himself not overwhelmed by the relentless tide of work, but rather carried aloft by its currents. He glides from patient to patient, binding, slicing, mending, and tearing with a preternatural grace. Orders flow from his lips like water, his movements almost subconscious as he orchestrates the chaos of the ward with an expertise born of countless repetitions. It is a truly impressive display, and his fellow doctors, once dismissive, now exhibit faint glimmers of admiration and respect – the first stirrings of recognition for his singular talents. [No stress today, and the work will be slightly easier in the future.]

As he works, a familiar figure approaches – Father Werner, the head pastor, clutching a small black book to his chest. "We truly do appreciate you, good Doctor," he intones, his words carrying a weight of sincerity. "Your efforts are noticed. If you have any interest in an extended line of work, please do let me know. There is more that the church does than simply healing the sick." His voice trails off, laced with mystery, leaving Hari to ponder the implications of this enigmatic offer. Well, it might be worth looking into.

The rest of Hari's time is divided between exploring the city's winding streets, searching for chemicals and other oddities to fuel his experiments, and the experiments themselves.

One night, as he navigates a labyrinth of alleys, an odd sight catches his eye – a small corpse, not that of a man, but a dog surrounded by a circle of slain rats, the scene desecrated by what can only be the remnants of some dark ritual. Viscera and organs are woven into macabre symbols amidst the offal, and Hari cannot help but be intrigued. Who is responsible for this grisly display, and what sinister purpose could it serve? [CURIOSITY: Investigating this will certainly sate Hari's odd tastes.]

His experimentation with the assorted chemicals yields mild success, though nothing truly groundbreaking. Hari manages to create a makeshift Molotov cocktail by combining the beaker and explosive liquid – a creation that holds potential for sale, personal use, or perhaps even as a component in future experiments. For now, he will retain this volatile concoction. [+1 Molotov Cocktail. Can be disassembled back to 1 Beaker and 1 Explosive Chemical.]

END OF WEEK FIVE EVENT:

As Hari goes about his daily duties, a quintet of gangsters – for there can be no mistaking their red scarves and tattooed arms – burst through the doors of Sparrowhawk, carrying a bleeding man between them. Several large stab wounds mar the man's abdomen, his life's essence seeping onto the floor with each labored breath.

For Hari, the scene triggers an overwhelming sense of déjà vu, a familiarity borne of countless repetitions. He has been here before, seen these people, done this work.

"Sir," the leader, a balding Thenian man with a long scar bisecting his right cheek, addresses him. "I knows you'se a busy man. But this is important, and the Doldrums is all filled up these days. Leave your other patients be, they'll live – and we'll make it worth your while. Promise."

To punctuate his words, he subtly tucks five gilders into the wounded man's coat. Well, that's something, at least.

OPTIONS:
[You are a professional, and you'll treat this patient when it's his turn.]
[Take the money and operate on the man immediately.]
[No. You will not get swept into this business with gangsters and violence yet again. Refuse the man. Send him elsewhere.]

At the end of it all, Hari has 32 Gilders to his name, 2 Stress, and 1 Focus.

by **Cybernetic Socialist Republics** » Fri Apr 19, 2024 9:41 pm

Scheduled match, next week? As if. 'Not being torn to pieces' was essentially worthless. She still lost & she was in no shape to fight any time soon. Her aching chest, jaws & ribs attested as much. She put her all into this match only to lose, she couldn't hope to put anywhere near as much in her next match, even if he faced a lesser opponent, it was courting another defeat, perhaps more catastrophic. She earned 5 Gilders? Less than worthless, she made just as much at the tangle market, for far less hassle. That was before one considered the Gilder she lost making a bet, or the mental anguish of the losing match & bet a like. No thanks. She wouldn't be seeing the inside of the Fleapit at all next week & if she kept to her senses rather than be blinded by the prospect of boxing & betting, she wouldn't be heading back the next week or the week after that.

No, for what it was all worth she'd honestly be better off accepting that she couldn't make it anywhere in the Clockwork Circus & accept a life of menial drudgery. But no, she wouldn't, despite all sense, she'd probably be back in two weeks, even if it killed her, which was a fair bit more likely than anything good coming of it, though perhaps the release of death was a good in of its self. Getting caught in the crossfire between the Red Scarves and Azure Coats could provide that as well. In the meantime, she'd make up for diminished productivity as a labor by cutting back on sleep. Would that have negative consequences for her? Most likely, but what didn't?

Actions, Turn 6
Starting:
Vis: 5/8
Focus: 1
Gilder: 10 G
Heat: 0
Stress: 2

-Lisha sleeps in her apartment. [-1 Vis]

-Lisha heads to the Tangletown market to do hard labor [+5G, -3 VIS]

-Lisha buys food [-2G, -1 Vis]

Finishing:
Vis: 0/8
Focus: 1
Gilder: 13 G
Heat: 0
Stress: 2

by **Lunas Legion** » Sat Apr 20, 2024 6:14 am

Turn VI
Penelope Lagakou

Her sleep somehow kept on getting worse. Every night, her mother's dead corpse stared at her, almost accusing. Was she supposed to have died with them, all of the Lagakou dying by the blades and guns of baying bloodthirsty mobs of republican revolutionaries? Quin Quao, that serial killer she had summoned the shade of, stalked her by streetlights, the bloated body leering out of the labyrinthine alleys and lanes of the Circus. The Man in Grey followed them both, a spectre that was barely a shadow but ever-present in the background. Every dawn she woke to her own screams, the spectres following her into the waking world. There was only so much she could do to hold up appearances, and things began to show eventually.

"You know, there are...remedies for uneasy minds," Tallazan muttered one morning as she arrived, looking more haggard than usual, or perhaps she'd done a worse job covering it up. "A certain bartender at the Buttonhole is an accomplished procurer of laudanum, opiates - the good stuff to dull the nerves, as it were. If you wouldn't mind sharing a few more...insights into the occult? I’d be happy to put you two in touch."

"Please." Penelope said, clearly tied. "I do, however, fear this might be my last week of working with you. My past is catching up to me in more ways than one, shall we say. I will not let you flounder in my absence, however. There are a few things yet more I can teach in the time we have."

The theater had come a long way from the shabby place she'd found it. The walls were painted anew, and the curtains were now fine, embroided silk. The chairs that had once looked on the verge of collapse were now comfortable padded benches. It was becoming, dare she say it, vaguely tolerable to be inside. The ghosts she summoned were not even serial killers or executed relatives, but a comparably tame pair of figures with long ropes dangling from around their necks to the floor.

“Get out! Get out while you still can!” They hissed, before she promptly banished them. Hadn't there been two foreigners found hung at the Redhook Gallows recently? It seemed this might be her last week not only at Tallazan's, but in the Circus as a whole too.

As she watched the audience depart, a pair of figures dressed in black descended from the back of the theater. The same ones that had been watching her earlier, perhaps? A tall man in a somehow undirtied and impeccable black suit, his face hidden in shadow beneath his wide-brimmed hat, alongside him a woman in an equally black evening dress, her features likewise hidden beneath a silver veil and bonnet. The man dismissed Tallazan with but a wave.

"May I have the pleasure of introducing ourselves? This is Visionary Samara, my dear - and I am Eidolic Rendor. Emissaries of an organization which truly appreciates your...talents. Not mere gawking peasants or pathetic amateurs, but revered adepts of The Mysteries."

His voice went taut as manicured fingers alight upon Penelope's wrist. He kissed her hand with deference, giving a slight bow. At least someone here knew how to treat her, it seemed "It seems a pearl of your considerable gifts remains unappreciated amongst these swine. Our society would certainly change that."

Samara withdrew something from her purse and then extends it - an elegant card inscribed with an address. 13 William's Lane, International District, Hsin-Yao. Penelope took the card, examining it.

“Find a way past the gates and prove yourself to the groundskeeper. Then we’ll talk more, love.” she said with a sultry whisper, before turning away. The two faded into the shadows as quickly as they had emerged, practically vanishing.

That would be a task for next week, it seemed.

The day after, another group approached her, this time a group of scholarly-looking gentlemen and women, offering her payment in exchange for her using her talents on a part-time basis as a medium. Naturally, she politely said she'd consider it. If this was indeed her last week at Tallazan's, then it was good she had a potential alternative source of income. Ash Harbour was an industrial district, which made sense given the name, but that did not stop her from finding the stink of smoke distasteful. She found little of use for herself there, but on the way to what she called home, she saw where she should be. The high towers of the East Bund were visible for but a moment through the smog, but even so it... Gave her hope. Drive. To know where she was going. Where she should be. Would be.

Fate disagreed.

It was the last day of the week, the last day she'd worked at Tallazan's, giving him a final overview of all she had taught him, potentially her final week in the Circus, having made arrangements to move out at week's end. The West Bund was a step closer to the East Bund. She kept her eyes down, worming her way through the streets. She felt the hairs on her neck rise as she stopped and glanced around through the crowd-

The Man in Grey stood in the waking world. Features hidden, the weathered grey trenchcoat. She froze. His left hand went beneath his trenchcoat. Her hands shook. She exhaled. She inhaled. She exhaled.

He pushed forwards through the crowd towards her.

Panic.

Run.

by **Lagene** » Sat Apr 20, 2024 6:37 am

Joseph Kalibronsky
Waking up tired and stressed, Joseph Hauls himself out of bed and into the day. Gently waking Sanjan and Peter for school, he heads out the door, when a thought hits him. Which house was Sanjan stealing from? If she was caught, he would be punished....and so would she. The thoughts worry him throughout the way to school, and as he drops them off, he gives Sanjan a hard look. "If I catch you stealing again, you'll be in big trouble, young lady.", Joseph says, Imitating the words of his mother, hoping to Intimidate her.

Hopeful and Lively, Joseph arrives at Petcher's Practically skipping. He begins his work, and by the time he is done, the sun is high in the sky. (-3 VIS, +6 Gilder) He reaches tangletown market, and buys another weeks worth of food. (-2 gilders, week of food) He quickly and somewhat guiltily looks around for a job posting, hoping to find something more fitting to his skills.

Joseph heads back to the tenaments, and when he finds the gang there, he quickly tries to get them to see reason. - Negotiate. If they do not budge, Joseph pays the 2 gilder.

Back inside with Sanjan and Peter, he goes to Amelia's and asks her to have dinner with them. In need of a good night's sleep, Joseph goes to bed early. (-4 VIS, sleeping)

by **Estebere** » Sat Apr 20, 2024 1:22 pm

Turn VI: Incoherent internal screaming - Ian Desch
[Things weren't going well.]

It wasn't losing the stipend office. With 23 Gilders to his name, Ian could easily survive for quite a time, especially with his recent work for Chengway's. No, it was the psychological effect. With that bastard already in Hsin-Yao, Ian couldn't shake the feeling that he was related. Not helping was the recent... display at the Gallows, the incident outside the Tenements, and Barry's warning. Ian Desch, simply put, was freaking out. +1 Stress

Ian was disappointed to discover that, where the odd man with far too much fish usually set up his stall, there was merely a sign that says "Gone Fishing". Considering the bags and barrels piled high with fish that he associated with the man, he didn't expect this fishing expedition to end anytime soon. He'd have to come back to look for another fish stand. Nonetheless, the vegetable lady was still there. He made sure to tip her a gilder, especially considering he was buying five weeks worth of vegetables. He also got some eggs. Turns out she owned chickens.

Walking home, Ian began to make a list of everything he'd need. Scrap, wire, and some mechanical tools. Kitchenware might be nice. Dark vision goggles... No. He shouldn't go back to the Midnight Market, not again. And he was sure that that was the only place he could find the goggles. Paper and ink would both be necessities. And of course, finding another fish stand.

It was going to be a long day.

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Sat Apr 20, 2024 6:47 pm

The Week of Tallow Palms

Winthrop

A coterie of supposed law-keepers loom out of the gathering shadows of evening, and the Walker slows, their voices accosting him. A ridiculous provision, some sort of tax or fine for being out past a supposed curfew. A man considers for a moment - they were tired, but likely not the least useless of the local enforcers, having at least risen above their fellow hard-nosed constabulary which trod the boards in more noisome regions than the Jade Quarter. It wouldn’t be difficult to simply disappear into the night, but a lawman with a grudge could be a pernicious enemy, especially in these circumstances of suspicion and fear.

And opportunity beckoned. Of a kind. The Orator was not a master of men, but gold talked where even a formidable frame could not necessarily dissuade a foe. Oftentimes it was wiser to convince a recalcitrant that he was your friend, not your enemy, and entire conflicts could be avoided.

Broad palms spread in a gesture of goodwill, surreptitiously displaying a lack of weapons while expressing amiability.

“Officers, good eventide. I confess, I know of no such curfew - but the hour is late, and we could all use a solid drink I warrant. The Amber Teapot is right over there. What say I buy you all a couple rounds to make up for this misunderstanding? It is a crime that good men have dry throats in these times when public peace is so threatened.”

An expansive wave of his arm toward the public house now displayed the muscles stacked on muscles which casually graced the smith’s upper body, giving the invitation a pointed edge. It might not be as easy to beat the fine out of the Scion as these tired gendarmes presumed, and much more profitable to drown their evening instead.

[4 G assuage the suspicions of the authorities and, perhaps, buy a measure of goodwill with the law officers of the Jade Quarter]

With a measure of normalcy restored to the Scion’s life, perhaps, and the rumors of devious and unfortunate things drifting out of the Circus between Winthrop’s shift, the giant artificer was more thankful than usual that he had shifted his base of opportunities when he had the chance. Things were looking up for the Scion, with freshly secured victuals of fatty pork and ruddy fresh vegetables a welcome change from the poverty fare upon which he had subsided in the cesspools of the Mire.

There was much still to be done, as was always the case for the Walker. He could sleep when he was dead, and probably not even then.

Honest labor brought forth her own rewards - well and good - but Winthrop was gaining the impression that the potential for advancement, even at a vaguely reputable institution like Crimwick’s, was not necessarily the greatest. He might eventually rise to being the king of the ashes, but the pile of ashes that was the Circus was a strong margin further below the heights and power to which his natural insatiable ambition aspired.

Still, there were times to jump, and times to weigh the cost. The smith applied himself yet earnestly to his work, to rebuild his supplies of coin for his own personal purposes. Many things could be accomplished with perseverance and the gradual accumulation of time and experience in this peculiar materiality.

Anon. Anon.

by **Ovstylap** » Sun Apr 21, 2024 2:42 am

The man staggered back, cursing at the strength of the liqor. Treading on the foot of a patron behind him he barely has a moment to even consider not apologizing before a tankard is brought down on his skull with a loud thud, and a hint of a crunch. He fell limply to the ground, and his work colleagues turned on the sore-toed attacker, whose own friends joined into the brawl with full ferocity.

Lily dipped her head under the low doorbeam and ran straight in, not even quite thinking through what she was going to do. She scrambled over two men grappling one another and climbed onto the bar. "Well I have to say you lads, I can't even keep score with how messy your fighting is!" A few punches more occurred. More frowns occurred though as some of the men stopped to look at the woman atop the bar. "I've an idea. Are any of you gambling men?" A few nodded. "Well let's take this outside, and have an organised boxing match!"

Gradually, the men got to their feet, and went outside, as confused as Lily was that the fight had stopped. She maintained the act for eight minutes as a series of boxing bouts occurred outside- which likewise entertained those who had not been allowed to enter the overpacked den of addiction and who had looked ready to riot. As a pair of bouncers arrived to take their places, she gave them the rundown, and they shook their heads in wonder. "That won't work again, squirrel." One of them said to her.

She went inside, took her four gilders from the bar man, who was wiping the sweat from his brow after helping drag the unconscious, bleeding man into the street with another patron. "Don't worry about him, he's probably had worse hangovers." Lily ran an eye over the ragged breathing of the limp body, and pursed her lips. "Any idea what's wrong with Pinfold by the way, barkeep? Also, I don't suppose I might be able to work here again in a pinch if necessary?"

What a day. Big Man Dhu, produly showing off his, well, in a way, her tattoos, had also offered her work- which she had inquired about. She told Pinfold all about this. "Who is this Big Man Dhu, by the way, friend?" she asked as she gave him his 4 gilder.

Turn 5 Actions
Lily conducts some various admin- paying 4G to Pinfold after covering his shift- and asking him if they can truly now recognise one another as friends, and paying for more food for the week. (-6G, -1 VIS)
Lily works once more as an artist in her own right now (+8G, -3 VIS)
She also spends some additional time, without pay, seeking to learn from the mastery and experiences of other tattooists- from needlework to designs to conversations to aftercare, she seeks to be completely proficient. (-1 VIS, FOCUS)
She has adequate sleep, keeping her knife close-to-hand (-2 Vis)
Lily of course inquires as to what work Big Man Dhu thinks her suitable for. She keeps up her charming attitude- she also asks as the Brass Garter if she may ever take up any work here again. (-1 Vis)

12G held intimately on her person or within an inner pocket of her coat.
'Kitchen Knife'
Warm Coat

3 Stress

by **Talchyon** » Sun Apr 21, 2024 1:19 pm

Turn 5
Hari Yahnric (aka "Doctor Veins")

The warnings had been right. The weather was starting to get colder. But the shabby coat he had gained made Hari's walks to the hospital less of a health hazard. And finding that chemical plant and those interesting samples gave Hari a sinister sense of joy. Thinking of what would happen to mix variations of these in the beakers he had "borrowed" from the hospital that they wouldn't need any time soon. Thinking of what would happen to the various city rats and other vermin that never seemed to die off. It actually made him smile as he could see his breath puffing out in the cold. The molotov he made could be useful. Now that he knew how to make one, it was probably best that he not keep it mixed. The flea-ridden apartment was certainly not fire proof, and who knew what pipe smoker or psychopath might be a little too friendly with his fire. So Hari had separated the Molotov into its prior ingredients, soon after mixing it.

Being a doctor was stressful but needed. It didn't matter where you practiced. Ghealdan or the Clockwork Circus or anywhere else, either way, doctors saw the worst of humanity and could save only handfuls. But those who could be treated, would be. Hari felt some stress go into his back, the same place it had always gone, which simply made his muscles sore and tense. It was a familiar feeling and Hari, while not glad to see its return, still knew what it meant and welcomed it back. Did it matter if rival gangs were destroying themselves and anyone unfortunate enough to get caught in their ways? Not to him. It just meant more work some weeks.

This was why, when Father Werner from the abbey came with words of thanks for Hari's volunteer efforts at the church and an offer for more and different kinds of work at the church, Hari was unmoved. "Thanks, Father, but I'm a doctor, not a missionary. Whatever else you had in mind for me I will have to turn down, due to the work I have here and the need for my skills. I will still volunteer helping heal the wounded at your church, though." Whatever else Father Werner had in mind for him was of no interest. Someone else could go out winning souls. Hari was only concerned about the damages done to their bodies. Those whose minds were delirious because of the toxins they breathed in from the river trying to get drunk for free, or those sliced or shot by the latest gang conflict, for example.

Coming home from the chemical plant one evening, Hari saw the corpses of a dog and several rats. The organs, entrails, and blood droppings had been made into symbols of mystery. Whatever could this mean? Hari felt a rush of adrenaline as his twisted mind began to think of possibilities. Even at this tired hour, Hari felt invigorated as his curiosity overtook him. Of course he would investigate! He took note of where he was, what part of town he had crossed by to find. In the near future, in the daytime, he would try to talk with various tenants of the surrounding homes and workers of the nearby businesses, to see if they had any inkling as to what had happened and what this might mean. It made Hari grin big as he pulled his coat tighter around his thin body on the way home.

One day, the Sparrowhawk hospital turned into a familiar scene Hari once knew too well. Five of the Red Scarves gang men brought in a sixth, their friend in no good shape to continue living in.

Lazarian wrote:As Hari goes about his daily duties, a quintet of gangsters – for there can be no mistaking their red scarves and tattooed arms – burst through the doors of Sparrowhawk, carrying a bleeding man between them. Several large stab wounds mar the man's abdomen, his life's essence seeping onto the floor with each labored breath.

For Hari, the scene triggers an overwhelming sense of déjà vu, a familiarity borne of countless repetitions. He has been here before, seen these people, done this work.

"Sir," the leader, a balding Thenian man with a long scar bisecting his right cheek, addresses him. "I knows you'se a busy man. But this is important, and the Doldrums is all filled up these days. Leave your other patients be, they'll live – and we'll make it worth your while. Promise."

To punctuate his words, he subtly tucks five gilders into the wounded man's coat. Well, that's something, at least.

Seeing the bleeding man's critical condition, Hari began barking out orders to clear a room and get it prepared. Barking orders, running around to get this man the healing he needed so that he would not die of blood loss, Hari had no problem with cutting in line. The other patients clearly would have to wait. The little old lady with her cough, the drunk with his delirious mind from the river, the two young men with broken legs because they had taken stupid dares - none of them needed immediate help. But this man did. He needed an operation, and he needed it soon. Hari took the lead, applying the sutures to his lacerations and tying stitches with nimble fingers. The other men would just have to wait.

When the operation was done, Hari went out to the lead figure, whom he mentally nicknamed Scarface. He brought them to a small meeting room where there were no others so no one would overhear. In addition to explaining how the surgery went, Hari also gave back the money back to them. At the gang man's astonished expression, Hari simply said, "It was good that you brought him in when you did. Critical wounds like that need quick healing. But I didn't need any extra to do my job. The hospital will take the usual payment as is." No doubt, the gang leader would be pleased. And no doubt, he would be back. It didn't matter to Hari. It seemed like Doctor Veins was back.

by **High Earth** » Mon Apr 22, 2024 6:22 am

Allistar Craven
Turn Six
“Manhunt”

Allistar had been asked to go on a manhunt for his latest mission from Father. This was far from his area of expertise however, he was a thief, not an assassin. Of course, that would not be stopping him from trying, this man needed to be stopped, and Allistar would see to it that he was. Once again, he was on the frontlines of a holy war.
Actions; Turn Five
Vis: 8-> 0
Focus: 2
Glider: 13-> 13 (kept under a loose floorboard in his apartment when he is not buying anything, otherwise kept in a pocket sewn inside his shirt.)
Items: Shiv, Lock-Picks, Peepers, 1 Food (Consumed), 5 beakers, assorted lab equipment, 2 smoke bombs
Stress: 0-> 1
Heat: 0
-Allistar makes sure to get adequate sleep for the week I will need to get a good amount of rest if I want to pull this off (-2 Vis, sleep)
-Allistar will start asking around in known gang areas in an attempt to find the location of his quarry. He makes sure to keep his smoke-bombs and weapon on him at all times he is on this mission. After, he simply tries to sneak in, and then hold a shiv to him, and tell him to leave Hsin-Yao forever, or face the consequences I am in the service of a church, I am helping to make sure the fewer people get hurt(-4 Vis, Focused x2, +1 Stress)
-Allistar tries to find a hospital or a doctor, someone who may be able to diagnose his... Condition, he does not keep his smokebombs or his weapon on him while doing this Maybe if I can find someone who understands this, they can cure me of it. this is probably just wishful thinking at this point though.(-2 Vis)

by **Lazarian** » Mon Apr 22, 2024 10:29 am

HARI YAHNRIC - “Doctor Veins”

The gutters run crimson as the gang war rages through the Circus. And Sparrowhawk Memorial, that sooty warren of brick and mortar, bulges at its very seams with the influx of occupants. The injured and afflicted flow in a steady river - men bearing the visceral stamps of violence, stab wounds glistening like grotesque brooches, flesh parted by hot lead. Immigrants with bruised faces, caught up in the wrong place at the most inopportune moment, victims of the ruthless 'Coats' targeted savagery. Yet amidst this tide of unfortunates, the hospital's halls swell with the mundane agonies of regular folk and common sickness. A peculiar respiratory malady, the so-called 'black-cough', preys upon the denizens of the West Bund, carried upon the very air they breathe.

For Doctor Hari Yahnric, it is an extremely difficult week of unrelenting toil. Two of his colleagues have abandoned their posts. The first, a fresh-faced university graduate, proved ill-equipped to withstand the crushing workload. The second, a jaded nurse weary of treating men who, in his cynical estimation, 'do not deserve the effort', has simply...stopped showing up. The burden falls squarely upon Hari's shoulders, and though he bears it nobly, like the mighty Atlas himself, the weight of the world is an increasingly ponderous load to carry. [+2 Stress]

The haggard hospital director, Haoyu Zhou, an overworked government officer with dark circles beneath his eyes, summons Hari for an impromptu meeting.

I don't suppose you'd mind interviewing and choosing these replacements?" he asks. In his wearied hands, he holds a sheaf of prospective candidates, their particulars detailed upon each crumpled page. "You've a budget of 24 gilders a week." he says bluntly, before stalking down the hall.

Hari peruses the dossiers, his inquisitive gaze appraising each applicant. A realization dawns on him - if he perhaps adds wages out of his own salary, the arduous work at Sparrowhawk would surely be eased by more hands to shoulder the load. Yet...if he can secure workers for a modest sum? Well. Nobody would be the wiser should a few gilders find their way into his own pockets, would they?

[Anders van Halfen - a Wraizerian refugee who formerly served as a battlefield medic in the Great Occupation. He seems a capable candidate, asides from the needle-scars which line his left arm. 'An old habit I've long lost,' he attempts to assure, dispelling any potential worries.]

[Li Qiang - a new student, freshly sprung from the hallowed halls of the University of Tianjin. A vibrant face and bright, eager eyes, not yet dulled by the cruelties of this unforgiving world. He'll work for a modest wage - an opportunity for invaluable experience is his sole desire.]

[Katrina Svartengrav - a grizzled Dzerahski nurse. Her dour visage bespeaks a woman intimately acquainted with human anguish. Her calloused hands, however, move with a deftness and economy of motion that speak to her skill.]

[Ming Luo - a former orderly at the Xuan Sanitarium, his references are impeccable. A genial fellow possessed of an inexhaustible work ethic and an unerring bedside manner. ‘So - why, exactly is he here? Why move from the Jade District to here?’ a scribbled note on the resume reads.]

[Yin Xiuying - she professes to be a practitioner of ancient folk remedies. Her knowledge of modern medical practices is, at best, suspect - yet her calm demeanor and dexterous fingers may prove invaluable assets.]

[Tobias Kreutzfeld - hailing from the University of Lagenean, this young man's academic credentials are unimpeachable. His arrogance and condescending air, however, may prove...problematic in the fractious environs of the Sparrowhawk.]

[Jakob Bruner - once an esteemed surgeon at Alabaster Hall in the International District, his fall from grace was as tragic as it was abrupt. Alcoholism, rumor has it, brought low this brilliant mind. Can he find redemption here, amidst the suffering masses of the Circus?]

[Choose your candidates. Propose wages. See how the dice may fall.]

A curiosity to unravel provides Hari a welcome distraction from the compound stresses of his profession. He makes the rounds of the nearby apartments and shopkeepers, querying as to the strange ritual display discovered in that dank alleyway. His inquisitive probings find many responses.

"That's the work of the Dimu Doyen," a grim-faced crone mutters, her features a tangle of wrinkles accrued across numerous decades. "I wouldn't go poking into that if I were you." The door shuts firmly, uncompromising oak barring any further discourse.

"Oh, that's just local children," a heavy-set dockworker grunts with a dismissive wave of his meaty hand. "Just doin' a little bit of art. Probably that rascal Cuno again."

"Shit, I dunner," offers one of the local urchins, a soot-faced teenager of perhaps thirteen with a tattered crimson scarf knotted defiantly about his throat. "But I reckon Old Nunak down at the Mudflats would know somethin' about it. Sounds like his kinda business." A phlegmy hawking of spittle punctuates his words. "You'll find him there 'round midnight."

The thrill of the hunt invigorates Hari. The Dimu Doyen? Some avant-garde artist? A deranged itinerant? Ah, such captivating prospects to disentangle! [-1 Stress!]

INVESTIGATE: 1 VIS per thread.
[Who are the Dimu Doyen? Poke around. Knock on some doors. Get some answers.]
[Go down to the schoolyard and talk to some of the local children. Could this really just be them?]
[Find this ‘Old Nunak’ and ask him if this odd ritual was his business. (Is that a safe thing to do, really? Visiting the Mudflats in the dead of night?)]

Once more, Father Werner approaches, his placid features politely interrupting Hari's time. "Ah, Doctor Yahnric, I'd like to ask a favor of you. If I could have a moment?"

The annoyance visible upon Hari’s face prompts the Father to cut straight to the point.

"I've what may be an interesting case for you." His knuckles rap out a staccato rhythm upon that battered, leather-bound tome tucked beneath his arm. "A very important member of our church seems rather ill, though there are no obvious signs of external injury. Could I ask for you to meet him after the service this Sunday?"

Hari's work upon the grievously injured gangster ultimately proves fruitful - within the week, the battered soul is healthy enough to depart Sparrowhawk's confines. Not fit to rejoin the raging battlefield outside, of course, but fit enough to stop occupying a valuable hospital bed.

As Hari returns on Friday morning, he spies the unmistakable silhouette of 'Scarface' lingering by the Memorial's entrance. A garish crimson X, lurid as an opened vein, adorns one soot-stained brick wall - a brazen territorial marking.

"You'se under our protection now," Scarface states, with a respectful incline of his head. "Saxon wants me to cut a deal with you and yours. Those bastards at the Doldrums are only treating fuckin' Coats now. So you might see a couple more of our lads come through here." A feral grin splits his visage. "Keep up your good work and we'll make it worth your time. Promise. You need anythin’, you just let me know."

END OF TURN 6:

Hospital Director Haoyu Zhao approaches Hari, teeth gnashing. "Doctor Yahnric," he grumbles angrily, "it appears that one of the local gangs has attempted to claim this premises as their territory."

A perfunctory gesture underscores the crimson graffiti defacing the masonry. "I know you don't know very much,” he continues with a dismissive air, “but the Red Scarves are truly a blight upon this region. Murderers, drug-peddlers, protection-racketeers, smugglers...look, of all the gangs infesting this damnable Circus, they're the worst. The Coats at least try to keep a veneer of respectability around these parts. Please, in the future, turn any men bearing those cursed red scarves away.”

He pierces Hari with a deadly stare, despite his weary countenance and slumped shoulders.

“I took a risk by hiring on a Ghealdan. Don’t make me regret that.”

Well. What shall he do? Because not even the next day, new Red Scarf injured arrive…

LILY ISHENKO

The Brass Garter's smoky haze hangs heavy, the tang of pipe smoke intermingling with the reek of stale beer. Lily catches the barkeep's eye over the battered oak. "Any idea what's wrong with Pinfold by the way, barkeep? Also, I don't suppose I might be able to work here again in a pinch if necessary?"

The grizzled keeper of the bar grimaces, laying aside the filthy rag as he leans in conspiratorially. "Oh sunshine, you don't know? Damn, I thought it was plain as day on that poor bastard's face." A calloused thumb jerks towards the shadowed back rooms. "He's got himself a terrible fix for white-tar. That shit'll fuck you up right proper, it will."

When she asks Big Ears Dhu about the line of work, the man’s features split into an indulgent grin. "Well now, Lily, I can't just be offering jobs to any piece of street silk, now can I?" One bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrow arches upwards as he keys her with an appraising look. "Why don't you come back next week - and order up a Cannon and Anchor, rocks. I'll know what I need to by then." With that, he turns on his heel, disappearing back down the stairs to join a table of finely-dressed men.

When Lily returns home, she presses Pinfold for details on this enigmatic Dhu and his affairs. As she hands over the Gilders, she asks the question. "Who is this 'Big Ears' exactly? Just a club owner, or something...more?"

The wretch's eyes flit about furtively as he accepts the disbursement, stuffing it into a tattered jacket pocket with trembling hands. "T-thank you, Lily. Truly." Despite his evident infirmity, he manages a conspiratorial tone. "You met Dhu? Ah, he's my boss."

"But who is he really?" Lily presses, voice lowered. "I saw him at the Atelier, tipping what amounts to half a week's wage like it was nothing. And he's just some purveyor of cheap liquor and fleeting pleasures?"

Pinfold stiffens, jaw clenching as he steadies himself against the door frame. "He's a...very busy entrepreneur here. Owns a lot of places."

A derisive snort ghosts from Lily's lips. "Pinfold, we're friends through and through, are we not? If I meant you any ill, why would I be ensuring your pockets aren't left empty?" She arches one slim eyebrow, patting his bony shoulder in a conciliatory gesture. "You can speak truthfully with me."

For a long moment, the only sound is the crackling of the hallway's lamps. Finally, Pinfold seems to reach a decision.

"Friends, eh?”

He rolls the word around in his mouth, as if it is an uncommon meal. Then he nods. Yes. They are friends indeed.

“Well...if you must know. Big Ears Dhu is don of the Banners. They're a big player around these parts, along with the Coats and Scarves."

He takes another furtive glance down the hallway. "Not as bad as the others, I s'pose. He don't hang foreigners just for sport. And he’s not Saxon. Still..." His voice lowers to a gravelly rasp. "Be careful. 'Nice' and 'dangerous' aren’t mutually exclusive."

In the ensuing days, Lily's burgeoning artistry draws numerous admirers and clientele eager to adorn their flesh with fresh markings and inscriptions. The Atelier's business booms - each new deed and feat demanding its own indelible record etched into skin. She inscribes countless skulls upon upraised forearms, the frequency of these particular designs carrying faintly disturbing implications. Their portent is not lost on the more experienced tattooists, who explain the meanings behind such icons grimly.

Lily's hours spent searching for guidance and wisdom is time well spent indeed. Discourse upon technique, composition, ancillary topics and post-care yield vast increments to her skill. If she continues upon this path, improvement and perfection of her craft is all but assured.

Come the waning nights of that same week, Lily returns to the Brass Garter, inquiring of the bartender as to Dhu's availability for a brief audience. "I'll have one of those 'Cannon and Anchor' specials. On the rocks, if you'd be so kind." The bartender arches an inquisitive brow, but beckons over a comely serving girl to cover him at the bar before disappearing into the back quarters.

Sure enough, Big Ears Dhu himself emerges from whatever hidden recesses, giving Lily with a courteous nod as she opens with the expected pleasantries. Once the preambles have been satisfied, she steers the conversation towards the heart of the matter - the precise nature of the 'work' he'd intimated was soon to be on offer.

The crime lord's features contort in an expression of profound consideration before he responds. "Well now, Lily...you're one hell of a looker, I'll give you that. And sharp as a tack besides. Not often you get both. I work as a….”

He puts his hand on his chin, lost in thought, before a sly grin finds purchase upon his leathery visage.

"A salesman.” he concludes. “And my clientele lives in those fancy high-rises and manors just across the river. The lords and ladies, the executives and their ilk. The 'upstanding citizens' of the International District." He sneers, derision dripping from his tongue.

His grin fades a little.

"Problem is, see, my delivery boys can't seem to make it past those checkpoints onto the other side. And those that do...well, let's just say their customer service skills are found wanting." he says with a thick Creole drawl. "Way I see it, I'm in dire need of some new runners. Somebody who can sail through those security gates and pop up on the other side with a sunny damn smile. And you, Lily..."

He pins her with an appraising stare. "You just might be what I've been looking for."

He nods to the bartender, who slides a small package, perhaps a foot’s length in each dimension, across the bar. With a lazy, casual gesture, he plucks it up between two fingers, effortless strength on display as he pushes it in Lily's direction.

“Feel no obligation, Lily. But I think you would be truly remiss to turn down this opportunity.” he drawls slowly, looking at her with a subtle smile. “This one’s due in three weeks.”

[OPTIONAL: Take the [Mysterious Package]. There is an address upon its top - 22 Hampwick Drive, International District, Hsin-Yao.]
[Or decline. Dhu will not hold it against you.]

For now, at least, Lily's slumbers remain mercifully undisturbed by the visions of her traumatic past. Whether this run of good fortune will persist in the face of the new week's inevitable trials, only time will tell...

PENELOPE LAGAKOU

Penelope's discussions with Tallazan are rewarded - the rude bartender at the Spoke and Buttonhole, when learning of her connections, reluctantly opens up the locked glass cabinet on the top shelf.

Widow's Wail Gin
This bathtub gin packs a potent punch, distilled from a mysterious blend of herbs and botanicals by the locals of the Circus. Murky and dark, it goes down harsh but provides a bracing kick to numb the troubles of the day. [5 Gilders, -3 Stress]

Sai Kee's Sawdust Brew
Don't let the name fool you - this thick, viscous ale isn't actually brewed with sawdust. At least, not primarily. Sai Kee, the one-eyed proprietor, loves to regale patrons with ever-changing tales of its "secret" ingredients while they choke it down. Cheap and staggeringly potent. [1 Gilder, chance of -1 Stress]

Dockrat Shins
These fermented, vinegar-pickled rat legs are a Circus delicacy. Lore holds they imbue the eater with the speed, agility and resilience of the rat itself. More likely they just provide a swift kick to the guts. An acquired taste, to put it mildly. [2 Gilders, maybe +1 VIS?]

Jade Dragon Bhang
A heady, resinous concoction of mysterious herbs and spices, smoked through long jade-stemmed pipes. It 'sensitizes the nodes' and 'opens the mind's eye'. Or so the peddlers claim. Penelope knows better. [2 Gilders, -3 Stress]

Black Lotus
The Bre Tann poison that brought the glory of Old Thenia to its knees. Made from poppy seeds and broken dreams. [4 Gilders, +2 VIS next turn, -2 Stress]

ALLISTAR CRAVEN - “Blade of the Church”

The dead of night cloaks the Tenements in shadowed silence as Allistar creeps forth, ghosting down the rickety fire escape to avoid any unwanted encounters. Father Werner's words echo insistently - the mysterious wagon only appears under cover of darkness. And so night shall be the opportune time to seek it out.

His steps carry him towards the Midnight Market's perpetual bazaar of iniquity. If answers are to be found, they will germinate here, amidst the interwoven strands of Hsin-Yao's underworld.

At first, his inquiries regarding the whereabouts of this enigmatic "Faulkner" and his wares are met with sullen glares and curt dismissals. “This is not a place for idle prattling.” some snarl as they turn away with curled lips. The first two nights prove utterly fruitless in yielding any substantive leads.

But persistence begets reward on his third visit. A shopkeeper idly hawking all manner of firearms provides the clue for which he's sought. "Saw him roll through Harlot's Landing earlier," the merchant offers with a negligent flick of his wrist. "But anything that snake's got, I can furnish at twice the quality for half the price."

Ignoring the salesman's overtures, Allistar turns on his heel and retraces his path back down the creaking ladder to the dingy streets. Peril follows him as he walks - a knot of Red Scarves smoke a few cigars nearby on a bench, shifting their weight in that unmistakable precursor to violence. For a tense moment, Allistar's fingers caress the hilt of his concealed blade in mute warning. The ruffians watch, unblinking, but remain seated as he sidles past them unharmed. [Perceptive]

Stealthily creeping along the muddy banks of the Chengshi River, he eventually spies his quarry - an immense black wagon drawn by no less than four burly draft horses. A thick iron door, secured by multiple padlocks, bars entry to its reinforced rear. This "Faulkner" takes security with deadly seriousness, it would seem.

A queue of patrons snakes out before the conveyance as Allistar veers off to skirt the muddy shores, picking his way past the huddled forms of slumbering derelicts. Slowly, methodically, he inches his way through the periphery until he reaches a ramshackle pile of crates a scant thirty feet away. Then he hides behind it in silence, completely hidden. So far, his approach has gone utterly unnoticed. Now, it is merely a matter of waiting out the customers.

One by one, gilders change hands as each is dispatched clutching some deadly implement - a machete, a pistol, a rifle. A veritable treasure hoard of weaponry on offer. As the last of them departs, Faulkner himself emerges to enjoy a quick smoke, affording Allistar his opportunity.

He dashes out in a flurry of motion, the old familiar agony afire in his legs as he hastens to the ironbound door. Trembling hands pluck forth his trusty picks as his focus narrows upon the first padlock. Click...click...click. The tumblers surrender to his deft manipulations. One obstacle down.

Steadying his nerves with deep, measured breaths, he begins anew upon the second. Click...click...cl-

The pick sticks fast, thrashing erratically with each frantic jiggle until finally wrenching free. Perspiration beads his brow as the stubborn lock at last yields.

The third presents no such difficulty, metal kissing metal in one final twist of his wrist before the thick door swings ponderously open.

Still Faulkner remains outside, back turned as he savors another thick drag of smoke. Hanging racks within brim with all manner of lethal armaments - sabers and rifles, pistols and daggers and much else besides. Yet, gloriously empty - the chamber lies unguarded.

Creeping to the front, Allistar presses himself to the wall, shiv gripped tightly in sweaty palms as he angles himself into the small hollow behind the inswinging doorHe hears Faulkner crushing the cigar underneath his foot. One step. Another step. The doorknob twisting. The rusted hinges groaning in protest as Faulkner's bulky silhouette eclipses the entryway.

The wagon tilts slightly as the behemoth boards within. Allistar curses under his breath - this Faulkner stands head and shoulders above even the burliest longshoremen. Yet as David felled great Goliath, so too shall Allistar prevail against a mighty foe.

Stepping out from concealment, he presses the razor-sharp point squarely into the small of Faulkner's back. The giant stiffens, raising his hands in mute surrender.

"Ah..." The rumbling baritone holds not a hint of fear, only weary resignation. "Always knew this day would come."

"You need to leave," Allistar grates through gritted teeth. "Take this accursed trade elsewhere and never dare return. Blood fills the streets - innocents and sinners alike drowning in violence. And your hands, your hands are as fouled and guilty as those which wield your wicked goods. I serve the Father and His Holy Church. If even a shred of remorse for your foul transgressions lingers, I beg you - go. Take the bridge and never look back, or next time I'll not permit you to leave alive."

For one tremulous heartbeat, it seems Faulkner may actually heed the ultimatum and retire without any further spilling of blood.

Then the derisive bark of laughter shatters the stillness.

"A fanatic?" His tone is incredulous, fairly dripping condescension. "Spouting rhetoric of the Allfather and the Creed? And here I'd thought I was actually in danger."

Then, with a swiftness belying his towering stature, he moves - hurtling away from Allistar's blade to create distance. But the crusader anticipates the ploy and follows through with his lunge, burying the gleaming steel in Faulkner's back.

The giant bellows, more in rage than agony, as he spins and swats away the shiv embedded in his flesh. One meaty paw seizes a machete hanging within easy reach while the other lashes out, thick leather boot connecting solidly with Allistar's midsection to send him tumbling back.

What now?

[Grab a weapon off the wall and fight! Another machete lies within arm’s reach. He is already bleeding.]
[Hurl your smoke-bomb into the wagon and fight in the choking smog.]
[Attempt to convince him to see reason.]
[Run. Hope that your stab finishes him off.]

by **High Earth** » Tue Apr 23, 2024 4:34 am

Allistar would attempt to reason with the man, hoping that he will be able to listen to reason.
“I warn you one more time, leave us be. I do not do this for money, power, or the hollow admiration of the masses. I do this to serve the lord with every fiber of my being. Leave now, or next time we will not decide to spare you”
If that does not work, he will use one of the deadly implements that are lining the walls of the wagon he is in, with knowledge that this man had condemned himself to death.

Also, I love the new pseudonym that Allistar has.

by **The GAmeTopians** » Tue Apr 23, 2024 11:08 am

Turn Six

Kassia Alani Baker

The ratty linen pouch, bulging with gilder, slid across the moldy wooden table with all the grace of its rot-toothed bearer.

"Oliver sends 'is regards, pale-skin. Ye don't look it, but the men say you were a beast in last night's scrap. Boss man says to come find us for the next one."

A brisk nod and a murmured acknowledgement were all that the gangster received in reply as Kassia swept the pouch into the folds of her cloak and slid away from the booth table. Another job, another payment. It reminded her of the days of working for the mob bosses back in Bre Tann - before she eventually offed the most prominent ones of the time, anyway. It turned out that killing wealthy men for other wealthy men often resulted in your employer turning on you.

Kassia hoped that wouldn't be the case here - it certainly didn't seem as though the Red Scarves had powerful backing, especially given their... lackluster budget for hired help, but who could say what the coming weeks would bring. It was certainly a more favorable prospect than working with nationalists - there, betrayal was positively inevitable for a foreigner. In the end, though, it didn't really matter.

Her blades could cut friend and foe just the same.

by **Ovstylap** » Tue Apr 23, 2024 12:44 pm

Lily Ishenko Turn 6

OOC Note: Bit of a simpler one to catch up, but also as I lost my earlier post!

Tomorrow, Lily will have been in Hsin-Yao for six entire weeks.

In that time she has found a place to work her passion as a tattooist- passing her apprenticeship at the Lace Atelier and pursuing her trade in an attempt to master it. However, this is stirring a sense of her old Dzerhaski identity, and her sense of obligation once more begins to grow. Consequently, she will need to make contacts with somebody who might aid her cause. Perhaps Big Man Dhu is the man to ask.

Rather than seek a favour from him at this point, she spends a significant amount of time considering how to approach him. If Pinfold could be helped in terms of overcoming his, well, drug abuse, then he can be a reliable worker for the man with the big ears, for the Don. Further, if she can deliver the package, she'd gain his favour surely. These are her thought processes as she goes about her week then.

by **Talchyon** » Wed Apr 24, 2024 11:25 am

Turn 6 - 'The Return of Doctor Veins'
Hari Yahnric (aka "Doctor Veins")

Day in, day out. Pressured times brings the wounded out. And the entire Clockwork Circus was a highly pressured explosion about to happen - if it wasn't happening already. Hari Yahnric was up to his elbows in treating the ever-increasing number of those seeking help. Knife wounds were becoming his bread and butter. A few black powder shots were becoming his special dessert. The infectious "black cough" was hitting the area as well. None of it was made better by the postings of gendarmes at annoying intervals nor the increasing hostilities in the streets. Work was more than hectic. Two of his colleagues left for their reasons. Hari had a skeleton crew at Sparrowhawk Memorial Hospital and he was the lead skeleton. Skeletons don't tend to heal others very well.

Which is why, when the hospital director and technically his boss stopped him mid-rounds and wanted him to hire new personnel, Hari was glad for the break. Haoyu Zhou was a Thenian through and through, and no doubt was stuck in the Circus for the foreseeable future. Zhou likely saw his work at the hospital as hopeless in terms of moving up the corporate ladder. Like it or not, he was probably here for life. On the other hand, Hari saw his own work as helpful. Needed even - albeit, with a lot more to handle now. You're a doctor. Heal the sick. Heal the sick, and apparently now, hire those who also can heal the sick. Those you can't heal can't be helped. Move on to the next one. That was the job. Do it until it kills you.

The candidates for work at the hospital were like him. Refugees from all parts of the world, almost all with baggage to sort through. Some he dismissed immediately after the initial interview. The old lady whose medical knowledge was only old wives' tales he dismissed right out. So too the arrogant nerve of the Tobias Kreutzfeld. Skilled as hell but a ticking time bomb waiting to go off. Hari didn't have the desire or time to break his will and bring him to the level of doctoral heart needed. Likewise, he dismissed the orderly out of hand. They didn't need orderlies - even those who had served in psych wards. They needed nurses and doctors. That said, three candidates caught his eye and Hari offered them jobs on the spot.

- Katrina Svartengrav, the grizzled but efficient Dzerahski nurse. Hari liked her immediately and knew she would be invaluable. Blunt as some of the objects that had cracked recent skulls in the Circus, Hari could care less if her bedside manner annoyed people. Nurses like her made hospitals run. Better for patients to be annoyed and living than cheerful and dead. He offered her 9 G a week and the position of chief nurse.

- Jakob Bruner who had fallen from grace in the International district. The Clockwork Circus was the only place such as Bruner could hope to practice in, the lowest of the low. For all Hari cared, Sparrowhawk needed his skills. Even an alcoholic could turn away from his drink, right? Hari would have to watch him - maybe befriend him if that were possible. Few took to Hari so that was as unlikely as the Mudflats becoming safe. But still, even if he had potentially shaky hands, Bruner could be helpful. His mind alone could prove invaluable. Hari offered a weekly salary of 9 G.

- Li Qiang, the fresh faced grad, ready to get some invaluable experience. Yes, they had just lost one like him - the Clockwork Circus tended to do that. But Hari was content feeding more grist into the mill that was Sparrowhawk, and Li Qiang was perfectly suitable grist. Hari offered a weekly salary of 7 G.

Yes, that went above the budget given him. Hari would make up for the expense by taking 9 G a week instead of 10. The extra would go to pay the gap. Zhou might be surprised at Hari's proposal but only for a moment before the bureaucrat in him took over.

The strange ritualistic display Hari had seen in the alleyway the previous week tugged at his curiosity. Seeking to find the source of this odd mystery satisfied Hari in a way that felt strangely good. As if delving into this bizarre pattern took the tensions out of his back and gave a hint of exotic mystery to a place drowning in desperation. The carcass of the dog, split apart in a serialistic fashion, encircled by small dead rats in a circle, was a symbol of something arcane. And Hari wanted to know more.

After asking around, he had heard of three possible paths to explore. One potential path to discover was laughable ("The idea that children would know anything about this is ridiculous. Besides, I have better things to do than talk to kids." If there was one group of people Hari detested, it was children). One was outright stupid ("Traveling to the Mudflats at any time is a health risk. Doing it in the dark is a good way to get tetanus, slice up your feet, step on used syringes, or get killed. Not to mention the roving night patrol of Gendarmes out these days.") That left only one course. The Dimu Doyen mentioned by the old cockroach of a woman who somehow found a way to keep living in the Clockwork Circus.

The Dimu Doyen? That was intriguing. Intriguing enough for Hari to poke around. Knock on some more doors. Find a tavern and ask there. Someone had to know. And there was a chance that someone might want to talk.

Another visit from Father Werner. Another plea for Hari's extracurricular work. This time, the monk had less vagaries about his intentions. It wasn't mission work he was advocating for, but another kind of patient to treat. He spoke quietly saying, "A very important member of our church seems rather ill, though there are no obvious signs of external injury. Could I ask for you to meet him after the service this Sunday?"

Hari stared. He probably needed the rest more than anything. These shifts were breaking him in spirit. But he was a doctor after all, and treating patients was nothing out of his experience. Finally, Hari shrugged and said, "Alright." Who knew what this mystery illness could be? Knowing the detritus of society that sought the father's help, Hari had a sneaky suspicion that it was a form of madness and it would be completely untreatable.

At the very least, however, it was probably going to be a one-time visit and a short one at that.

Hari's skills at medicine were improving. This was also evident in the fact that the gang member he had healed would recover. There was little hope the man would have a long and productive life, given his life choices. But still, Hari hadn't learned medicine to make judgments on who to give it to. He wasn't a deity given to judge the souls of men. He wasn't a gendarme watching idly by while the Clockwork Circus tore itself to pieces. He wasn't a magistrate who was to punish criminals - or take bribes from them either. He was a doctor. He didn't take sides.

So when 'Scarface' came back that Friday morning with the newly painted gang insignia on the hospital walls, Hari knew there would be trouble. "You'se under our protection now. Saxon wants me to cut a deal with you and yours. Those bastards at the Doldrums are only treating fuckin' Coats now. So you might see a couple more of our lads come through here. Keep up your good work and we'll make it worth your time. Promise. You need anythin’, you just let me know."

Glancing around for any sign of danger, Hari approached the taller, feral man. "I am glad to help. But we may need to have another place to meet. The hospital here is a neutral site. It's for everyone. We don't take sides. Whoever's wounded, that's who we heal. I took care of that man because he was dying, not for the money. Because that's what I do... Though I have the sneaky suspicion that my boss is going to hate that marker." Seeing the man's feral eyes get darker at that, Hari looked up with a level gaze as he quietly continued, "I hope I'm making myself clear that the hospital AND it's employees and patients are off limits for any kind of lessons anyone might want to teach us. Because otherwise, I might not quite know exactly how to treat certain injuries. If you catch my drift."

Ignoring his glare, Hari continued just as levelly. "Look, I'll help you out again if you need it. Maybe we should set up some place - a safe house perhaps - where I can be taken to make housecalls on any one of your men who needs me. It's either that, or anyone of you who wants to be treated here would have to pocket his scarf for the time being. I'll bring my kit" (the same kit Hari had been taking with him to treat the sick at the church all these weeks volunteering) "and we'll make it work. But that sign has to go. That's just how it is." It wasn't the best kind of deals by far, but that was how you had to handle yourself around men like this. Strength respects strength. Hari wouldn't back down for anything, a rabbit staring down a jackal.

"And if I do need you..." Hari paused, "How do I get ahold of you?"

Hari was right about Zhou being upset. Boiling over like a scientist's test tube, Hari endured the berating. His eyes narrowed at the mention of Ghealdan as a byword from his boss's lips. But Hari kept silent until the end. And then he couldn't help himself.

"You're right. I didn't know about the Scarves. All I knew was that this was a hospital, and that man was in critical condition! When I was hired here, I was hired to take care of patients. Heal the sick and wounded. And damn it, that's what I did. My job. Now this week I'm doing the work of three people myself! Are you wanting to lose your entire staff?! Maybe you'd like to be the one in the surgery healing a little girl's punctured lung! And trying to keep the black cough from infecting everyone in the waiting room!"

Forcing himself to calm down, Hari responded more levelly, "Sorry, Zhou. This... This has just been a really hard week. I'll make it right. No scarves - got it. And we'll make sure that gang grafitti gets off the wall." (How, he didn't have a clue. That was perhaps the only job the orderly he had dismissed could have handled. Hopefully Scarface would see to it. Otherwise, maybe it just needed some neutral colored paint.)

And the next week, when gang members with red scarves showed up, Hari met them at the door. "Hey fellas. New hospital policy. They need you to put your scarves in your pockets. Or one of you can hold it for safekeeping out here. Nothing that identifies you as being part of a gang, or they won't treat you... Yeah, policies suck. I don't like them. I also don't make them, but that's just how it is." Hopefully they would listen and he could treat them...

by **Lazarian** » Tue Apr 30, 2024 1:46 pm

WEEK SIX

EVERYONE

RENT COMES KNOCKING ONCE MORE!

The dreaded spectre that haunts every hard-working denizen of Hsin-Yao city has reared its ugly head yet again! Rent, that inevitable toll demanded of us all, is due at week's end. In the winding alleyways of the Tenements, the dour-faced landlord goes door to creaking door, his visage as welcome as a pox. While in Ash Harbor, a burly sailor plies his trade, though his manner betrays none of the unpleasantness of the slumlords. Have your gilders at the ready, lest you be cast into the unforgiving streets!

NEWS FROM THE FRONT!

The republic of Hapa, stalwart ally to Thenia, funnels reinforcements southward through Paoting along the Peiping-Hankow railway. Yet the Communard horde claims to have inflicted a grievous toll, as the Thénian forces beat a hasty retreat across the Huto, bridges rendered to splinters by bombardment. Aloft, the cankerous underbellies of Communard zeppelins have rained destruction upon the railroads and very heart of industry in Cao Nan, leaving smoldering ruin in their wake.

CHECKPOINTS LIFTED IN THE JADE QUARTER!

To the protest and dismay of the bureaucrat classes that reside within, the checkpoints restricting passage into and out of the Jade District have been dismantled this week. The architects of order within our city's watch have yet to apprehend the blackguard responsible for the desecration of the Suzerain's statue - a humiliation most unbecoming. With the rumblings of labor unrest echoing from the Brickyard Rows, it seems the precious manpower of the gendarmes is best directed elsewhere.

STREETS RUN RED NO MORE - FOR NOW!

The clash of blades and thunder of gunfire that has plagued the winding alleys of the Clockwork Circus has abated to a steady drip. Both the Azure Coats and Red Scarves nurse their wounds, sharpen their shivs, and restock their coffers for the next salvo in their brutal campaign. Yet the streets remain far from safe for any who dare venture out after the sun's last light has faded.

MYSTERY AT SEA - CARGO JUNK VANISHES!

A stout merchantman bearing vital goods across the briny deep toward our fair city's ports has fallen prey to unknown perils - its hold remains ominously empty upon the docks. Several frigates from the Suzerain’s Royal Navy have been promptly dispatched to ascertain the cause of this vexing disappearance. Yet the invisible hand of supply and demand cares not for such mysteries, decreeing that any seeking sustenance must now pay double for the privilege. Let us hope this cruel burden upon the citizenry is short-lived! [Food, if purchased this turn, costs double.]

PENELOPE LAGAKOU

The soothing embrace of slumber remains cruelly elusive for Penelope, her pessimistic predictions proving all too accurate. Is it a self-fulfilling prophecy, or merely the unfortunate byproduct of rotten luck that ushers forth such unrelenting night terrors? Alas, even the deepest swallows of bitter gin cannot bring her relief from the sights which haunt her fitful rest.

The nightmares come thick and fast as her eyes flutter shut - visions of the guillotine's insatiable maw, its rusted blade meant for her. Scorching pyres lick at her heels, the acrid stench of seared flesh filling the air as she flees from some unseen pursuer… [Focus unavailable next turn]

At least the Spoke & Buttonhole provide some sort of relief. The gin burns all the way down, a far cry from the refined, artisanal spirits she once savored...but it'll more than suffice to extinguish her stress. Some of it, at least.

Her last performance at Tallazan’s Theatre of the Orphic Arts proves a rousing success on par with previous exhibitions, captivating the assembled masses - if perhaps lacking the flair and theatrics of her dearly departed mother, or that of the fabled Ragfair Ripper himself. Channeling the inscrutable energies swirling about the Veil, Penelope calls forth what lies beyond. Something is close, just right beyond the gate - and then it bursts through. A ghostly mass of spirits, tinted in hues of crimson and sapphire alike - which whirl and tear at each other, even in death. The crowd looks on grimly - perhaps a sight which cuts too close to home. But they applaud anyways. [+2 Gilders in tips.]

Utilizing what tenuous time remains before her departure, Penelope imparts the hallowed rites and litanies of the Path to Tallazan. She shows him how to open the Gate - how to part the Veil's gossamer strands and perceive what lies just beyond the mortal coil - as well as the wisdom to safely tread the Woods without rousing the predatory entities slumbering amidst its depths. He is an apt listener, and she continues, laying out the Laws, which permit influence and control over spirits beyond. Yes - Tallazan is many things, and a fine pupil is one of them. He shall be fine without her.

Penelope goes to run - and her legs freeze. Still hungover from the gin, she staggers, collapsing to the ground. The Man In Grey makes an enormous headway on her as she stumbles to her feet to run- he shoves his way through the crowd with heedless abandon, giving no concern to the surrounding people in his way. As he gets closer, she catches a glimpse of his face as she gasps for air, breath ragged. He has a plain, unremarkable face - but he looks at Penelope with a very personal hatred.

"Halt!" he shouts. "By authority vested in me by the Special Inspectorate and the Gendarme, I declare you under arrest for high treason against Tegea! Submit yourself at once!"

Clarity blazes white-hot in the forefront as her mind as the Sight Beyond bursts into view. He wants her to run. Desperately. An excuse for him to shoot. His greatest desire is to be known as the hero that executed the last scion of the Lagakou dynasty, and enshrine himself in the history books for it. [Occultist]

She will not let him have it so easily. The thought drives her forward, and she finds her footing underneath her. Fueled by adrenaline, she makes a break for a nearby alley. Within seconds, the end of the alley - and salvation - is in her sights. In front of her is the Ragfair, that heaping hovel of human misery, a hundred tents and turns in which to hide or flee. He will not be able to tail her through that filthy warren.

He reaches the alley behind her.

It is a straight shot.

His hands move to the pocket. The gun emerges into view, fingers curling around the trigger.

He takes a deep inhalation to steady the iron sights - he raises it to his eyes.

And he fires, the sound of gunfire and death filling the alley. Penelope screams.

…

…

His shot goes wide, ricocheting off the brickwork.

And then she’s gone - lost in the recesses of the Ragfair. Fists clenching in anger, Tasos Kellou can only curse in impotent fury as his prey vanishes from view. So close - and yet so devastatingly far from snuffing out that final defiant spark.

Though her body remains mercifully unharmed, Penelope does not escape the harrowing encounter entirely unscathed. The compound trials - relentless night terrors, the steady stresses of her work, the constant memories of her family, compounded by the Man in Grey's brazen attempt upon her life - all coalesce into a dreadful storm of mental anguish. For hours, she remains confined to her dingy flat in the Tenements, knees tucked up against her chest as shadows dance at the periphery...the lurking specter of the assassin hauntingly ubiquitous.

NEW TRAIT OBTAINED:
TRAUMA: Paranoid.
Shadows stalk the corners of your vision at every turn. Every smile has a knife hidden behind it.

The harried transition to the Harborview Apartments, at least, proceeds with a fortunate lack of incident. One murky evening, Penelope gathers up her few possessions and slips away from the Tenements in shrouded silence, praying this new domicile may offer some semblance of a fresh start - a chance to shed the past traumas and begin anew.

(12 Gilders will be due to Harborview at the end of Turn 7.)

JOSEPH KALIBJAN

As the morning light filters through the curtains, Joseph gently rouses Sanjan and Peter from their slumbers, preparing them for another day at school. As he drops the children off, Joseph fixes Sanjan with a stern look, his words echoing those of his own mother in a desperate bid to instill obedience. "If I catch you stealing again, you'll be in big trouble, young lady."

Sanjan, however, is not so easily cowed. "But why will I be in big trouble?" she protests angrily, stamping her foot defiantly. "Is it wrong to steal from thieves? The rich have stolen the wealth that belongs to the workers and poor! We must take back what is rightfully ours." she declares, her rhetoric surprising for one so young.

Joseph isn’t really sure what to say to this - it troubles him significantly. And his concerns only deepen when Sanjan proudly presents him with another gilder upon their reunion after school, openly defiant of his authority and the lessons he has imparted. [+1 Gilder, +1 Stress]

Desperate for answers, Joseph takes a priest aside, inquiring whether theft is a subject broached within the curriculum. The stout monk's horrified reaction speaks volumes, his jowled face shaking vehemently as he reassures Joseph, "No, I guarantee you it's not coming from our teachers. We do allow the children a free recess at lunchtime, and some of these other children come from...rough homes. Maybe she's hearing it from them?"

At Pechter's, however, Joseph's work takes a turn for the better, his performance so exemplary that Dan hardly needs to provide instruction any longer. These days, Joseph practically runs the shop single-handedly, deftly trading sheets for clothing, coats for hats, and scarves for shoes. The work reinvigorates him, instilling a renewed sense of purpose. [+1 Temporary Focus next turn.]

Yet, as fulfilling as his duties may be, Joseph cannot shake the feeling that his talents are being squandered. He had been among the top students in mathematics and physics at the University, and here he languishes as a mere shop clerk. A twinge of guilt accompanies the prospect of leaving Pechter's – Dan has been a decent employer, as far as such things go. Hopefully, the man will understand.

Joseph spends part of the week scouring for new employment opportunities, and his efforts bear fruit in the form of a truly intriguing prospect. Stapled to a large announcements board in Tangletown, he reads the following notice.

(Skilled Codebreaker & Telegrapher Wanted - The Suzerain's Ministry of Communications seeks individuals highly educated in mathematics, ciphers, and scientific principles to operate telegraph machinery and decode encrypted messages vital to Hsin-Yao's security interests. Compensated per assignment at generous rates. Inquire at the Ministry offices in Jade District.)

Joseph approaches the government office in Tangletown carefully - where they once handed out the refugee stipend. Tangletown Market was never a particularly safe-feeling place, but these days, he could cut the tension here with a knife.

"I'm here to apply for a job with the Suzerain's Telegraph Office," he declares, clearing his throat and standing tall. "I have an advanced degree in the sciences, from Europa. Six years of schooling."

The government clerk raises an eyebrow, appraising Joseph with a critical gaze. "Well, they normally wouldn't hire immigrants. But..." he muses, his tone betraying a hint of consideration, "those are some fine credentials, and these are difficult times. If you can clean yourself up a little and make your way down to the City Hall in the Jade District next week on Thursday, I could get you an interview slot."

Joseph's burgeoning optimism is swiftly dampened, however, by an encounter with the Red Scarves. He pleads with them, beseeching their mercy – he is the sole provider for two young children, barely scraping by on his meager earnings. "Please, please – just have mercy this once."

For a fleeting moment, it seems as though the gang members might relent, their hardened exteriors softening ever so slightly. But the illusion is shattered as the leader grunts, "I been there before," his voice tinged with a semblance of empathy born of shared experience. "But I have kids of my own on the far side of town. And they gotta eat too." With regretful finality, he pockets Joseph's two gilders.

Well, it was worth a shot. At the very least, Joseph can take solace in the knowledge that he will be safe within the Red Scarves' territory... if that's worth anything.

Amid the tumult of the week's events, Joseph's slumber proves restorative, the aches and sorrows that have plagued him gradually dissipating. The circles beneath his eyes alleviate, and the droning headache that has become his constant companion departs, leaving him refreshed and invigorated. If anything, he feels better than ever – sharp, quick, and operating at the peak of his abilities, reminiscent of his finest days as a student. [+1 Focus. VIS recovered regularly.]

Amelia joins them for dinner throughout the week, grateful for their company.

“You know,” she mentions to Joseph, “...you could save a lot of money if you had more hands to shoulder the burden of rent and food.”

She nods at him, clearly hinting at something, but refuses to elaborate further. Perhaps she deems it improper, whatever she’s thinking. Perhaps Joseph should take the next step - or not.

IAN DESCH

Ian’s sleep this week is utterly uneventful, for better or for worse. The Tenements are quieter now - many of the prior residents have slipped away. Some, perhaps, to greener pastures, such as the Jade District, the Provincial Village, or Ash Harbor. Others, more likely, to the streets… [VIS recovered regularly.]

Tangletown Market, as always, is a cacophony of sights, sounds, and smells. Amidst the labyrinth of stalls and vendors, Ian navigates the winding paths, his eyes scanning the wares on display.

Ian's footsteps echo against the cobblestones as he approaches a vegetable stand, its vibrant array of produce beckoning to him. With a discerning gaze, he scrutinizes the offerings, mentally calculating the cost of sustaining himself for the next five weeks. Alas, the cruel reality of mathematics swiftly shatters his hopes, for no matter how skillfully he haggles, the gilders in his possession fall woefully short of the sum required for such an ambitious stockpile. He can, at best, get four weeks - and will vegetables really keep for four weeks? Something to think about, before he pulls the trigger on this purchase. [OPTIONS: 6 Gilder for 4 weeks of food, 5 for 3, 4 for 2.]

Regardless of his purchase, he presses onward, his gaze now drawn to the heaps of scrap metal that litter the market's periphery. The salesmen offer a simple price - 1 Gilder per mound of rusting junk. [OPTIONAL: 1 Gilder for 1 Scrap, as many as Ian pleases.]

The mechanical tools beckon next, their polished surfaces gleaming in the dappled sunlight that filters through the market's canopies. Ian's fingers trace the contours of wrenches and hammers, screwdrivers and implements of construction, their scattered assembly a promise of creations yet to be realized. They shall certainly improve his results in any attempts at devising his creations, should he buy them. [OPTIONAL: 5 Gilders to buy Craftsman’s Average Tools]

Later on this week, Ian's attention turns to the task of committing his thoughts to paper. In a frenzy of inspiration, his pen dances across the parchment, words spilling forth like a raging river, giving life to the madness of A Dragon's Land. Five chapters emerge from the depths of his imagination - a splendid haul. Writer’s block lies dead and defeated upon the ground - for now, anyways.

With the ink barely dry upon the pages, Ian makes his way to Chengway's, delivering his latest offerings to the awaiting editor. The editor - Mr. Guo - coughs, proffering a letter from his coat, along with 15 Gilders for the chapters.

“Congratulations, Mr. Desch.” he says, with a faint nod. “Despite the pile of dreck you hand me week after week,” he says, though with a hint of dry humor, “you have at least one attentive reader.”

Ian opens the letter. Goodness! It’s several pages long. A veritable storm of questions. Questions about minute characters and little details from chapters, lines and story-beats that Ian can barely even remember publishing.

“Please respond. Hanging on your every word. Sincerely, Fa Liang.” is scribbled at the bottom.

Barry awaits him at their secret rendezvous, his countenance etched with worry.

"I've got bad news, old pal," Barry confesses, the smoke from his cigar curling in the air like tendrils of doubt. “According to my contact in the International District, the deal with Big Ears Dhu has fallen through. Weapons are selling like hotcakes right now, and he’s not going to save his inventory for our needs.”

He sighs, clearly frustrated.

“We’re not dead in the water. If you can perhaps obtain an audience with the man, you could persuade him otherwise. If anyone can, it’s you. I’ve heard he can be reached at the Brass Garter.”

Barry fishes in his pockets, before pulling out a fat wad of Gilders. Goodness - there’s twenty of them here! [+20 Gilders]

“I’ve reached a few sympathizers to our cause across the river. They’ve given me…well, their pocket change.” he says with a sigh. “I thought you may be able to use it better than I, perhaps. Don’t go spending it on yourself, now! It’s for the cause.”

He shifts nervously.

“Anyways. Big Ears isn’t our only option. There’s a smuggler in Ash Harbour named Mayari Kalawai, from the Shattered Isles. I’ve heard she has a den at Gantry 17 - Warehouse 7A. But I’m not going there. She’s ruthless, even for the Circus.”

“Alternatively,” he continues, “I may have found a potential ally in the Thenian interior. A local governor, ruling seven or eight small cities, who has made some uneasy peace with the Communards. They’re likely to form a breakaway state - and some international recognition would give him the legitimacy he needs. Of course, you’ll have to send him a telegram to arrange the deal, but…”

Barry's voice trails off, his uncertainty palpable as he laments the indifference that shrouds their cause for Wraizar. "I don't know, Ian," he sighs, his shoulders slumping beneath the weight of their predicament. "There's just so much going on here. Nobody cares about Wraizar. We'll have to find a way."

SIR WINTHROP EDDLETON - “The Scion”

The Scion’s ventures this week are worthwhile, and return fine results. Indeed - at Huangshi’s, he finds the fine foods he has been searching for. Thick meats. Fine Thenian loaves, impressed with a crescent upon their crust. Vegetables that stand tall and proud, rather than wilted and sad. And better still, his proposal to have his food delivered? Accepted, with ease.

The owner, a stern-faced ancient crone with wrinkles like canyons, whistles. A young Thenian boy approaches the desk, his gaze fixed curiously upon Winthrop.

“Yes, we can certainly arrange that. That price is fair enough.” the Huangshi matriarch says. “Write your address down here, and we’ll add you to the list.”

At last, Winthrop is relieved to partake in true sustenance. No mystery meat, no limp vegetables. These paltry things have been exchanged for thick hocks of ham, rich and fresh carrots and potatoes, steaming broth and noodles - yes, these are the victuals he deserves. A meal befitting a man of his stature.

The citizens of the Jade District rest largely at peace, and this tranquility extends to the Scion’s own abode. Not a single disturbance disrupts the quiet, not even the footfalls of the watchmen patrolling the streets.

Despite his best efforts, Winthrop struggles this week at his work at Crimwick’s, finding the work to be menial drudgery rather than a fascinating challenge. That is not to say, of course, that he does poorly. Between his intense focus, the extra hours spent, his applied concentration, his innate skills, and his fine tools - well! Any other man would look at his work and declare it masterful. But Winthrop knows, deep within, that this is not even close to his best work. And the masters seem to know as well - because, alas, despite a solid job well done, he does not come away with a promotion. Frustrating.

Winthrop’s journey Chenglong Iron and Steel is one of merit. There are, as he would hope, metals of varying qualities to be purchased.

[1 Metal can be purchased for 2 Gilders. Markedly better than Scrap - solid iron bars, dull and cold.]
[1 Fine Metal can be purchased for 3 Gilders. Higher quality stuff still, the steel used to make the ships of Bre Tann.]
[1 First-Rate Metal can be purchased for 4 Gilders. No impurities. No imperfections. Run through the furnace until every last bit of dross is burnt away.]

Yet, as for signs of openings, the men of Chenglong are less forthcoming. While they are certainly not inclined to turn away his business, the prospect of hiring a lumbering foreigner at their mill, in their district, is not one they wish to pursue. They clam up quickly, citing the difficult market and their full staffing as excuses, unwilling even to allow Winthrop to give a live demonstration of his skills.

Perhaps a professional recommendation from a Thenian would be worthwhile? Or perhaps Winthrop may find work in the International District, should he find a way to gain entry? For now, it seems, this little piece of Thenia is reserved for the Thenians alone.

“Officers, good eventide. I confess, I know of no such curfew - but the hour is late, and we could all use a solid drink I warrant. The Amber Teapot is right over there. What say I buy you all a couple rounds to make up for this misunderstanding? It is a crime that good men have dry throats in these times when public peace is so threatened.”

An expansive wave of his arm toward the public house now displayed the muscles stacked on muscles which casually graced the smith’s upper body, giving the invitation a pointed edge. It might not be as easy to beat the fine out of the Scion as these tired gendarmes presumed, and much more profitable to drown their evening instead.

The officers pause, considering his offer. The foreman among them eyes Winthrop's rippling biceps warily before shaking his head, his brow furrowing into a frown. "Attempting to bribe an officer of the law is a serious offense," he declares, crossing his arms, unamused.

Yet, before the Sergeant can continue, one of his companions interjects with a cough. "You know, I do quite like the Teapot."

A brief mutiny ensues – quiet, subtle, and swift. The third officer joins in, cutting off the first man before he can proceed. "Yang, must we process a full arrest for a first offense? We can just give the ganjan a warning and take him up on the offer. It's generous, really. And it's been one long day."

The second nods his agreement. "I don't think this warrants an arrest," he says, nodding at Winthrop, a nod that conveys the unspoken message: 'You owe me an extra pint for this one, old chap.'

Finally, at long last, the senior officer relents with a grumble.

"Fine. I suppose."

While the drinks at the bar certainly do not go unappreciated, they do not quite win over the allies that Winthrop may have hoped. That is not to say that the evening is ill - not by any means. But the officers spend most of the evening complaining about work, and not even interesting insights can truly be dredged from it. Simple complaints about the violence in the Circus, about how the bureaucrat class doesn't appreciate them, how the Suzerain has lost his grip. Common knowledge, really.

Winthrop chimes in every once in a while with a smart comment or interesting insight, and he does seem to make a connection with Officer Liu on some discussion of mechanical tinkering, a shared hobby between the two. Liu is working on restoring the wreck of a Daimler-Maybach Stahlradwagen - a steam-carriage! And the two discuss the odd vehicles at length. Sergeant Yang remains a tad bitter about things not going his way, and does not particularly engage in any meaningful way.

The youngest of the three, Corporal Zhao, lingers a little longer after Corporal Liu and Sergeant Yang depart. He is drunk. Carelessly so.

"H-hey," he sputters, his cheeks flushed and eyes squinted. "For a foreigner, you're tolerable. I..." he hiccups, "...you seem like you have money to spare. I...uh…could tell you some interesting stuff, for some more money. They...you wouldn't believe how hard I work...to get paid dirt. I'm here...every Wednesday? Just saying."

Does this young man actually possess any useful knowledge? Or is this merely a shoddy attempt at squeezing a few more drinks out of a foreigner with more money than sense? It's difficult to discern the truth behind his words.

ALLISTAR CRAVEN - “Blade of the Church”

Allistar’s sleep this week is neither good nor ill - just inky black landscapes of indistinct shadows and muted shades across the infinite mindscape. [VIS recovered regularly.]

The majority of his waking efforts are dedicated to an important quest - seeking out some skilled practitioner of the healing arts who may be able to shed light upon his strange condition.

Allistar finds two hospitals in the Circus. Neither are particularly respectable, unfortunately. One, an understaffed and overworked government facility. The other, an unofficial clinic for those who seek to avoid the eyes of the law.

[NEW LOCATIONS FOUND:]

[The Doldrums Wounde House]
This shadowy clinic lies partially submerged beneath a crumbling tenement. Those seeking discreet, no-questions-asked treatment for injuries or afflictions enter through a nondescript cellar door. Within, a cell-like maze of dank wards hosts an ever-rotating roster of unlicensed sawbones, felons and rogue physicians who'll stitch wounds, set bones and distribute potions - all in exchange for hefty fees and vows of silence.
[Clandestine mercy with bloody equitability.]

[Sparrowhawk Croft]
A perpetual wail of suffering drifts from the dingy windows of this ramshackle three-story infirmary. Within its chaotic, vermin-riddled wards, a few overworked and underpaid medics from Hsin-Yao's lower circles labor around the clock to treat the Circus' poor and indigent. Crowded pallets host a miserable tide of the diseased, wounded and terminally ill. Only piety, charity and meager supplies dull the anguish.
[Dignity ends where life clings on.]

Alas, the Doldrums' operators want nothing to do with Allistar's sort - he is halted at the threshold by a pair of surly Thenian bruisers.

"Get out of here, you filthy vagrant," one growls, emphasizing the insult with a phlegmatic glob of spit.

Sparrowhawk Croft fares no better. Teetering on the precipice of being overwhelmed, the dilapidated hospice is simply too overburdened to spare any of its scant resources for a chronic, non-life-threatening condition. A chronic illness, a weary doctor with a shock of white hair says bluntly, is unfortunate, but there are people bleeding to death. Allistar will have to live with it, or get it taken care of somewhere else.

[Fighting Goliath: Conclusion]

Fingers hovering above the notched hilt of a sturdy machete, Allistar holds himself still for a moment. His gaze bores into Faulkner, weighing the merits of engaging in yet further bloodshed. Then, steadying himself with a deep breath, he addresses the hulking merchant with a fervor that surprises even himself.

“I warn you one more time - leave us be. I do not do this for money, power, or the hollow admiration of the masses. I do this to serve the lord with every fiber of my being. Leave now. Next time, we will not spare you.”

For an agonizing moment, the only sound is the dripping of Faulkner's blood spattering the floorboards as he glowers back, eyes narrowed to baleful slits. At last, he appears to reach his own decision, features twisting into a vicious sneer.

"Very well...let's strike a bargain, fanatic." The words ooze forth in a guttural snarl more befitting a cornered animal than any civilized merchant. "I won’t kill you. You won’t kill me. And for a few week's time, I'll move my wagons to Ash Harbor and ply my trade there. You'll not see hide nor hair of me until I return."

One meaty finger stabs out towards Allistar. "And when I do? You'd best pray I've forgotten all about you. You won’t be so lucky if I see you again." he snarls, face contorted in fury. It is clearly writ on his face that he wants to strangle Allistar - but is unsure of his chances, considering the wound in his back and the machete in Allistar’s hands. [Perceptive]

Weighing the choices laid before him, Allistar cannot deny the obvious merit in Faulkner's proposal. It is hardly a full victory as he may have hoped for - but to press this fight would perhaps be courting an untimely demise this night. And so he slips out of the wagon and watches as the giant man steers the wagon across the bridge, out of sight and out of mind. [-1 Stress]

Upon returning to Father Werner with these tidings, the head priest can barely contain his elation, immediately withdrawing his black book to strike through another entry with a flourish.

"Truly, we are blessed in our endeavors," he proclaims, visibly satisfied as he pulls a clinking leatherbound purse from his belt. "Accept this token of our humble appreciation. Now, go - arm and fortify yourself, Brother Allistar. Our work has only begun in earnest. I shall have something for you next week." [+5 Gilders]

As Allistar turns to depart, Werner's voice rings out once more, halting him mid-stride.

"Oh, and one final matter before you take your leave. I've secured the services of a skilled physician who may aid your...affliction. It is written in your walk and in your face - some malady assails you from within. No matter how fine a blade may be, how effective can it be if blunted?”

A sage nod underscores his following words. "Return here on the forthcoming Wednesday, and let him examine you. The Allfather has many trials more lying upon our path - we cannot have your footsteps falter before the journey's end."

INTERACTION: Meet with Hari Yahnric on Wednesday to discern the root of your condition. What shall you divulge to this practitioner?

KASSIA ALANI BAKER - “The Delicate Blade”

The steady rhythm of life settles into a pattern for Kassia as she accepts the grocer's offer – an extra gilder every other week to have her sustenance delivered with the dawn's first light.

Her slumber comes in fleeting snatches, a few scant hours before the sun crests the horizon and again as it begins its descent. Yet this fragmented rest is enough to fuel her relentless toils that occupy both day and night. It is sufficient - there is little else to say. [VIS recovered regularly.]

Seeking a place to lay low, if not live in comfort, Kassia turns her eyes toward the Draidic Row Tenements mentioned by former coworkers. The ramshackle dwellings offer little in the way of amenities, their monthly rate of 10 gilders matching that of her current lodgings. And their ragged state matching that of her current lodgings as well. It is much closer to Ash Harbour, though, and perhaps not quite as miserable…so maybe a trade worth making? Kassia can’t help but think that this is leaping from the kettle and into the fire, truthfully.

Through it all, Kassia's dedication to her training remains unwavering. The punching bag shakes and trembles from the persistent blows of her fists, her footwork quickening with each passing day, her strikes ringing with the clarity of a finely-tuned instrument. And by week's end, her efforts bear fruit, her lithe, wiry muscles flexing with renewed power. [+1 MAX VIS.]

NEW TRAIT: STRONG
Through relentless training or natural gifts, your body is a testament to physical prowess. You can lift great weights, deliver punishing blows, and persevere through grueling exertions. Bonus to feats of strength and endurance.
[Brawn over brains, some might say - but you know the value of a stout heart and steadfast limbs.]

As night's cloak descends upon the city once more, Kassia slips into its shadowed folds. The chaos of such bloody times offers a distinct advantage – individuals are afforded far less scrutiny as they go about their grim deeds. Best to seize the opportunity while it presents itself.

Three prospects vie for her attention at the Midnight Market. The first, a straightforward offer of more bloodshed at the behest of Saxon and his ilk, scrawled with the paltry sum of 7 gilders as recompense. A peasant's wage for perilous work – she scowls and moves on.

The second is a posting for the Banners, asking for a guard on a smuggling operation in Ash Harbor. Tempting, but not exciting enough for her tastes.

The third, a simple advertisement bearing the promise of intrigue: "Professional Burglar wanted. Rewards split by Share. Meet at Gantry 17 Warehouses at 3 AM on Thursday. The color red, portent of dread."

Now this piques her interest. And so when the time comes, Kassia makes her way through the winding streets toward her rendezvous. Her path is momentarily waylaid by a patrol of leering Red Scarves, their hungry eyes appraising her with ill intent – until she calls out a reminder of whose employ she keeps. "Oliver wouldn't like to hear his best killer's been robbed, boys."

The foremost among them, a nasty-looking Malayan with a slashing scar across his cheek, pulls a crimson scarf from his pocket.

“If you’re going to be walking in our turf at night, best to wear our colors. Next time I won’t give a fuck what Oliver thinks.” he snarls, tossing it on the ground at her feet. [Obtained: Red Scarf]

The vast expanse of Gantry 17's warehouses looms ahead, one of many such complexes that line Ash Harbour's docks. A pall of uncertainty hangs in the air as Kassia creeps through the billowing fog and smog – is this a setup? It certainly wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility.

A small knot of men leans against a nearby dock, cloaked in a haze of cigar smoke. One rises as Kassia approaches, whistling to beckon her over with two calloused fingers.

"Well. Looks like we might be on after all," he calls out, the dim light glinting off his thin, grinning lips. "The sailor's nightmare, the skies aglare."
Kassia responds with the countersign. "The color red, portent of dread."

"We're on, boys," the man declares, turning to his cohorts with a smirk. With a sweeping gesture, he indicates the looming silhouettes of the warehouses. "Warehouse 18B. We picked up a hint that the Iren Mercantile Corporation is struggling to find guards with the ongoing labor dispute – and that the corners of Gantry 17 hold treasures ripe for the taking. What's in there? Dunno. Who's guarding it? Dunno. But I'm in for a surprise any day of the week."

His confidence is palpable as he lays out the steps, each one more daunting than the last, yet spoken as if they were the merest of trifles. "Slip through those shadows, break a lock, find a guard's uniform. We'll 'come to unload' once you're done."

Kassia's brow furrows at the audacity of the plan – and her paltry share of the potential spoils. "And I'm going to do all this work for a fourth of the cut. I could just walk away right now."

One of the other men, a portly figure in a soiled brown shirt and suspenders, responds with a wheezing chuckle. "A good mechanic don't charge for the work. They charge for knowin' where ta hit. Takes work to be in the right places and hear the right things. You gonna get in there or what?"
A frown creases Kassia's features, yet the undeniable truth rings clear – rent won't pay itself. With a resigned sigh, she melts into the shadows surrounding Warehouse 18B.

The night cloaks Kassia in its impenetrable folds as she slinks through the maze of Gantry 17's warehouses. Each breath is measured, each footfall a whisper against the hard-packed earth as she inches ever closer to her target – Warehouse 18B.

Up ahead, two guardsmen patrol the perimeter, their watchful eyes scanning the darkness for any signs of disturbance. Kassia's gaze fixes upon the one bringing up the rear, her muscles coiling tightly as a predator sizing up its prey.

With the swiftness of a striking viper, she closes the distance between them. One hand clamps firmly over the man's mouth, muffling his startled cry, while the other snakes around his throat in a vise-like grip. She pulls him into the deepest shadows, wrestling him into submission. He may be stronger, but the element of surprise can do much to even the odds.

The guard's eyes bulge, his struggles growing feeble as Kassia's chokehold constricts his airways. Finally, mercifully, his body goes limp, collapsing to the ground in an unconscious heap. Deftly, she strips him of his uniform, donning the ill-fitting garments with a grunt of effort.

Emerging from the shadows, Kassia calls out to the remaining guard in a gruff tone, waving to catch his attention. "You there! Ware-master needs you at once – bit of a situation over at 22C. Didn’t you hear me the first time? The others are already on there way. I'll watch this spot 'til you get back - a woman like me won’t be much use there."

The guard's brow furrows, clearly hesitant, but ultimately acquiesces with a curt nod. "Don't let anyone slip by, then," he warns, turning on his heel and setting off at a brisk stride.

As his footsteps fade into the distance, Kassia can't help but allow a self-satisfied smirk to crease her features. Sometimes, the simplest deceptions are the most effective.

With the guard's heavy ring of keys firmly in her grasp, Kassia twists the padlock and throws open the door to Warehouse 18B. Her breath catches at the sight that greets her - row after row of wooden crates stretch out before her, each one stenciled with symbols indicating their precious cargo: ingots and bars of refined metals and high-grade industrial alloys.

A sharp whistle summons her co-conspirators from the shadows. They waste no time in prying open the nearest crate, exposing the dull gleam of cold iron ingots neatly stacked within. Calloused hands greedily seize the solid bars, flinging them into awaiting burlap sacks.

"Twenty-three...twenty-four...” the fat man counts eagerly, his eyes lighting up in excitement.

It is not long before the confused guard returns, finding nothing of note at 22C - but they are long gone by then, their sacks stuffed full with metal. It’s likely worth quite a good sum, if she can find someone to purchase these ill-gotten goods.

Kassia’s share of the haul is 2 First Rate Metal, 3 Fine Metal, 5 Metal. Where shall she sell them - and for how much?

LISHA LANG - “Scarlett”

Slumber proves a fleeting commodity for Lisha this week, the meager handful of hours afforded her falling woefully short of what's required to fully restore her overtaxed mental reserves. While the mottled bruises now fading serve as visceral reminders of her latest bout, it is the dull ache of sheer exhaustion lancing through her mind that exacts the heavier toll. Though her physical form may mend, her mind remains wearied. [All VIS fully restored. Focus unavailable next turn.]

Lisha turns her energies towards the grueling labor of package hauling at the bustling Tangletown markets. It is unforgiving drudgery of the most menial sort - ferrying crates and parcels through the relentless press of the crowds hour upon interminable hour. Yet this thankless task, embracing the straightforward rigors of sheer physical exertion, proves worthwhile. As the days wind down, she can feel her vitality and readiness returning to their peak potency.

An unexpected visitor visits her meagre flat in the Tenements this week, rapping loudly at the door. Despite Lisha's disinclination towards receiving any callers, the man proves insistent, refusing to quit her stoop until she is forced to acknowledge his presence. A Thenian, tall and leanly built, he cuts a sharp figure in a navy-hued trench coat, the only embellishment his ensemble a simple wristband of faded Thenian calligraphy.

"Han Fengyi," he introduces himself without preamble. "A pleasure." His gaze, assessing yet otherwise unreadable, rakes her up and down as he cuts to the point.

"Word is you put a pair of Red Scarves in the hospital some weeks back. Just a rumor at first...but after witnessing your performance last week?"

There is a pause, as the faintest of smirks plays across his austere features. "I'm convinced it holds more than a kernel of truth."

"They'll toss you some paltry scraps in their pit fights," he scoffs in clear disdain for such debased vocations. "A laborer's sum in Gilders to suffer broken bones and bruises for the amusement of the crowds. If you're willing to endure such things, why not apply your ferocity towards a salary more...enriching?"

As if to punctuate his point, two crisp Gilder notes find their way onto the battered table's scarred surface. [+2 Gilders]

"Seven gilders per week in our employ. All we ask is for you to aid us in restoring order to these streets. If the Gilders are not enough to sufficiently rouse your interest..."

Another pause, as he strokes a sharp chin. "Perhaps our mission itself may have some appeal. You see, we do what the Gendarmes and the Suzerain’s bloated government cannot - or will not. Drug peddlers? Executed by our blades. The prostitutes and cast-off orphans of the alleyways? Fed from our own well-stocked larders. Shopkeeps? Liberated from the shackles of extortionists' rackets."

Turning on his heel, Han Fengyi gestures vaguely over one shoulder in parting. "The Circus was not always this crumbling shithole, you know. If you'd make common cause with us in returning it to what it should be, seek me out at 17 Steelworks Road near the Cog & Chain Forges. I'll await your answer there."

As quickly as he'd arrived on her doorstep, the mysterious Han Fengyi departs - leaving only the chiming promise of fresh purpose and righteous violence glittering coldly on the tabletop in his wake.

Yet such weighty considerations must be put aside, for now at least. The men staffing the Fleapit's bloodsport franchise have elected to reschedule Lisha's bout for the coming week. Another shot at glory awaits, the siren song of the crimson canvas calling her back into the spotlight...

LILY ISHENKO

The night brings no respite for Lily, as the shadows of her haunted past coalesce into nightmares that claw at the edges of her slumber. Visions of Mahensk, of lifeless bodies on the floor, of the icy embrace of the Echelga – these specters return to torment her, leaving her drenched in a cold sweat upon waking. Sleep proves elusive this week, a fitful companion that offers little solace. [+1 Stress. No focus available next week.]

Lily seeks counsel from the Barman, her inquiring mind probing for insights into the delicate art of running errands for the notorious Big Ears Dhu and maintaining his favor. With a coy tilt of her head, she wonders aloud about the paths that lead into the International District from the Circus – what routes might offer the swiftest passage?

Lily's charms are in full bloom this evening, as she ensnares the barman in a web of fluttering lashes and alluring tales. Her laughter rings like chiming bells, and the man is utterly captivated, spilling secrets like an overflowing mug. [Charmer]

By evening's end, he has divulged far more than she could have hoped.

"Getting on Big Ears' good side? Well, if he's considering you for a runner, you're likely already there," the man confides with a swig of his drink. "Reliability, punctuality, and honesty – that's all that matters to Dhu. Unlike the other dons, it's all business with him, nothing personal."

He drains his pint of pale ale, a grimace etching his features as he delves into the labyrinthine paths of the International District. "Ah. So. There’s two parts of the District, you see – the East Bund across the river with its fancy estates, and the International Settlement itself. Eight entrances in total. Two from Ash Harbor, three from the Jade District, two from Shangjing District, and one from Silkshore."

Another sip, and he unfurls a map, his calloused finger tracing the routes. "The Ash Harbor bridges are heavily guarded, and as a foreigner, Shangjing is best avoided. That leaves Silkshore and the Jade District, and Silkshore's a damn long walk from here. So that’s what I’d do if I was to run a package."

A pause, a scratch of his head, and a gruff chuckle escapes his lips. "Damn, I'm getting ahead of myself. To enter the International District, you need a Citizen's Card – and the real thing is bloody difficult to acquire. An imitation might suffice, or if you can slip past the guards without drawing attention. Or, if you're feeling particularly daring, you could try swimming across the river or finding a boatman willing to ferry you – but gods help you if you're caught doing those."

Rent paid and bellies filled, Lily and Pinfold stroll through the bustling Market, her intent to reinforce the bonds of their friendship. Back in the humble confines of the Tenements, they cook together, the aromas of simmering spices filling the air. It is here, amidst the sizzle of pans and the dance of steam, that Lily broaches a delicate subject – the vacant stares and haunted expressions that sometimes belie Pinfold's demeanor, echoes of the smokers who frequent the Brass Garter. With gentle words, she inquires if there is anything she can do to aid him, to prevent a relapse that might imperil his employment.

Shame clouds Pinfold's features, and a veil of silence descends.

"Nothing wrong with me," he states brusquely, his stiff upper lip betraying the depths of his turmoil. "Just under the weather. Don't worry about it."

Some demons, it seems, run deeper than even the closest of bonds can reach. Addiction casts a long, insidious shadow, and for now, Lily's efforts bear no fruit. Perhaps a different approach is required, or perhaps patience and perseverance will ultimately yield the breakthrough she seeks. For today, however - nothing.

Once more, Lily finds herself amidst the bustle of the Atelier, steadily serving a growing clientele. Her work is adequate, yet unremarkable – the long nights and darkened circles beneath her eyes undoubtedly hindering her craft. There are no tips this week - just wages where wages are due.

But this week, she seeks to elevate her mastery, to delve into the intricacies of local designs, art styles, and needling techniques that will allow her to better cater to the tastes of the city's denizens. With a keen eye and a deft hand, she explores the nuances of ink mixing, crafting a vibrant palette of hues to adorn the flesh of her patrons. Her subtle charm and persuasive tongue encourage even the most hesitant clients to pursue the most intricate and exquisite designs, their bodies destined to become living canvases adorned with her indelible artistry. By week's end, Lily's dedication has borne fruit, her craft elevated to new heights.

Master Tattooist
You are a true master of your craft, able to mix intricate inks and create exquisite, highly detailed designs that are coveted by the city's elite and working classes alike.
[Significant bonus to tattooing, inking techniques, and convincing clients to purchase premium designs.]

HARI YAHNRIC - “Doctor Veins”

As the week's steady march trudges onward, the merits of Hari's recent hiring decisions gradually reveal themselves amidst the whirlwind of the Sparrowhawk Croft’s halls.

Katrina Svartengrav, the grizzled yet undeniably efficient Dzerahski nurse, proves an immediate boon. She gladly accepts the weekly wage of 9 gilders and the esteemed position of chief nurse without hesitation, before quickly setting to work. The impact of this hire is near-instantaneous – the speed at which triage unfolded quickens significantly, the once messy ward growing presentable under her stern oversight. Of course, complaints about her demeanor arise constantly. Complaints about sour faces, biting words, and grim prognostications of the patient’s likely demise should their smoking habits persist. But, well, nobody's perfect. [Hari's work is now easier - he is less likely to become stressed.]

Jakob Bruner's case, however, proves more troublesome. From the outset, it was clear the man still grapples with the throes of old habits. On the days he arrives awake and alive, he is a veritable asset – a skilled surgeon deftly extracting bullets and stitching wounds without a whisper of complaint. But on the other three days? Well, those saw him stumbling about in a mumbling, glassy-eyed stupor, reeking of drink and rendered unfit to operate, relegated to menial tasks unbecoming of a doctor's pay grade. Frantic apologies and promises of improvement tumble from his lips whenever Hari calls out the issue, but his performance remains erratic. [For now, at least, Jakob's presence neither makes Hari’s job easier or more difficult.]

Li Qiang, the fresh-faced graduate, embodies precisely what Hari had anticipated – a wellspring of technical knowledge, yet lacking in practical skill. Grist for the mill, one might say, but everyone had to start somewhere. For the moment, the brutal realities of the job have yet to grind away at the young man's enthusiasm, each morning greeting Hari with an almost irritating eagerness to learn and be put to work. An asset, for the time being. [Li is making Hari’s job easier…for now.]

With his new hires in place, even if their contributions vary, the crushing toll of the Sparrowhawk eases, if only slightly. Hari's performance this week proves commendable, the ward boasting more available beds by week's end than it had at the start – a feat that drew a rare compliment from his ordinarily jaded and weary superior, Zhou.

The discussion with Scarface, it seems, has also borne fruit – by the final day of the week, the garish red 'X' that had been defiantly splashed across the Sparrowhawk's walls had been scrubbed away. A small victory, perhaps, but one that reinforced Hari’s belief that strength demanded respect from strength.

Yet, by the beginning of this week, it becomes clear that the Red Scarves have no intention of abandoning their claim over the territory entirely. A fact made evident by the arrival of an anonymous 'donation' – a set of maroon curtains to afford the first-floor patients a modicum of privacy. Or so the administration claimed. And Zhou seemed in slightly higher spirits of late, a new smoking pipe gracing his desk in a plume of aromatic smoke. Hmm.

When Hari broached the subject of a safehouse for treating injured gang members discreetly, Scarface was adamant in his refusal, shaking his head.

"We're proud of those colors. You're asking a lot." A grunt punctuated the words, yet he conceded with a grudging nod. "But if that's how it has to be, that's how it's going to be."

An uncomfortable silence stretched between them before Hari spoke up once more. "And if I do need you...how do I get ahold of you?"

Scarface's finger rose to his chin, contemplating. "Any of our buildings – you'll know 'em when you see 'em. Gear and Gasket, Cog & Chain, Renderworks, Tenements, Draidic Lane. Approach the manager and ask for Saxon."

He rummaged in his pocket before retrieving a blood-red scarf, extending it toward Hari. "Do not say that without this on you," he stated, leaving no room for ambiguity as the vibrant fabric changed hands.

True to Scarface's words, the following week saw any gang members arriving at the Sparrowhawk for treatment begrudgingly respecting Hari's request to leave their signature attire at the door. Sullen glares and muttered curses made it abundantly clear he was winning no new friends with this policy, but for now, at least, his commands were being followed.

With work taken care of for the week, Hari turns his focus to his second passion – the investigation into those enigmatic whispers and the strange sights in the alley! Ignoring the children – ugh, children! – he persists in going door-to-door, inquiring about the elusive 'Dimu Doyen.'

The citizenry of the Circus, when pressed about the Dimu Doyen, responds with a range of hushed tones and furtive glances. Most simply slam the door in his face, but Hari is doggedly persistent, and eventually dredges out valuable information.

"The Dimu Doyen? Witches, they are – crones who dance 'neath the full moon and curse the very ground we walk upon!" The elderly woman Hari first spoke to opens up a little more, spitting to emphasize her distaste. "Foul creatures, the lot of them. Best steer well clear, if you know what's good for you."

A harried mother clutches her babe close, shushing the curious child. "Pay those sorts no mind. They're just...malcontent women, is all. Ones who weren't satisfied with their lot. All just superstition and nonsense. They’re just another gang. Is that all? Can you leave?" She shoots a wary look over her shoulder before hurriedly ushering her family inside.

"Witches?" A grizzled laborer squints through the dim light, a rueful chuckle escaping his cracked lips. "Aye, I reckon that's one name for 'em. Though some call 'em brewers, or wise-women. All I know is, you don't want to be crossin' any of that ilk. They'll put a hex on you quick as look at you twice, they will – and once that curse is laid, there's no tellin' what'll happen." He shook his head solemnly. "Unnatural sorts, them."

One man, with a green handkerchief tied around his face, provides a piece of information that Hari finds much more valuable than these rumors.

“The Doyen? Heh. A child’s tale, mostly. Superstitious local talk.”

He pauses, taking a long drag from a cigarette.

“But if you really want to know, there’s a shrine down by the old water-cistern. A shrine to the ancestral spirits. Ancient. Falling to pieces. Rumor has it that at one hour past midnight, the spirits of the dead howl there. Supposedly, it’s a sacred place to those witches.”

He crushes the butt of the cigarette against the wall, before dropping it into the dirt.

“Probably a bunch of bullshit, if you ask me. But a good story, eh?”

Fascinating. Hari is quite pleased with the investigation - where shall he go from here? [-1 Stress from Investigation.]

His sustenance remains as dismal as ever – typical fare, bland and unappetizing, the mere thought of it inspiring a grimace. A hunk of salted meat, its origins dubious at best, that had been boiled to a leathery, inedible consistency. Limp, water-logged vegetables swimming in a runny, flavorless broth that might charitably be called 'soup.' Stale, moldering bread so hard one risked breaking teeth upon biting into it. He grows sick of this food, pushing it aside on the weekend evening. Did he really take on all that schooling for this?

Sleep, at least, comes easily – the grisly sights and stresses of his profession hold no sway over Hari's ability to simply close his eyes and drift off, awaking what felt like moments later, refreshed and ready to face the day's rigors.

Yet one persistent notion continues to nag at him in those fleeting moments between slumber and wakefulness. He has amassed over forty gilders now, meticulously stashed beneath a loose floorboard, a modest sum by some standards. But a fortune here, in these ramshackle tenements. Was it truly wise to persist in these rotting, tumbledown shanties? Surely his hard-earned wages could procure safer, more comfortable lodgings – he had heard whispers from his coworkers of the Jade District, of the Brickyard Rows...hell, he may even be able to afford a home for this price.

At the very least, perhaps he could indulge in some fresh linens to grace his humble cot, a small yet meaningful improvement to his present circumstances.

Since Hari has dedicated the time to visit Werner, he does not need to expend any of his precious VIS to tend to Allistar this week.

by **High Earth** » Wed May 01, 2024 6:37 am

Allistar Craven
Turn Seven
“The Cure?”

As Allistar strolled down the streets of the circus toward what he hoped would be the last time that the fire inside him would be a mystery, Peepers accompanied him down the streets. He had decided to have the cat accompany him for this meeting, mostly trailing at his coattails, if only for emotional support. The thoughts he had of doctors brought back memories; memories that he probably would have preferred forgotten. Needle-sharp syringes glistening in the bright lights of the operating room, the sound of the machinery that he had been hooked up to, and the burning that was still with him even today. The fire inside him spiked in pain a bit even just at these thoughts. He rounded a corner and saw a familer face, Father Werner, and a man he had not seen before. He had sandy blond hair, wireframe glasses, and the look of a hunter sizing up his prey. He turned to Father Werner

“Thank you again for this Father, I really appreciate it. It is about time you heard my story, feel free to listen in.”
“You are the doctor I presume?” Allistar asked. after receiving the affirmative, he began to tell his story, he had worked out in advance what to tell him.

“Ok, you are probably wondering what exactly is wrong with me, and quite frankly, I don’t really know. It started when I was still living in my homeland of Vorota. The draft occurred, and all able-bodied men were required to enlist in the military. I dodged the draft to help take care of my aging mother. Needless to say, they caught me. However, they had a much worse fate than the military for me. I was put into a laboratory, treated like a rat. They performed all sorts of horrid experiments on me, injecting me with who-knows-what. I eventually managed to escape, but two thing were forever changed inside me; I was able to notice things much easier in my environment (I am not sure if that I because of what they did, or a survival mechanism in response to what they did), and the chemicals they pumped me full of are still burning me on the inside. Eventually I made my way to the circus, met Father and the Door of Hope, and here we are.” He decided to leave out the part about how he fears that whoever did this to him is still searching for him.

“Well, let’s get this started then doc,” Allistar says, mentally preparing himself for whatever was about to come next.

Actions, Turn 7
Vis: 8->0
Focus: 2
Glider: 18->4
Stress: 0->0
Heat: 0
-Items: Peepers, Lockpicks, 1 food (consumed), 5 beakers, assorted lab equipment, 2 smokebombs

-Allistar tries to get a little bit of extra sleep for the week, ignoring the persistent pain inside him. Hopefully it won’t stay this way for long (-3 Vis, sleep)
-Allistar obtains food for the this week It is much more time-efficient to get food every other week normally, hopefully the price spike does not persist(-1 Vis, -4G, +1 Food)
-Allistar accepts Father’s offer to see an able doctor. He is perfectly willing to see the doctor again/ more often if that means a possible cure to his condition. Lord, I simply pray that you take mercy on your humble servant, and try to deliver me from my suffering.(- 1 Vis)
-Allistar spends some time experimenting with the lab equipment he has in his room, not necessarily trying to create anything special, just trying to deepen his understanding of the craft. Perhaps I will even gain insight into my own plight with enough study.(-3 Vis, Focused x2)
-Rent is paid (-10G)

by **Lunas Legion** » Wed May 01, 2024 9:00 am

Turn VII
Penelope Lagakou

Penelope did not consider herself a coward. Not brave, but no coward. She ran. It was the rational thing to do. He was armed, she was not. She had never paid as much attention to her duelling master as she perhaps should've, he was no doubt trained, and almost certainly an experienced veteran of the revolution besides. She could still feel the gin burning inside her, fuel as she stumbled to her feet, breaking into a run. The Man in Grey pursued, seemingly pushing and shoving his way through the crowd towards her from the shouts of objection.

She only got a glimpse of his face. Plain. Utterly unremarkable, except for the pure, primal hatred written across it.

"Halt!" He shouted. "By authority vested in me by the Special Inspectorate and the Gendarme, I declare you under arrest for high treason against Tegea! Submit yourself at once!"

As if she would lay down and accept her fate so easily-

She Saw.

He wanted her to refuse. To run. Desperately. Anything to give him an excuse to shoot, to enshrine himself in history as the man who killed the last scion of the Lagakou, a hero of the revolution.

He would never stop hunting her, she realised. This was not a simple order to him. This was his calling, his purpose. Perhaps even if his godless superiors ordered him to return, he would mysteriously never recieve the orders.

But their showdown would not be today, not here and now.

Penelope ran, lunging forwards in a mad dash through the crowd, into an alley, down it- The Circus was her friend, here. A better warren to hide in, none could find.

A gunshot rang out, loud and clear. Penelope screamed, shutting her eyes for a moment. Had she been hit? She couldn't feel anything-

She tore off through the Ragfair. He wouldn't dare pursue her in there.

She returned to her rooms in silence, door shut, locked, barred, barricaded. Anything she could do. She sat by the window, knees against her chest, nervously watching the barricaded door for any turn of the handle, every footstep outside that made a floorboard creak making her hands twitch. By the evening, satisfied he would not find her just yet, she packed her few things and slipped out of the tenements, making for her new home.

The Man in Grey had gotten inches from taking her life. He would never do so again. The question would be how to ensure that was the case.

She would have to face him eventually. He would not stop hunting her. She could not live the life she wanted while he did. He would have to die, or she would have to die trying. She would obviously prefer the former. She needed to visit the secret society, but tucked away as they were in the International District... Even with her bearing, accent, attire... She couldn't chance bluffing her way in. Not when the police there were almost certainly in league with the Man in Grey. And she wasn't going to try swimming the river like some barbarian. She could set to that in due time.

The University would provide the barest stream of income, but it wouldn't be enough. Not to make up for the small stream of income the Theater had been. But she couldn't do something so public. It would be too risky, too likely to attract the Man in Grey's attention now he knew what he was hunting for.

by **Talchyon** » Wed May 01, 2024 1:29 pm

Turn 6 1/2
Hari Yahnric
The first interaction

The day had come. Obliging Father Werner's request, Hari came to the sanctuary after the morning service. He had gone to the morning service, for no other reason than to see if he might spot this wounded missionary that no other doctor could cure. The request was an intriguing one. What doctor wouldn't want to investigate a medical mystery? This was clearly a job for Dr. Hari Yahnric ("and not Doctor Veins," Hari thought to himself). But looking around at the wretches who came to hear Father Werner speak, Hari could see no one that leapt out. Some were coughing, but that was to be expected. Some looked sore from hard work, but again, that was something even Doctor Bruner could treat in his inebriation. But nothing looked out of the ordinary for a congregation of the denizens of the Clockwork Circus.

After the service, Father Werner asked Hari to wait with him. They stood outside the church after everyone else had gone. Hari kept silent, knowing the monk wouldn't be very revealing about the missionary Hari had been brought into treat. The religious leader could speak in parables and riddles of esoteric wisdom, without saying anything of importance to his case before him. Eventually, a man with a cat turned the corner. (Hari thought to himself, "That has got to be the patient. No one else can tame a cat in the Clockwork Circus.")

High Earth wrote:
Allistar Craven
Turn Seven
“The Cure?”

As Allistar strolled down the streets of the circus toward what he hoped would be the last time that the fire inside him would be a mystery,... [he] saw a familer face, Father Werner, and a man he had not seen before. He had sandy blond hair, wireframe glasses, and the look of a hunter sizing up his prey. He turned to Father Werner

“Thank you again for this Father, I really appreciate it. It is about time you heard my story, feel free to listen in.”
“You are the doctor I presume?” Allistar asked. after receiving the affirmative, he began to tell his story, he had worked out in advance what to tell him.

“Ok, you are probably wondering what exactly is wrong with me, and quite frankly, I don’t really know. It started when I was still living in my homeland of Vorota. The draft occurred, and all able-bodied men were required to enlist in the military. I dodged the draft to help take care of my aging mother. Needless to say, they caught me. However, they had a much worse fate than the military for me. I was put into a laboratory, treated like a rat. They performed all sorts of horrid experiments on me, injecting me with who-knows-what. I eventually managed to escape, but two thing were forever changed inside me; I was able to notice things much easier in my environment (I am not sure if that I because of what they did, or a survival mechanism in response to what they did), and the chemicals they pumped me full of are still burning me on the inside. Eventually I made my way to the circus, met Father and the Door of Hope, and here we are.” He decided to leave out the part about how he fears that whoever did this to him is still searching for him.

“Well, let’s get this started then doc,” Allistar says, mentally preparing himself for whatever was about to come next.

Intriguing. "Vorota, you say?" Hari had heard... well, mostly rumors, of strange experiments that their government had carried out. All officially denied, of course. Hari put the back of his hand on the man's forehead to feel if he had a fever. It was a normal temperature. Hmm. He grabbed the man's wrist to check his pulse. Steady. Ok.

"Call me Dr. Yahnric. You must be the missionary Father Werner has spoken of." Hari had come with a stethoscope from Sparrowcroft. He put it on his patient's chest and asked him to breathe deeply. Moving the scope to the other side, he instructed the man to hold his breath and let it out. Lungs were functioning normal.

The man did have some recent wounds that were in the midst of healing, though. A few burn marks too. Interesting. Maybe his patient had gotten roughed up by some of the street warfare that had been sweeping the place.

"So far, everything seems normal. This burning sensation though. I will need to draw some blood to test. That might tell us what to look for." Hari went to his bag and drew out his bronze needle with the three rings at the top. He grabbed the man's arm and felt around for the veins. There. This arm would do nicely. "This will sting. One, two... three." Hari jabbed the needle into the man's elbow, finding the right spot. But as he drew back on the syringe, it was a tough draw, as if the blood was stubborn and didn't want to go. Hari frowned but kept at it. He knew he had found the vein. He always did. This blood just didn't want to flow. Eventually, he had drawn enough to take back to Sparrowcroft and test. Who knew what he might find?

Putting the full syringe in his travel bag, Hari bandaged the man's arm up so he wouldn't keep bleeding. "I will have to test this to see what can be done, if anything. I will have to do an examination of it, and I am not able to do that here. I will have to get back to you, Mr...? Sometime next week perhaps. It is an intriguing medical situation you have." Or perhaps the patient simply had the madness as Hari had first suspected, and the blood didn't flow because Hari hadn't found the vein like he thought he had. Either way, Hari could say that he had met his obligation to Father Werner.

by **Ovstylap** » Wed May 01, 2024 3:47 pm

OOC: Apologies for the short post- a lot going on RL responsibility wise!

A chance meeting in the corridor of the Tenements with Pinfold saw Lily seek to reassure him- "Hi Pinfold!" she greets him with a broad smile. "Have a good shift today, I'll catch you around sometime soon." When she gets closer to him, she whispers "look I won't press but I am here for you if you need any help with anything. I've got ya back pal."

Making her own way to the Atelier, Lily pondered about Pinfold. He was hard enough to get through to, and she didn't want to undermine their growing friendship-perhaps he needed a bit of time to consider what she had said, but it wouldn't at all be amiss to drop the odd hints of reassurance. After all, looking out for a friend, and in a way, a colleague (in the sense of working for Big Man Dhu), just felt right. Once she had entered the Atelier however she concentrated on her work, proficiently serving customers and appreciating that she was increasingly now recognised as a master artisan in her craft.

With two weeks to go until she has to make the delivery for Big Man Dhu, her options are relatively wide at this time. To that extent, after considering reconnoitring some possible routes and inquiring about options, Lily considers this as likely to result in raising suspicions, and so she must inevitably seek to use her connections to try and find a proper way in, or a perhaps reasonable, if not technically allowed, way in. Next week any investigations, procurements, and rehearsals/scouting movements can occur.

Yet whilst these plans are occurring, a sense of discomfort has been growing in Lily, not helped by the nightmares she has encountered as she remembers past traumas- she needs to find a way of serving her people, for this is still her duty at heart. Perhaps the Doors of Hope might be able to provide an insight into the diverse communities and organisations of the city- if not, then successfully working for Big Man Dhu might enable her to make contact with a group which she can support.

by **Lagene** » Wed May 01, 2024 5:12 pm

Joseph Kalibronsy

Joseph Wakes up feeling well-rested, before he remembers all he needs to do this week. It's surprising how much he is coming to see the rusty, worn down tenaments as his home. He wakes Sanjan and Peter from their slumber and heads out the door into the morning light. The entire way there, Joseph talks to Sanjan about stealing, feeling very surprised to be having such a deep conversation up the winding path to the schoolhouse. "Now, while social status is a big problem in our society, not all rich people are such jerks and thiefs as you say. If you keep stealing, you are reinforcing the idea that poor people have to steal to make any money at all. I want you to understand one simple thing: You should treat others as you want to be treated, no matter how rich they are. Judge a person by their personality, not their wealth, you understand me?" Joseph takes a deep breath. He had not wanted to say this, but,

"Remember what mother would want you to do." His eyes teared up, and he clutched Peter and Sanjan in a strong bear hug. "I love you two so much. That's why I nag. I care." Before leaving, Joseph asks a few of the teachers to keep an eye on Sanjan and Peter. Waving goodbye, Joseph Jogs off to Petchers, but he can barely think about his job with the prospect of a new one ahead. With a tiny bit of guilt at leaving Dan and Petcher's, he heads out a tiny bit early to freshen up for his interview. (-3 VIS, +6 Gilder) On the way, he stops by tangletown market and buys his usual 2 weeks worth of food. (-4 Gilder, 2 Weeks Food)

Joseph Makes sure to comb his hair and scrub off all of the grime caked to him before embarking to the Jade District in front of the setting sun. He walks to the doors, prays for a second, and walks inside. (-2 VIS, Focused) (+1 Stress, Better Outcome)

Finally, as the color drains out of the world, Joseph settles in with his siblings, holding them tight, laughing and having fun, (with Amelia invited). But was what Amelia Suggesting...she move in with Joseph? Or...that the kids should work? He thought about the question as sleep washed over him. (-2 VIS, Obligation Vice) (-1 VIS, Sleeping)

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Thu May 02, 2024 4:24 pm

The Week of Black Parchments

Winthrop

It was a relief now to walk through the familiar streets of the Circus, the hubbub of the fetid steaming alleyways almost beginning to feel like a second home to the stamping giant from Albion. A relief made more palpable by the final decision to stand down the checkpoints that had been choking commerce across the city; Hsin-Yao, the chaotic hive, had chafed under the vapid attempts by her supposed masters to impose a veneer of law and order over her rough and tumble nature. A relief which was very much so personal for Winthrop, as he no longer had to deplete his meager savings in order to keep beneath the eyes of the gendarmes and avoid being late for his ship at Crimwicks.

An interesting way to see the den of iniquity that was the Circus, to be sure, via small ferry craft. The waterways were almost as choked with people as the land, fishermen, pleasurecraft, slow cargo barges, all manner of riparian commerce filling up the delta of the Yae-yeng and her sister rivulets. It had put several ideas in the Scion's mind, but none of them were immediately practicable. Dreaming of a floating fortress from which to fly his trade was well and good, but with only a pauper's wage in his pocket and the very first inklings of materiel he might as well plot his ascent as the Suzerain.

Not that he would be opposed to that state of affairs. The Walker had worn many faces over the long years. But the well-worn shards of his psyche insisted that he focus on the feasible at this juncture. There would be time later for plots and ambition. He had time. Two months beneath the lash of the smog-choked Thenian sky, a veritable breath of chronology for the Orator of the Apocalypse. This was not even a matter of patience exercised, but rather hubris avoided.

As he strides into Crimwick's he joins the throng of other workers, mostly apprentices and day-talers being fed into the basest machinery to keep the sinews of industry working. Beneath his long leather apron, marked with a few singe marks from his work, he carries a length of glittering blue-white steel. Of the finest rate, the work of surgeons, assassins, and lords, the Cavendish blast iron was the best this benighted hellhole could offer. There was much work to be done.

Once his own orders and output are fulfilled, the day wending toward her end, the Scion applies himself - not to the work of his superiors, but to his own project. The tools he had now were well and good for the fineries of smithing, black or white or red - yes, fine enough - and yet there was definitely more to which one could aspire. Upon the anvil the finest steel, dappled and shimmering with bands of hardened carbon, turns and turns again. The hammer falls, and into the forge the shaped ingot passes again, and again, and again.

It will take days, certainly. Each evening the working passes home with the striding smith, and each morning it returns to his labors, nestled smoothly in his jacket next to the forge while he fulfills the calling of his pay-packet. Careful hammerblows, meticulous inscription, pieces removed and welded anew - the careful instruments of high precision which the craftsman, spark-engineer, malleo-metallurgist values - a set of Artificer Tools takes shape.

The wonders of this world are many, set in motion by aether and trammeled lightning and the finest of precision cogworks wrought in angmallon and crucible steel. By hammer and chisel they are not breathed into being, for their fining is beyond such crude manipulations - but by the most precise of instruments, and the soldering iron, and the careful gearsmith. With an assortment of scrap spark-machines and this finest steel the Forge-Father will wield their making, and from this flowering come many seeds.

It is toward the end of the week that the second section of the outlander's plan comes to motion. For weeks now the smith has observed the variety of master smiths that walk the floors of Crimwick, directing the work and overseeing the failures which call themselves journeymen, laboring long hours for their guild certifications, if they are ever to achieve them. Most are men of Thenia, which suits Winthrop well enough. A vouchsafing from a man such as these is precisely what might be his need, if the men who work at the fining forges in the Jade District at Chenglong's are to understand his value.

White-Master Fu Liazhou is the most likely candidate. A fair man, but hard, exacting, unmerciful to those who do not meet his standards. He has shown no signs of bias against the few foreigners who work in his facility - though one can never be sure. And as he walks the floor between shifts, checking up on the progress of larger projects, the Scion waves him over. Eyebrows quirk up as the master of bronze and brass gazes on the glittering instruments of blue-white steel which are cooling on Winthrop's anvil. It is an obvious expression of skill, and a curious thing in her own regard. It is certainly more interesting than the routine inspections of the shop floor between shifts, and the two artisans fall to conversation.

It is not a conversation without risk. To ask for a letter of good reputation to another institution - even after weeks establishing the same - well, it is definitely one of the quicker ways to end up unemployed. Some factory bosses consider employees looking at the door as latitude to help them to that door with all due haste. Still, in the guild trades there is some incentive to deal fairly with other workshops, for social bonds must be managed in the careful dance of the niceties of competition, less cut-throat in some ways, and more in others.

Perhaps the Scion will end his week with a letter of recommendation to present to an employer in a better district. Perhaps he will simply be told not to return to the forge any longer. By either measure, however, he feels he is out-growing the potential of what the immense foundry at the heart of the Circus can offer him. He has no intent of living out his days working on the relatively simple mechanisms and great chains and fittings for the Ash Harbor which are the mainstay of Crimwick's labor. Whatever the outcome, it may be time for a change.

by **Estebere** » Fri May 03, 2024 8:07 pm

Turn VII - The Jade District Telegram Office - Ian Desch
[The Circus felt dark. The Jade District? Celestial.]

The sky was clear. In the Circus, you don't really notice. Sometimes, you can't even see the sky. Out in the Jade District, however, where the citizens cannot see the city's underbelly, haven't felt true hunger, never known the worst desperation, they are happy. And so the residents can see the blue sky.

Ian could tell that the Circus was bad if his mind makes poetry the instant he's out of it. Really, his mood had improved quite a bit. It really was a nice day out, wasn't it? Just seeing the blue sky this morning was making him happy to feel alive. Even Vivian was positively chipper!

Entering the telegram office, he took out his two letters. It was best, he'd decided, to have what he had written out already. His code was too intricate to mess up. The line was small, and went quick. Soon, he was in front of the telegram office.

"Hello there, I need to send some telegrams," The worker behind the counter looked up at him, eyes widening at Ian's red scarf.

"Alright then I'll need five gilders for each message," They spoke cautiously, mildly eyeing the scarf.

Ian sighed. He knew that the Red Scarves were notorious, but he didn't think it was this bad. "Alright, I have two. I need to send one to Governor Kai in the Xinden Province and this one to the Port Malarmark telegram office."

Nodding, the employee asked one last question, "Alright, I'll type it up. Could you read them out for me?"

"Yes," Ian replied, "Starting with the one going to the Xinden Province: Hello, I wanted to contact you on possible donations to the Hsin-Yao Jade Library..."

He was out quickly, and soon was moving back to the smog of the Circus.

It was a nice day out.

The Clockwork Circus [IC | Closed]

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