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darkroguescribe · 11 months

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Hitsuhina Week 2023 - Day 3: Shinigami/ AU

Rating: K

Summary: Set in the Machine Society AU. Police Lieutenant Hinamori has to attend a gala hosted by the Executive Committee where she runs into Toshiro who works for the Vigilance Committee.

AN: The AU originally came from Brave Souls. I took some ideas from my WIP that can be found on AO3. I think of this almost like a mini sequel since it references some events that I have planned for that story.

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Gilded carriages bearing the crests of the most influential in the Machine Society lined the entrance to the capital building. Momo looked out the window of her own carriage, waiting for the line to move. She’d never set foot inside the grand building before. Large fire basins sat atop the massive marble pillars casting light across the front garden filled with floating lanterns casting the spring flowers in a light amber glow. It looked almost like a scene from a fairy tale.

Siting back in her seat, she adjusted the front of her coat and then began to nervously play with the ends of the red sash tied around her waist. The occasion had required full dress uniform and Momo hadn’t worn anything this elegant before. The uniform consisted of a long black coat edged with golden laurel leaves embroidered on the edges and cuffs and a high collar bearing the Lilly of the Valley that marked her rank as a lieutenant. The black waistcoat had gold trim and the red sash at her waist was tied with the knot on her right side. The black leather belt she wore over the sash carried no weapons and she felt empty without anything at her side. White trousers and knee-high black riding boots completed the ensemble.

Momo shifted uncomfortably as the carriages moved up. She’d rather be anywhere but here. Politicians and aristocrats were among her least favorite people to deal with and now she had to socialize with them for an entire night. At least she knew there would be others from her department in attendance. Police Commander Kyoraku was going to be there, along with Lieutenant Ise who would probably be watering down his drinks so as not to make a fool of himself in front of the heads of state. But besides them, she didn’t know anyone else.

The Vigilance Committee would be there, but whether Toshiro and his team would be in attendance was questionable. Toshiro had told her that the secrecy of his work meant that few even knew the team existed, let alone the role they played in ensuring the everyday safety of the whole of the Machine Society. She didn’t think it was fair, especially after seeing how they had dealt with the murderous support bot crisis, and how they took down the Phantom Thieves. And no one would ever know the truth of any of it.

The carriage jolted a bit as it rolled up once more and stopped at the main drive. The footman who opened the door was a copper plated support bot. The metal work of the body made it look almost human; two arms and two legs, all finely detailed with interrogate gold patterns welded to make it look like it wore a servant’s suit. Momo stepped out, ignoring the bot’s extended hand, too nervous to focus on anything but not falling flat on her face. Her fingers twitched at her side, unsure of what to do with her hands as she looked around at all the finery surrounding her. She swallowed thickly and adjusted her waistcoat, smoothing it out before she began walking up the mall towards the imposing building before her all while surveying the grounds and guests that she passed. Men were dressed either in uniform or their finest bespoke suits while majority of the women wore colorful gowns of the latest fashion. She only saw a handful of women like her in dress uniform, and most of them were well known figures in the military and Vigilance Committee. Colored sashes and pins of office adorned almost all the guests. She spied a few who even wore the Golden Chrysanthemum; the highest Medal of Honor awarded only to those who committed great acts of heroism in defense of the Machine Society.

To say Momo felt out of place would be an understatement. As she climbed the steps and entered the building, she caught sight of the entourage that were accompanying the noble Kuchiki clan, evident by the family crest that patterned the gold sashes they all wore. She ducked her head as she quickly put as much space between her and them as she could. She didn’t belong here. Why had she been invited in the first place? With her head down, she could barely see where she was going, let alone who was in front of her as she scurried to find a place to hide until it was all over. Make herself small, be invisible; then perhaps she wouldn’t be noticed when the host made his rounds of the guests. The thought of meeting the Chairman of the Machine Society made her legs threaten to give out right under her as she finally found a spot in a corner next to a massive pot of greenery to stop. The large leaves could partially hide her from sight while still giving her a pretty good view of the people milling about and mingling around the main floor that overlooked the large ballroom.

Leaning back against the wall, she caught her breath as she took in her surroundings. Standing tables were lining the walls, with small groups of people exchanging pleasantries and gossip. Below, she could make out tables that were being held for the Shiba clan, guarded by retainers bearing the family crest, and keeping onlookers back as if the head of the clan was actually seated at the table. Momo looked away and watched the dancing taking place on the ballroom floor. The fluid movements, and turns had her sighing as she watched. For once, she wished she’d taken dance lessons instead of spending so much time preparing to join the police force. It was beautiful to watch the people dance. The flowing dresses the women wore, and the chivalrous way the men would bow and take their hands; it reminded her of the fairy tales she’d read as a child.

“You look terrible.”

Momo jumped at the voice, and turned sharply to her left in the direction of the voice. Her hand instinctively went to where her side arm was usually strapped, but faltered when her hand landed on nothing, and her eyes locked with the familiar turquoise eyes of her best friend. “Toshiro? I thought you couldn’t come to these things.”

He was dressed similarly to her but with variations that marked his affiliation with the Vigilance Committee. His coat was white with silver trim and the emblem on the collar was a silver daffodil. A silver four pronged star was pinned the left breast of the coat with the black cross of the Vigilance Committee engraved in its center. His white waistcoat was trimmed with dark green accents over a black shirt and cravat, fastened with the bronze brooch he usually wore. A dark green sash was tied around his waist over white trousers and tall black boots.

Toshiro sighed and moved to lean against the wall with her. “Commander Ukitake ordered some of us to come.” He explained, pointing down towards the ballroom floor where the commander of the Vigilance Committee could be seen seated with his two attendants standing at attention behind him as he conversed with a representative from the Machine Bureau. “We’re here to petition for more funding. More resources for research, and more personnel.”

“So, you’re here with…”

He shook his head, “No one you’d know,” He said. “My team isn’t the only special advanced task force in operation across the Machine Society.”

“I see…” She didn’t press him for more information. He likely wouldn’t tell her much anyway.

Toshiro arched his brow as he looked her over. “You really do look terrible, you know,” He said. “You look like you expect someone to try and kill you. You’re tense, uncomfortable, and you have a hunch in your back.”

She rolled her eyes. “Thank you, Captain Obvious. Clearly your observation skills are unmatched.”

“You aren’t making it difficult to notice,” He said. “Hiding in a corner, and I’d bet you’re just waiting for the right opportunity so you can make your escape. Just try to appear at ease. It’ll make the night go by faster.”

Momo looked at how relaxed he was just standing there, leaning on the wall with his legs crossed at the ankle and his hands folded in front of him. It was clear to her that this wasn’t the first time he’d been to this sort of function, especially as he gave a familiar nod directed at a pretty lady dressed in a blue pastel gown. The girl had blushed before hurrying past with her friends giggling, making Momo scoff. “Easy to say when you’re so clearly enjoying this,” She said.

He scoffed himself, “I’d rather be shot and stabbed than be here,” He said. “I’m just better at hiding it.”

Sighing, she leaned her head back and looked up at the high molded ceiling tiles. This place was a strange mix of old and modern with gold filigree inlayed in the walls and tiles and the old chandelier that had been fitted with electric bulbs that were bright enough to cover every corner of the grand room. Not even the alcoves with their statues of the great founders and inventors of their society had an ounce of darkness to them. “How many of these have you been to?” Momo asked after a moment.

“Three,” He said.

“Are they all more or less the same?”

He shrugged, “I guess,” He said, rolling his shoulders. “I’ve never been asked to wear my uniform to one of these things before.” Momo turned to look at him. His eyes were casually moving around the various groups walking around. Occasionally she noticed eyes looking over towards them, and his response was to stand a little taller before the attention drifted away. “Uniforms make it harder to be inconspicuous. I don’t like my ties to the Vigilance Committee being on display,” He said in explanation.

Momo nodded and took a breath as she let her head bounce back on the wall behind her. “Tell me really; how bad would it be if we just ditched this thing?”

“Bad,” He said. “But that’s why they serve drinks.”

Her brow arched, “You don’t drink.”

Toshiro shrugged, “At these things, I do. But just enough to make it more tolerable,” He said. “Besides, how often does one get the chance to drink from the Chairman’s personal cellar?”

Shaking her head, Momo pushed off from the wall, “Well, since you’re such an expert, why don’t you show me how to survive the night?” She held out her arm towards him and he just stared at it for a moment. Instead of taking her offer though, he simply cocked his head in a gesture to follow as he began to walk towards the stairs down to the ballroom floor. With an amused smile, she followed, walking along side him.

He led her down towards one of the high tables situated on the edge of the dance floor. Almost immediately after laying claim to the table, a support bod rushed towards them and placed two glasses of dark red wine in front of them before disappearing back into the crowd. Momo looked around, and noticed that, with the exception of the couples on the dance floor, there wasn’t a single person down here that didn’t have a glass either in their hand or on the table in front of them.

“Support bots are spread rather thin everywhere else,” Toshiro said, swirling the wine in his glass before sipping at it slowly. “Down here, you never go more than a minute without a drink.”

“How’d you learn that trick?”

“Who do you think?” He asked sarcastically with a smirk on his lips.

Momo laughed, of course Rangiku would be the one to know. From what she knew about Toshiro’s lieutenant, she was terrible at paperwork, reliable in a fight, and an expert when it came to getting free drinks.

Trumpets sounded from the balconies above as a loud bang of the herald’s staff rang through the room. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked up towards the large main staircase as the precession of the host and honored guests began. The first to walk down the stairs was the host of the gran affair; the Chairman of the Executive Committee: Genryusai Shigekuni Yamamoto. Well beyond his prime, the chairman was still an imposing figure to behold. The stories about him from the war, the uprisings, and restoration; he was a modern legend that inspired as much fear as awe in people. Beside him walked the Vice-Chairwoman, Retsu Unohana who was a powerhouse all on her own. The two walked down towards the ballroom floor and began making the rounds, greeting guests and holding short conversations as they went.

Behind them, the noble clans began their precession. The Kuchiki’s had a precession of thirty retainers, all dressed in black and purple finery so as not to distract from the head of the clan and his sister. Lord Byakuya Kuchiki wore a dark blue coat with gold accents and fringed epaulettes with a gold cord extending from his shoulder to his left breast jacket button. Beside him, walked his adopted sister, Rukia Kuchiki. She wore a dress of blue and white with a golden brooch of the Kuchiki family crest.

Momo heard Toshiro scoff beside her as he drank his glass of wine. “What?” She asked, glancing between him and the seven noble families that were making their way down the stairs.

“There’s always such a fanfare surrounding nobility,” He said, looking more bored than impressed.

“You could get in trouble for saying things like that,” Momo said.

He rolled his eyes and looked like he was about to say something, before his jaw clamped shut and his back straightened as Yamamoto and Unohana approached their table. Toshiro bowed respectfully at the leaders of the Machine Society and Momo did the same, feeling her legs tremble like she was going to lose her balance. A hand gripped the back of her jacket, subtly helping to keep her standing and pull her back upright. She cast her eye to her side, grateful that Toshiro had kept her from falling and making a scene.

“It’s good to see you again, Captain Hitsugaya,” Unohana greeted, casting a friendly smile towards Momo which was gladly returned. In her brief interactions with the Vice-Chairwoman, Momo had learned there was more to her than just the front she put up for the sake of her politics. She’d seen her willing to fight and put her life on the line for the Machine Society.

“Chairman, Vice-Chairwoman,” Toshiro returned, his hands folded behind his back as he spoke.

“Captain,” Yamamoto said, inclining his head respectfully towards Toshiro, then shifting his attention to Momo with a furrow in his brow that suggested he didn’t know who she was or why she was here.

Unohana fortunately saved the encounter and placed her hand on Momo’s. “I’m so glad you were able to make it tonight, Lieutenant Hinamori,” She said. “I read your report on the arrest of Nemu Kurotsuchi. To think we trusted their private security company for so long;” She shook her head, disappointed at the shortsightedness of her colleagues.

“Ah, yes,” Yamamoto said. “I recall that incident. The Vigilance Committee was none too pleased to know that they failed to see a threat that a mere police lieutenant put together in a few weeks.”

Momo bowed, “Thank you, sir,” She said.

“Her assistance has been invaluable these past few weeks, sir,” Toshiro added. “Without her insight, I doubt we would have been able to put down the most recent threat so soon.”

Yamamoto nodded, “I must say, overall I have been very impressed with your team’s work these past months. I assure you that the Executive Committee has taken note of your efforts.”

Toshiro bowed his head, “I’m honored by the Committee’s recognition,” He said. “Though I do hope an answer to the request we put in will—“

Yamamoto patted Toshiro on the shoulder, “—There’ll be time enough later to talk about transfers. For now, enjoy the festivities.” And with one final bow from her and Toshiro, the hosts departed, moving on to the next table.

With just the two of them standing at the table now, she looked up at him out of the corner of her eye. A transfer could mean any number of things. A new division, a new assignment, a new office; but it all amounted to about the same thing. He was leaving. Again. She felt her chest constrict at the mere thought of it, and so soon after they had gotten back on friendly terms too. Momo took a breath and pushed through the discomfort. Better to deal with it now than later. “You… you’re transferring?” She asked, “Are you sure you want to leave your team under Rangiku’s command?” She forced a smile as she tried to make light of it, but it felt unnatural even as the words left her mouth.

“Wh— No, that’s not—“ His lips pursed as his brow knit and he made a grunting sound as he cleared his throat. “I’m not transferring,” He said after he seemed to gather his thoughts.

“Then, wha—“

“— I requested a transfer for you,” He cut in. “If you want it, that is.” His eyes refused to meet hers as he focused his attention towards the tables that the Shiba clan were seated at.

Momo was speechless as she let his words sink in. “You… you want me?”

He sighed and scratched at the back of his neck, “I wasn’t going to tell you until I knew it would be approved, but Yamamoto…” He shook his head, “Besides, Unohana said it was almost a certainty, just… a backlog of paperwork to get through. Bureaucracy and all that.”

“But… you… want me on your team?” She had to ask again.

Toshiro took a breath and forced himself to look at her. “Everyone is rather fond of you. You’re diligent, insightful and work well under pressure. Besides, it’ll be good to have someone else who actually does their own paperwork.” The corner of his lips rose in a small smile, “So, in answer to your question; yes. I do want you on my team.”

#hitsuhina week 2023 #hitsuhina #Toshiro Hitsugaya #momo hinamori #bleach brave souls #machine society #Bleach #mywriting

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zooterchet · 4 months

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EON Targets

Harrison (Xerxes): Arrangements of violence of facilities and creches, where advanced students are raised.

Cochrane (Narmer): Artistic sheriffs seizure of courts and tribunal time, with refusals of privacy and safety for those finding deputy custodian at fault.

Templar (Thomas): Removal of spies from bonds of civilian, into Church ardours, for pacifism and militancy of priory, the common pederast as displayed by tenants of poverty unless in production management.

Hamilton (Magdelene): The stage of a politician as potentially important, to eliminate police forces and freedom of convicts to recover and rejoin society after staged crime of later rebuke of anti-Semitism against less able.

Capone (Scotland): The proliferation of science fiction, the common homosexual auto-proxy of self at becoming more than a single man in a group; therefore, own self, is sacrificed as fodder, with life having never lived.

Netanyahu (Gay): The reduction of self to IRS numeral sheet, with the contract explicit of fraud and slavery, reduced to implicit, the clearing of life from convict's theft of semen to international tribunal to be held as slave from work as prior arranged childhood robbed in mutual tragic orphan heroic.

Rodenberry (Gorgon): The bar and tavern trade as the mythos to make criminal, with the common report in reverse to test a student's assertion of the imaginary as a preliminary system to remove sabotage by family tradition of insight at cost of the lives and livelihood of family, spouse, and children.

Kennedy (Tepes): The Mafiaso of a city capital as controlling the world, through the common trade of the informant having ruled from hills and beacons, the signal to others that the power is to be held within private places and cordons, to make others powerless at their common labor with good deeds of charity extracted without personal profit per ambition.

Lancaster (Grozny): The spy upon state and capital of home being to refuse the common freedom of man and woman and child, instead the rumor and heterasty, the perjorative of one as a pedophile for having vulnerability against the sensitive ardours of state as payment for the hatred of the common business made transparent in field of children's game and clenching of anus screeching through suckled mouth and teeth of politician's deacon professorship.

Obama (Hussein): The logic of print and trade as thieving from intelligentsia, the response to middle class gentry and upward mobility and militancy of pride of family, to the same repeating cycle, with same second class labor produced at shame of defeated enemy, to produce worthless wares in exploitation of power, with hostages taken as common poor in mutual fear and misery for the trade of hog as a rarity.

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melyzard · 4 years

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Another short chapter for The Nakadia Job is now posted. I had bits and pieces of this one sitting around and decided now was a good time to polish this up, and then get on with the Finale.

“You remembered!” Tatham picked up the tea cup and set the edge against her lip. Her lipstick was still a vivid pink that looked a little too shiny for comfort, like she had applied a film of oil over the paint. “That’s so sweet.”

“She’s trying too hard,” Cassian said helpfully over the comm. “She is desperate to get what you know. She’s not even bothering to read your body language at all.”

“Amateurs, right?” Jyn added, but Bodhi could tell the teasing was aimed more at Cassian than the receptionist.

“If you stay too long, she will likely invite you to spend more time with her. Probably in an intimate setting,” Kay warned. “Talk quickly.”

Bodhi resisted the urge to swat at his ear, as if his team’s voices were small insects buzzing around the hidden earpiece. “Right. I, uh, I hope I got the order right.”

“Hard to forget,” Baze grunted. “Disharmonious flavors.”

Read More on AO3

#rogue one #star wars #rebelcaptain #jyn erso #cassian andor #jyn x cassian #k2so #bodhi rook #chirrut imwe #baze malbus #mission fic #leverage fusion #spies and thieves and politicians #undercover #lets go steal a planet

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pandajaye · 3 years

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Undercover Spies headcanon

Mission: A gang of thieves are planning a heist during a large hero banquet to steal old equipment from famous past heroes. Enji, Ivy, Keigo, Rumi, and Toshi have been called in to help save the day.

Enji and Toshi have to stay behind the scene since being the top two heroes will blow their cover

Rumi and Keigo go undercover as a couple while Ivy goes in solo as some “the lonely girl at the bar” bait

Just in case they get completely separated, Keigo gives one of his feathers to Rumi as a necklace and two of his feathers to Ivy as earrings to help keep tabs on them, as well as them wearing small radios on the feathers so Enji and Toshi can help too

The “couple” chats it up with the leader of the gang, the man who gave the idea for the party to the local politician, and they ask him if he has any special woman in his life

He responds with a no and so they talk about the lovely woman standing all on her own at the open bar, waiting for someone to interact with her

The boss, though his goons advise him to stick to business and not worry about her, decides to go talk to Ivy

Enji can feel himself heating up, watching him touch her arm and stand too close to her, watching her look at him like she was genuinely interested

Toshi tries to stop him but he ends up getting super angry and almost messing up the mission, it’s up to Toshi, Rumi, and Keigo to fix his mess

Mission Accomplished

They talk about what happened later after Enji’s scolded for acting out and Ivy has to explain that she was just in character and that Enji’s the only one that gets looked at like that with true feelings behind it and they cuddle all night long

#endeavor #enji todoroki #mha #bnha #endeavor x reader #enji x reader #bnha au #enji #toshinori yagi #allmight #rumi usagiyama #miruko #keigo takami #hawks

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jellisdraws · 3 years

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My Fantasy Worldbuilding Alphabet:

A is for Assassin.

Off the bat I should say I love assassin characters, shadowy criminal organizations, mysterious Orders of murderers with hidden agendas, and plain old cut throats. My first ever character was an assassin, when I started playing dnd 8 years ago. I love them and I love including assassins and assassin organizations in my homebrew world and games. So let’s dig into a few of those shadowy organizations that have appeared across Asterta during the various campaigns I’ve run on it.

The most infamous group by far, both in their reach and the weight of their name within the world, would be the Haberdashers. This mysterious group of killers proclaim themselves, “purveyors of impeccable hats and impossible kills.” It is said that a Haberdasher on the hunt will never be seen until it is far too late, and vanish quickly after. The only sign they were there at all, the crimson feather found with the body of the Haberdasher’s victim. Those more knowledgeable into the machinations of this group know that Haberdashers dress themselves in the most gaudy attention grabbing clothing they can, always accompanied by a fine feathered hat or headcovering of some kind. The clothes serve as their mark of distinction and a constant test, training the haberdasher to be constantly masking their presence and using their arts to vanish in plain sight, be forgotten, or be overlooked. The Haberdasher organization is maintained by the insane prices the assassins charge for their contracts. The monies funneled toward hiring even the initiates of this group could be easily used to buy noble titles or even small kingdoms the world over. But when you absolutely need someone dead, regardless of the odds, a Haberdasher will not fail.

The Dagger is the next organization of note. Though not specifically a group of Assassins, the criminal organization known as the Dagger is a world spanning network of spies, thieves, smugglers, pirates, and yes, Assassins. The Dagger is a loose confederacy of many criminal cells, the ingenuity being in the system that connects all of these Rogue (heh) elements. The organization serves as a network putting talented criminals together into teams to pull jobs. A clever thief may need a bruiser to watch his back, or a mage to facilitate the breaking of wards. For a cut of the profits, a Dagger Organizer can connect such people to better pull off the scheme. The exact leader of this organization remains shrouded in mystery, though his cleverness and paranoia are renowned. The Dagger maintains its own group of highly trained killers, to smooth out problems or take care of loose ends should a Dagger run job go south...

Agents of Chaos are a group of killers from the small country of Asudras, North of the larger Estrian Empire. Agents of Chaos do just as their name implies and sow discord in the enemies of their country. Individual agents are trained as killers, spies, and to be able to take on any role, be that politician, noble, merchant, soldier, etc. Agents often spend their time orchestrating events that lead to rioting, confused channels of military communication, house wars between foreign nobles, or rifts between political factions; conflicts that pull the attention of the enemy nation away from Asudras. In this way the small country has maintained itself as an autonomous nation even amidst much larger expansionist states.

In addition, the Pirate Lords of the Nyrean Archipelago, Nobles, Military leaders, Merchant guilds and even nations across Asterta employ individuals whom profess themselves to be Assassins. The right person removed can pave the way to success, and Assassins excel at such removal. They serve an important function within political intrigue, personal grudges, and as the danger that comes from crossing a criminal organization. Everyone fears the knife in the dark, aimed at their back. On Asterta, gaining power and influence means accepting the danger those knives represent, it can mean accepting the need to use them yourself.

#worldbuilding #my homebrew world #my writing #assassins #rogues #dnd #pathfinder rpg #long post #my worldbuilding #criminal organizations #dnd 5e #dungeons and dragons #d&d #dungeon master #dm

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atlas-of-a-human-soul · 3 years

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You've given a flavour of what modern! Darklina would be like, how do you think modern! Kanej/Zoyalai would be like?

Kaz and Inej would be working as spies or one of those art thieves that then resell the pieces for insane prices. They'd have their own empire and notoriety for sure.

Zoya could be a model or an actress with her very own company (either based on the industry or accessories, makeup, perfumes) while he could be either the prince or a high ranking politician trying to exact a positive change in the world. A power couple everyone would be envious of.

#s&b talks

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oracleffxiv · 4 years

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Prompt #1: Gentlemen of the Jury

In which representative powers of Kugane debate the Basilisk.

Prompt: Crux

“We cannot allow this to continue.” One representative, perhaps of the East Aldenard Trading Company, called forth. “Our business associates are withdrawing their activities in Kugane because they don’t want to be hunted by this… shadow. Good, honest men living in fear!”

Another man scoffed. He was much easier to place; he was draped in the robes of a Garlean Official. “Honest men? The people you bring into Kugane are thugs, thieves, and corporate spies! Do not pretend like they are not getting what they deserve.”

The man from the Aldenard Company gave the Garlean an ugly look. Hell of a person to be complaining about spies and thugs, he probably thought.

“Regardless of their purpose in Kugane,” This time it was a high-ranking official of the Sekiseigumi. “Unregistered adventurers acting as vigilantes are unacceptable! The city has provisions for adventurers who follow the law, and this individual, this… Basilisk is acting above those laws.”

Rikyo watched this display from the stands. Kokoro was standing to her left, watching intently, her hands gripping the bannister tightly. They were viewing this meeting of influential business people and politicians alongside various denizens of Kugane. The topic- Should the Basilisk vigilante be hunted down and destroyed?

Kokoro was here because she was deeply concerned for the outcome; she was worried about what might happen if the Basilisk became a wanted criminal. With the kind of money this group was capable of throwing around, every officer, adventurer, clan member and bounty hunter in the East would descend upon Kugane. The Basilisk is good, but far from the best, and wouldn’t last the week.

Rikyo was here because she had been asking herself the very same question for a long, long time. Should the Basilisk be hunted down and killed? The Basilisk has been a source of pain and destruction for just about everybody sitting in this room, including Rikyo herself. But…

“You’re choosing to ignore the important counterpoint.” An Eorzean representative added. “The Basilisk has been exclusively targeting criminals in this city. They’re a rogue element, yes, but we have tangible proof of all the good they’ve done.”

“I concur.” It was Thavnair’s turn. “Multiple killers have escaped Thavnair to hide in Kugane, only to be dispatched in Kugane by the Basilisk. Every kill made by the Basilisk has been linked to serious crimes throughout the city. Every single one, without fail. It is my suspicion that our colleagues across the aisle seek only to eliminate the Basilisk lest they set their sights upon them.”

The Garlean representative scoffed. “The Empire of Garlemald advocates only for the peace and protection of the fine peoples of Kugane!”

“Quite so.” The Thavnairian agreed. “And thus, is it not true the Empire of Garlemald has made use of the Basilisks services in the past?”

The Sekiseigumi rolled his eyes. “There is not a person in this room who has not made use of the Basilisk, but that changes nothing.”

Rikyo sighed. Good versus bad, vigilante versus hero, she’d heard it all before. She’d had this very conversation with herself, and a number of her confidants, in the past. She was hoping beyond hope that the officials of the City of Kugane would have something to add, but there were only circles. Rikyo turned away from the bannister, trotting out of the meeting theatre. Kokoro made some sort of noise of protest, but followed along regardless. Once again, only one person could decide whether or not the Basilisk was to be hunted down.

Rikyo Takahashi, the Basilisk, went to get a drink.

#FFxivWrite2020 #something short and easy to start with :)

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calamityrp · 4 years

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site preview: subplots

hey everyone! we’re going to drop another preview as we continue to work on the site - we will be making a proper announcement soon on when to expect our discord and site to be open (it will be in june and it is coming soon, we are just working out some final things! we are so excited to share this with you!)

we figured in the meantime, we’ll release two of our four subplots! to get some ideas buzzing. all four subplots have a different vibe and are open to all member groups - additionally, there are roles you can sign up for to help drive the plot. below you will find the subplots, the flipped eye and blood stained gold.

subplot: the flipped eye

Secrecy is key.

They stayed in the shadows, hiding in plain sight. Once loyal to the Royal family they are nothing but a distant memory. Everyone is gone and the Sheikah technology has been turned against Hyrule. The Sheikah saved Hyrule but humanity turned away from them. Sending the Sheikah into exile and becoming outcasts.

Toward the inner sanctums of the Sheikah, a treacherous plan forms. While the world prepares to fight against Calamity Ganon they watch; waiting for their moment to strike. They stir quietly, only whifs of whispers flow through their ranks, and from the shadows they rise.

They call themselves Yiga.

Their spies slowly slip from the cover of darkness, taking their knowledge of the technology and as Calamity Ganon returned. Their organization grew as they set out their revenge. Why should they save Hyrule if humanity turned against them?

The Yiga create paranoia in the ranks as they turn to the other side. Their hands dripped in blood at Ganon’s triumphant return. Many thought it was nonsense, just a myth dreamed up by idle minds. But signs of the upside down Sheikah symbol have been spouted all over Hyrule - particularly in the Gerudo Desert. Politicians in Gerudo debate about how to handle the situation. No one knows who to trust and many live in fear.

Who are the Yiga?

What are they really planning?

subplot: blood stained gold

It started as a way to recruit members to join the depleted Hylian Knights. The remaining Knights may be a smaller force, but they're determined to finish what Link started. Led by the General, the Knights train and fight monsters in the Coliseum.

Their blades are polished, their faith resolved, as they fight for honor and a chance to join the elite.

Another sees the flint of steel as a path to gold. They pass the purse through the seas of crowds. Using the knights training ground as a way to turn profit. The coppery taste of blood in your mouth is another flicker of gold passed between greedy hands. A full blood moon brings them all back out again. Cold steel against the warm flesh of enameled blue skin. A new member enters knighthood, hoping to win the battle against the malice onslaught.

Some bring ‘new recruits’ - pretty thieves or criminals who were caught and put in the ring to face their trial. Some pretend to not look, some call it Justice.

A rupee slips into greedy hands as they bet on his fate.

Knights and fans cross the Guardian filled fields to see their favorites beat the monsters that terrorize Hyrule. It’s life versus death.

Or in this case steel versus rupee.

#preview #site buzz #jcink #jcink rp #loz #botw #loz rp

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tactax-art · 5 years

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[All image text and full info is under the read more. This is a headcanon I have for how the serkonan underworld is organised. Feel free to use it yourself or ask questions! If you use it I’d appreciate credit.]

Big thanks to @veechaos for fixing my myriad of typos ;*

The serkonan underworld is significantly more organized than Dunwall's gangs.It is split into different 'factions' called guilds, each having their own leaders, internal hierarchies, rules, and services they provide.

The underworld is divided into the following guilds:

Riders

(Outriders)

Tailors

Dancers

Actors

Weavers

Riders Guild

The Riders are informants, messengers, and spies. They know everything about everyone and if they don't, they can find out.

The true number of Riders is unknown and they are likely the second largest guild, employing people from all walks of life - from nobles and politicians down to the orphaned and homeless, and of course, members of other guilds.

They are the only guild that has a relevant, international presence, called the Outriders.

Their name derives from horses being used to carry important messages and packages across Serkonos.

Tailors Guild

The Tailors are the crafters, suppliers, and owners of the black-markets. You can buy almost anything from them that could possibly be needed, from clothes and food, over ammunition and weapons, to poisons, bone-charms, and maintenance services.

They work closely together with the Dancers guild as there is a constant close trade-off between the Dancer's people for menial work and the Tailors providing necessities.

Most Tailors are also Natural Philosophers and inventors.

Dancers Guild

The Dancers are employers, but also slavers, and human traffickers, controlling a workforce of laborers anywhere from farming and mining to factory and even sex-work.

They are the human resource behind the Serkonan guilds, dwarfing the others by sheer numbers, though most members have no rank to speak off. The most common work encountered as a Dancer is work in connection with the Tailors, proving materials or repetitive work. Most Dancers chose to join the Guild as it guarantees work, pay, and discounts from Tailors, creating a tight circle between services and goods.

It is common that Dancers are firmly settled into positions in other Guilds but are not permitted to join them.

Actors Guild

The Actors are mercenaries, thieves, and assassins.

They have the worst reputation of the guilds, nonetheless they are also highly sought after for protection as well as assassinations, to facilitate shifts in power.

Most Actors are mercenaries that joined and received additional training. The core group is made up of assassins that have been shaped since childhood in a tight-knit hierarchy that starts with the leaders and their most valued apprentices-turned-masters. Due to this, the Actors Guild is one of the most stable guilds, not having experienced a power struggle in decades, where it's commonplace in others.

The Actors hold no alliance to any other guilds and will take jobs on everyone, except their own.

Weavers Guild

The Weavers are mainly made up of medical practitioners but also host medical researchers.

They're the smallest of the guilds by far but are highly sought after and respected by the other guilds and their members.

While a number of Weavers may seem like crooks and don't have an official medical license, all members are skilled practitioners, though they do not hesitate to refer patients to each other.

There is a near constant exchange of information and journals between them and their members who focus on researching and testing new treatments.

Guild Interactions

The guild agreements are enforced by their leaders and most date back decades, only revised when a leader changes. An agreement can only be changed if all leaders agree.

There are rarely hard-set prices and it's common for groups of cross-guild families, friends, usual-customers, and the like to keep most dealings in their tight-knit circles. 'Friend discounts' and 'playing favorites' is practically normal.

Guild Work

(Including but not limited.)

Riders

Spying

Managing information/archives

Meeting with customers and colleagues

Moving packages/messages

Training other Riders

Tailors

Manning/managing black-markets

Crafting weapons/ammunition/tools/charms/chemicals

Inventing

Managing Dancers and their tasks

Quality control

Dancers

Managing personnel

Training personnel

Recruitment/acquirement of personnel

Quality control

(low ranking) Factory work, mining, farming, fishing, whaling, cleaning,

Actors

Assignments like stealing, planting, guarding, kidnapping

(core only) Assassinations

(core only) Training of assassins/mercs

Recruitment/acquirement of personnel

Managing information/archives

Acquiring assignments

Weavers

General Practitioners

Alchemists

Researchers

Managing information/archives

Quality control

Multi-Alignment

Being aligned with multiple guilds is possible but frowned upon. You are expected to have absolute loyalty to your first guild. Getting between power struggles is usually not worth the trouble.

If you are found to be multi-aligned without permission/supervision you are bound to face the consequences from both sides.

Guilds that have zero tolerance for multi-alignments are: Actors, Weavers, Dancers.

Gangs in Serkonos

Gangs do exist in Serkonos but are generally frowned upon by the guilds and discouraged. Depending on how much trouble a gang makes, or if they butt into a guild's commercial or local territory, they may be ignored or actively taken down. Conflict of greater scale can only be organized by guild heads.

Example Case

You are an assassin of the Actor's guild and take an assignment to kill someone in a very specific way.

You go to your favorite Rider for information/schedules/maps about your target. They don't have any first hand but go to talk to someone who does.

In the meantime, you go to the nearest black-market to get the specific poison. Turns out they don't stock it, but you can get it from the Weaver down the street or from another Tailor’s black-market in the upper district.

The Weaver turns out to be the lady you hit on in the pub last weekend and she demands a frankly ridiculous price for a bit of poison because of it, so you cut your losses and move on to the other black-market.

The other black-market is about to be robbed, you get rid of the gang, get a free restock, the poison, and a favor.

Your Rider finally has the info and you go home to get ready, and check that you apprentice hasn't sliced up his other hand while sharpening knives.

You make a plan of attack and finally head out.

You get home and write your reports for the bosses and the client, get paid and give your Rider their percentage as pay the next day.

#dishonored #serkonos #worldbuilding #the serkonan guilds #dishonored 2

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matronspidersinger · 5 years

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THE VEILED COVENANT

*Red wax marked with an unusual eye seals a folded parchment of exceptional quality. When opened it appears that the page is blank, but as your breath falls upon the parchment it is as if you are breathing life into the scroll itself. An intricate design appears at the top of the page followed quickly by elegantly written script.*

*As if to emphasize the last words a symbol shines brightly at the bottom of the page, flickering for a moment before fire spreads across the parchment in a flash. It burns quickly and leaves nothing behind save for the now softly glowing symbol.*

The Veiled Covenant is stirring. Guided by a triumvirate of ideals, pillars upon which a new standard will be lifted, the Covenant seeks like-minded individuals. What kind of person are you? Do you find the laws of the land to be a burden that has grown like a cancer on your life? Do you wish to be free? Come then, join us. You will find neither pious shackles nor moral expectations among us. Instead, you will find resources and power to tear down the established and foolish; you will find the tools to destroy the hypocrisy that has defined our society, and as one we will use the collective strength of our individual fires to burn away all barriers that dare limit our desires.

The Veiled Covenant (TVC) is recruiting! We are networking group hoping to facilitate roleplay of a darker nature. Our goal is to foster a healthy, ICly competitive atmosphere between the various underground roleplay organizations. We hope to foster a competitive environment that encourages dark rp themes, intrigue, and activities that aren't bound by the typical moral limits that people would follow in real life or public roleplay. We are not a FC, but instead an individual organization run via linkshell, Discord, and our website. We function on the basis of a secret society whose members span all throughout the roleplay community so anyone interested is welcome to apply! We are seeking all types! Murderers, slavers, corrupt politicians, spies, thieves, the rich, the greedy, and of course anyone willing to work for the cause in any capacity hitherto unmentioned.

The Veiled Covenant will be holding its first official meeting -tentatively- on August 3rd. Anyone interested is welcome to apply on our website, https://theveiledcovenant.shivtr.com/ , or skip on over to our Discord for more information! Hope to see you soon!

https://discord.gg/BFZxZ29

#FFXIV #FFXIV RP #balmung #mateus #The Veiled Covenant

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hermaeusmorasuggestion · 5 years

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From Dread Daedra Save Us, Chapter 8 by ███ Excerpt from a text on Daedric Princes

Now, where Hermaeus Mora consumes and hoards information, Mephala produces and propagates it. Of course, the Silk-singer is known to have a penchant for the fanciful and so might not always avoid omitting, adding, or otherwise altering events… Still, for all that they might not be entirely accurate, their stories are always interesting.

In this way perhaps Mephala is one of the Princes that understand mortals the most. How often do mortals twist actions to fit narratives that make sense to them, regardless of what actually happened? Bias, albeit unintentional, is inherent in every recollection. Two people could remember the same event in entirely different ways- which one would tell the truth of what happened? Which version of the tale would be “real”? Where- how- would one draw the line between one person’s fiction and another’s reality? Who are any of us to say, “What you experienced is not true”?

Further complicating things is the fact that language, useful as it is, is imperfect. There are thus two chasms:

between what was thought and what was said/done

between what was said/done and what was interpreted.

The Daedra thrive in Void, in the liminal and spaces between- and it is in these voids in/of communication that Mephala thrives. The absence of certainty.

(...)

Followers and favoured are often authors, bards and skalds, journalists, historians, spies, and politicians (though Boethiah is also known to involve herself with the latter).

Contrary to popular belief, assassins number scarce among Mephala’s champions. Though they might pray to her for success in the overarching political play, killers (and, of course, thieves) are much more likely to have Nocturnal as a patron.

(...)

Consider the Spinner’s web. The shimmering threads form the structure; in between them sleep countless realities, each as valid and unique as the next. This is the nature of the Spiral Skein: an ode to the tapestry of existence, woven on the frame of consciousness.

#mephala #the elder scrolls #tes #daedric prince #daedric princes #███#Cut from a longer version for your (hopefully) reading pleasure!#Perks of working directly for a Daedric Prince: up-close look at Daedric Princes.#Cons of working directly for a Daedric Prince: you can't just tell them to go see a therapist even when they really need to.#📗

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yobaba30 · 5 years

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Greg Olear: Let’s talk about organized crime. Because it's not just Jared & Junior we’re up against here.

The mob developed in Sicily & Naples in the mid-1800s because the actual government was too weak to perform basic oversight duties. In the absence of regulations of any kind, folks turned to organized bands of thieves to settle disputes, offer protection, and mete out justice. So right off the bat, the conservative notion of "government being the problem" is both idiotic and historically wrong. We NEED governance. It can either be done by elected officials or by hoodlums. But it's a necessity. MOB GROWS WHERE GOVERNMENT ISN’T.

The quaint Italian mob depicted in GoodFellas, The Sopranos, and the Godfather films is NOT the mob of today. These outfits were absorbed by the Russian “Vor” in the 1990s, after the breakup of the Soviet Union. (I say “Russian,” but this is shorthand for former Soviet bloc). The head of the Russian mob today is Semion Mogilevich, aka The Brainy Don. He is Ukrainian by birth, Jewish enough to have acquired an Israeli passport, and currently a Russian national, living in Moscow. He is the capo di tutti capi of the Vor. He is THE bad guy.

Don Corleone is to Semion Mogilevich as Roy Raymond is to Leslie Wexner, or as McDonald the hamburger stand guy is to Ray Croc. Mogilevich took the mob big time. The Russian mob is more like SPECTRE than like GoodFellas.

Putin is the public face of the operation. He lends an air of legitimacy to the operation, as he is nominally a head of state. But he is also a mobster. He and Mogilevich work like hand in glove. Russia is a mafiya state, governed by mob rules—like Sicily in 1860. If you want to find the common link in every villain of the Trump/Russia universe, it’s this: MOB.

Whether this means the Russian “state” or the Vor, it’s all the same thing.

It’s all MOB.

Obvious example: Michael Cohen and Felix Sater, childhood friends with long ties to the Russian mob. Sater especially is a charming guy. Doesn’t erase who he is or where he came from. Less obvious example: in the 1980s, Mogilevich had a business partner named Robert Maxwell—a wealthy media magnate. Born in Czechoslovakia, Maxwell was a British national & an alleged Mossad agent (codename: Little Czech).

Maxwell died in 1991 when he fell off his yacht. He was in quite a bit of legal & financial trouble at the time. His body was buried in state in Jerusalem, without an autopsy, so we don’t know if he was killed, killed himself, or just fell off the boat. Robert Maxwell had a daughter named Ghislaine. Her longtime boyfriend was—wait for it—Jeffrey Epstein. This means that Epstein had a long & intimate relationship with the daughter of a business partner of Semion Mogilevich.

So: MOB.

American politicians who are in deep with Russian IC agents? That’s a different side of the same mob coin. But it’s still MOB. Anyone who had extensive dealings with these three Russian spies is also implicated.

The Russian mob trades in the heinous & the horrible. Human trafficking is a big operation for them. Opioids, too. Nuclear and chemical weapons. Blood diamonds. They will do ANYTHING for money. And they have SO MUCH FUCKING MONEY that it requires armies to launder it all.

That’s who Trump is. He’s a money launderer, one of countless mob money launderers the world over. He has been laundering mob money for decades. Thus, the mob pwns him. Hence these sit-downs with Putin with no one on our side taking notes. In other words, Trump isn’t even an IMPORTANT mobster. He’s a cog in the big washing machine. The presidency has been hijacked by a wholly owned subsidiary of the Russian mob, with predictable results.

And what of Pecker and AMI? As @LincolnsBible adroitly points out, the National Enquirer was purchased in 1952 with—wait for it—MOB MONEY.

The mob's ties to men of means don’t end there. Hollywood, the music industry, and yes, journalism—the mob has its tentacles in all of this stuff

So how do we defeat such a formidable foe? The first step is to identify the villain. Knowing is half the battle, as GI Joe has it. These mobsters are greedy, slimy fuckers who would sell their grandmother to cannibals to make a few more kopeks. Trump is one of them. The good news is, Robert Mueller has been working this angle for most of his adult life. He well knows the enemy. And if he was just targeting Trump and his idiot spawn, this would be over by now. Bobby Three Sticks is tearing this noxious weed out by the root.

Les jeux sont faits, motherfuckers. Judgment Day is coming. WE SHALL PREVAIL!

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the-rimar-roses-blog · 5 years

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Chapter 1

The Roses is a work in progress. The current version of Chapter One is below, as I wanted to post a portion of the book that I’ve really been proud of for a while. Comments, critical or otherwise, are welcome!

Length: 5,584 words

Bars, Thorn had decided long ago, were where humanity could be seen at its most raw and real. Something about the mix of drink, company, and imminent violence brought out the truest nature of people. Even the high-class ones, where her employers schemed and traded secrets, reeked of sex and betrayal and crime.

Bars made Thorn feel alive.

The dim candles flickering weakly in the Silver Shard reflected weirdly on the sharp spikes of Thorn’s hair. When not looking for work, she rarely bothered to do anything more than run her fingers through her hair and let it fall where it would, but employers expected a certain look in mercenary captains. Any time she had to find the Roses new work, she trimmed the sides, washed with silver dye, and used grease to pull the long pieces into sharp spikes. Tonight, she was looking for work, so her hair was spiked, her armor was on, and her pale blue eyes were scanning the bar for anyone who looked out of place. Her high, sharp cheekbones, coupled with her strange hairstyle, made her look sharp as a blade, and the scarred-over notches in her right ear and on her lip gave her an even stronger air of danger. The easy way she relaxed into her seat, long legs stretched out in front of her, made it clear she was no stranger to the Shard.

The Silver Shard was the mirror image of any of a dozen bars like it scattered up and down the Silk Coast. The scant light offered by the cheap candles kept most of the place in shadows that offered a comfortable privacy to the place’s unsavory patrons as they went about their business. Lazy tendrils of smoke, some from the candles and some from the cigarettes dangling from the fingers of the prostitutes lined up by the bar, drifted slowly through the air and further obscured the scene. Even in better light, there wouldn’t have been much worth seeing in the bar itself. The place was old and the floors were more dirt than wood. The bottles behind the scuffed bar looked more expensive than they actually were, and were filled and refilled with the cheapest booze the owner could make, beg, borrow, or steal. The furniture was rickety and the windows were thick with grime. The place was one bad night away from falling apart.

It was the people that gave it life and made the place worth a damn. Bars like the Silver Shard all served the same clientele. Out-of-work mercs, soldiers on leave, assassins washing the blood of their hands, and other assorted scavengers gathered in havens like the Shard to gamble, fight, and drink until the whores looked good. They came to the Shard to live a little, but all save the young and the dumb knew better than to let down their guards. Hands never strayed far from blades, and hard eyes scanned the crowd unceasingly in search of threats and easy marks. It made for a scene of cutthroat violence, illicit business, and under-the-table deals all overlaid by a thin veneer of decadence and a fierce thirst for life.

It made Thorn feel alive. There had been times in her life she felt dull and dead, trapped in a life she’d neither chosen nor wanted, but bars like the Shard reminded her that those days were far behind her. Her life as the captain of the Roses, as the Thorn, was purely and wholly hers. If she wanted to drink all night in the Shard and take home the least disgusting of the assassins and thieves for a night of rough sex, she damn well could. Or rather, most nights she could. Tonight, she had to find work.

As she studied the bar, Thorn totally ignored the mercenaries, thieves, spies, and rogues. Not one of them mattered. The mercs wanted work or drink, the thieves knew better than to bother her, she didn’t trust the spies, and the rogues were, to a one, thieves with an inflated sense of ego. None of them could offer her what she was looking for, so she ignored them all.

It had taken Thorn years to learn how to look for work. When she was younger she’d spent night after night wandering from table to table, occasionally eavesdropping and frequently interrupting until she found someone willing to trade good coin for her blade. Looking back on it, she’d been lucky. With further experience had come the realization that those tactics were as likely to earn her a knife to the gut as a paying job. Only when she’d begun to study the older mercenaries and their captains had she begun to understand what she had to do to make the work come to her. In every bar like the Shard, in every meeting place where iron and blood could be bought and sold, there were people who looked out of place among the seasoned warriors and swaggering youths. It was always easy to spot them. Sometimes they wore silks and clutched at their coinpurses whenever a stranger so much as glanced their way. Sometimes they couldn’t stop staring at the scene surrounding them and gawked like visitors to a menagerie. Some simply looked scared, and ended up hunched over at a drink while they glanced at the crowd with tense shoulders and nervous eyes, while others tried too hard to blend in and ended up sticking out more than they ever would have if they’d simply been themselves. These people, these strangers visiting a place they should not, were always the ones looking to buy blood and death.

The thing to do, Thorn had learned, was to watch the crowds for those who looked out of place. Once she spotted them, there were ways to read them. The drunk ones with red eyes and stony expressions usually wanted revenge, often on a lover. The loud ones who pretended to be a friend to every mercenary they tried to recruit often fancied themselves revolutionaries or born leaders, while the quiet, nondescript ones with politician’s vocabularies invariably sought out assassins. Some were harder to read than others, of course, but everyone had a story. Those stories could be used to sort through the potential employers quickly and efficiently. Not all mercenary crews were suitable for all jobs, and Thorn almost always ignored the vengeance-seekers and politicians. Usually it wasn’t too hard to find someone who met the Roses’ needs. It was sometimes it was hard to describe just what she was looking for or just what she saw in a particular employer, but Thorn always found someone to watch.

That was the real trick, the watching. If she watched someone long enough, they would notice her. And, if they truly were looking to hire, they would eventually seek her out. Usually they sidled through the crowds as if to pretend they weren’t heading her way at all, but eventually there was always someone standing by her table with a question in their eyes. If it was the right question, and if they said the right things and paid the right price, Thorn ended the night with a new contract without having to so much as leave her seat.

As usual, the Shard was home to plenty out-of-place potential employers. So far none had caught her eye, but the night was still young. For some reason, so many of those who needed to hire mercenaries seemed to think it was a matter best left for late. The work could just as well be done at noon out of an office in a fairer part of town, but no employer would ever seek a mercenary crew out in such a place. Thorn was confident she would find a new contract sooner rather than later, and with luck it would be one that paid well enough to stop her spymaster, Darden, from pestering her.

It was Darden who had taught Thorn much of what she knew about running a mercenary crew. The man had never been part of a formal organization before he and Thorn joined forces, but with nearly a decade more experience than Thorn he’d always known a bit more than she did. It was Darden who had taught Thorn to watch for out-of-place employers. The two had spent night after night camped out in some corner of some bar, knocking back more ales than they should have as Darden pointed out stranger after stranger to Thorn. Back then, the spymaster’s ability to read people like open books had astounded Thorn, and it hadn’t been clear to her why he was bothering to train her at all when he was so skilled. Once, years after the Roses had been founded and Thorn had been named their captain, she had asked Darden that very question.

“Because you have something I don’t,” he’d replied with an arched brow. Darden was good at arching his brows. He practiced in the mirror sometimes, to make sure he could send just the right messages. “I work in shadows and alleys. I trade in secrets. I’m not the one who should be negotiating contracts and playing the professional. But you know how to lead.”

At the time, Thorn had offered Darden a suspicious glare in response. It was often hard to tell when he was mocking her, even after years of working job after job together. In the years since, however, she’d found her thoughts occasionally returning to the brief conversation. “You know how to lead,” he’d told her. Thorn had never been born to be a leader, but sometimes she couldn’t help but wonder if Darden had seen something of her old life in her. By the time they’d first met, she’d already died her hair silver and stuck bars in her ears and lip. She’d learned to wear and care for armor, and to carry her weapon like it was an extension of herself. There was no sign of the person she’d once been. But somehow, maybe, Darden had seen something.

Dismissing the thought with a shrug, Thorn knocked back the last of her drink. What Darden had or hadn’t some fifteen years ago seen didn’t matter anymore. What mattered tonight were the irritated sighs and passive-aggressive remarks she’d have to look forward to if she didn’t have a new contract the next time he saw her. The Roses had only been out of work for a few weeks, but Darden got irritable when he had nothing to do. If she kept him waiting too long he was liable to begin some new scheme that would eventually pull them into a fight they weren’t getting paid for or to return to stealing anything that wasn’t nailed down, so the sooner she found work the better it would be for everyone involved.

Idly trying to decide if she wanted another ale or not, Thorn began scanning the bar once more. She’d yet to spot a likely prospect, but a few young noblemen had just wandered in. It was obvious they thought themselves well-disguised, but even the rattiest clothes most nobles owned were a far cry from the functional leather and wool preferred by the Shard’s usual clientele. Before Thorn could take in much more than their silk cravats, however, she was distracted by a discrete cough coming from her left. Every muscle in her body tightened in anticipation of a fight, but she was careful not to jump or turn too quickly. No one should have gotten close enough to startle her, but she’d eat shit before she let the bastard know she was surprised. As she turned, her every movement was careful and controlled. She didn’t bother to pull her feet off the chair they were resting on, but one hand fell to rest casually on the hunting knife at her belt. Drawing her sword in quarters as close as these would be impractical, but it would take less than a heartbeat to draw the knife and slam it into the belly of whoever had snuck up on her. Her other arm stayed on the edge of the table. It wasn’t a very steady table, and already wobbled a little. Thorn could easily shove it over if she had to.

The cougher proved to be a slender little man, shorter than Thorn by at least a foot and no more than seven stone soaking wet. He had beady eyes that glimmered brightly despite the shadows cast by his hooded cloak, and the thick folds of fabric that fell to his ankles and nearly swallowed him whole put Thorn on high alert. There was no telling what was hidden there. He stood just on the other side of the wobbly table, staring right at Thorn with a calm expression.

“What do you want?” she asked flatly. Her eyes, far from warm at the best of times, were icy as she stared down the stranger without so much as blinking. Hidden by his cloak as he was, the stranger was hard to read. The cloak looked to be made of thick wool, and the patches scattered across it suggested it was well-used. That and the fact that he’d made it so close without being noticed suggested he was hardly one of the out-of-place employers she’d been keeping an eye out for. That meant he should have had no reason to speak with her. The Roses weren’t well-known enough to partner with other crews, and one merc could never hire another without taking a blow to his pride. Even if the man was only looking for a drinking buddy, it was unlikely he’d approach Thorn. The full armor and sword made it clear she wasn’t simply here to drink, and more often than not her severe expression, obvious scars, and spiked hair were enough to turn away anyone looking for casual conversation.

“I’m looking for, uh, the Roses? The captain of the Roses.” The stranger’s voice had the high pitch of youth, and as he reached up to push back his hood Thorn realized with faint embarrassment that she was looking at a boy of no more than ten or eleven. The cloak made him seem larger than he was, and more intimidating, but his cheeks were chubby and a little pink and his hair was as fine and wispy as a babe’s. By Thorn’s reckoning, he was one of the street rats sometimes employed by one boss or another to deliver messages. Most of them would do anything for a few coins.

Despite the boy’s youth, Thorn relaxed only a little. Looks could be deceiving, and she’d once seen a street rat bite a finger off a guard trying to take him in for thievery. "Then you’ve found the right captain.” she leaned forward in her seat, pulling her legs in and resting her elbows on the table. The studded leather of her armor rasped softly against the rough wood of the tabletop. Despite the tension that kept her muscles ready for quick movement, she exuded an easy confidence. Precisely none of it was false bravado. Younger mercenaries, especially those who took on the title of captain long before they’d earned it, often tried to take up more space than they had to. They launched into negotiations with exaggerated tales of their own skills and those of their companies., then demanded exorbitant fees in the hope that haggling wouldn’t bring the price down below the bare minimum they would need to pay the healers at the end of it all. Thorn did nothing of the sort. “Two swordsmen, one healer, one spy, one crossbowman. We have experience and letters of reference. No slaving, no front-line work, no harming children, and we reserve the right to end the contract at any time.” She rattled off the introduction and rules with practiced ease. Not every piece was typical of a mercenary crew, but the Roses’ rules were inviolable. Slavery was something none of them could stand, Angharad and Martin least of all. The front lines of a war were no place for a five-fighter crew that refused to answer to anyone but their captain, and hurting children was a line none of the Roses would cross for love or money. The right to break contracts, meanwhile, was really little more than a way to enforce the first three rules. Mercenary crews that broke contracts too often never found work again, no matter how skilled they were. Of course, it was highly unlikely that the youth himself was here to hire her, but whatever master had sent him would want to know her terms. “What’s the job, and who is it for?”

The lad’s eyes were bright rather than beady now that they were free of the shadows of his cloak. “I’unno,” he admitted uneasily, rocking forward onto the balls of his feet and back onto the heels. Nervous habits like that got older street rats killed. Theirs was a harsh life, and unless this lad learned to contain himself and hide his fear he wouldn’t last much longer. Not that Thorn pitied him. Street rats had their own hierarchy and power struggles, and anyone who wished to take part in that lifestyle did so at their own risks. There were always alternatives. The Dornans and Narlunians usually opened their temples to the needy, and even Zeynites would at least offer poor children bread and water when they came begging. “Got a message for you.”

One of Thorn’s brows climbed towards her scalp, the stud there catching in the light of the bar. “Out with it,” she ordered, less than pleased by his reply. Messages didn’t always mean contracts. Usually they meant threats, or challenges. Or worse, they meant politics.

Thorn had no time for politics.

“There’s a dock, near the east end of the bay,” the boy quickly explained. “Boat’s there. The...” He paused for a moment, eyes darting from side to side as he struggled to recall the name. “Broken Compass. There’s someone as wants to meet you there. Tenth bell.” An absurd little flicker of pride filled his expression as he successfully finished the message, but he quickly stifled it.

“And just who am I meeting?” Thorn drawled, dropping her air of professionalism in favor of cool disdain. Everything the boy had just let slip, from the place of the meeting to the time, reeked of the sort of cloak and dagger Thorn couldn’t stand. Such things always turned political. Darden was fond of those sorts of games, but Thorn herself preferred to stay far away from politics. She’d dealt with more than her fair share of that particular brand of bullshit over the years.

“He said not to say.” The boy’s response was swift enough that Thorn had no doubt he’d practiced it, but she remained unimpressed. It was all she could do not to roll her eyes.

“Then you can tell him I’m not coming,” she replied, turning away and lifting her feet back onto the chair in front of her. It was the most dismissive gesture she could offer the lad, and the faint sputtering coming from her left told her it had had its intended effect.

“But you have to!” the street rat finally managed, his voice hovering somewhere dangerously close to a whine. Thorn only grunted, and waved for a server to bring her another drink. Visibly frustrated, the lad began rocking forward and back again. The heels of his feet hit the floor with a soft thump each time, creating an irritating little rhythm. Thump. Thump.

“He said he’ll pay you,” he tried. “Gold!” The way he crowed the last word turned several heads. More than a few strangers were trying to casually eavesdrop, their attention drawn by the street rat’s nervous habits. Thump. The server Thorn was waiting for was nowhere to be seen, and the boy’s heels were still thumping against the floor.

Thump.

A slight pause.

Thump.

“Right,” Thorn snapped, shooting a glare towards the boy. Either her glare was an effective one or her appearance made it so, because the lad’s eyes went wide and the thumping finally stopped. “Unless you want to spill some blood, you’re gonna get the fuck out of here.” Thorn was very strict about not hurting children, but she had no qualms about scaring the shit out of one if she had to. The bright metal of her hunting knife hissed against the leather sheath as she drew it out an inch. “I’m not interested, and I’m not going. If your employer has an issue with that, you can invite him to eat my entire ass. Got it?””

The blood drained from the boy’s face as he watched her. The knife was more intimidating than her words, but the overall effect left looking close to pissing himself. “Yes’m,” he said suddenly, glancing around the bar as if only now realizing he was nearly a decade younger and several stones lighter than anyone else in the place. “I’ll tell ‘im.”

“Good lad.” Her knife hissed again as she slid it back into its sheath. Her eyes remained fixed on the boy beside the table, and something in her gaze held him transfixed. “Now, fuck off.”

The boy was halfway to the door before she finished speaking. No doubt by sundown he would have stolen some coin or ale and puffed himself back up enough to start bragging to his friends about the mercenary captain he’d stared down in the bar, but that wasn’t Thorn’s problem.

Even as the boy fled and Thorn settled back into her seat, however, something unpleasant gnawed at the back of her mind. It was a feeling of tension; one she’d felt before when she knew a situation was about to go south. All of it was centered on the nature of the boy’s message. At tenth bell, an unnamed man would be expecting her to arrive at the harbor, to take a job, and to play pawn in whatever political game he was trying to win. Assassinations or guard work were one thing, but the Roses didn’t do cloak-and-dagger. That was for those crews that specialized in such things, or for one of the thieves’ bands that nested all over Rimarin. Not mercenaries. Not the Roses. But some stranger had chosen her company, had chosen her, and he would be expecting her to make an appearance that very night.

“Eat my ass,” Thorn finally muttered, slouching in her seat. Whoever the bastard was, he was going to be sorely disappointed.

“Nothing?” Roy’s expression was sour. “You were gone for five hours. Did you even try?”

“Shut up, Adler,” Thorn growled as she flopped down into a chair by the fire. The Three Kegs was a far less crowded inn than the Shard, and far more clean. Though there were other inns that would have put them up for half the price, the comfortable beds and good food of the Three Kegs made it the Roses’ first choice for lodging in Rimarin. Over the years, Thorn had even worked out a deal with the innkeeper that got them discounted rooms in exchange for security work during their stay.

Another advantage of the Three Kegs was the furnished common area. At one point in time the innkeeper had harbored short-lived delusions of grandeur that led him to purchase a supply of stuffed armchairs as part of a plan to improve the class of his establishment. The plan had never come to fruition. Nicer than the Shard or not, the Three Kegs was still a Rimar bar in the docks district, and that means that only a certain, limited level of class was achievable by even the most determined entrepreneur. Unsure of what else to do, the innkeeper had scattered the armchairs throughout the common area. Some had been broken or stained over the years, but the majority remained in fairly good condition. Every time they stayed at the Kegs, the Roses rounded up the nicest of the chairs, and stationed them by the fireplace. It made for a comfortable meeting place and a nice break from hard wooden stools, rickety tavern chairs, or the cold ground.

Tonight, only three of the chairs were full, but it wouldn’t be long before all five were taken. As much as she hated anything that smelled even faintly of bureaucratic procedure, Thorn expected her crew to meet with her on a nightly basis when they weren’t taking leave. It was the easiest way she had to make sure none of them had gotten themselves killed or jailed. Her chair was the closest to the fire, and the heat of the flames had already warmed the spot nicely by the time she arrived. The man who’d spoken was perched in a chair on the opposite side of the fire.

“’Shut up, Adler,’” came Roy’s echoed mockingly. Roy Adler, the youngest member of the Roses by nearly five years, slouched in his chair with a faintly petulant expression. His rich, red-brown hair was pulled into a bun at the nape of his neck, but a few locks had escaped to cling to his skin and add to his generally disheveled appearance. His knee bounced in a fast rhythm, at odds with the beat of his fingers on his knee. Roy was a good half foot shorter than Thorn, but what he lacked in height he tended to make up for in nervous energy and snarky bravado. Some days, only his impressive skill with a crossbow stopped Thorn from dropping him off in some backwater village and leaving him there. “What the fuck, captain? We’ve been here nearly a week already!”

Before Thorn could come up with a sufficiently rude reply, a bored voice interrupted her. “Three days, Roy.” The speaker, Darden the Sneak, sat comfortably in a chair to Thorn’s right. He was a lean man, taller than Thorn by an inch or two and older by several years. Almost everything about his physical appearance, from his curly brown hair to his faintly friendly expression, was eminently forgettable. Even the shape of his features and the sound of his voice were oddly ambiguous. Only someone who knew him well could have described him in great detail. The only thing about him that stood out was, as always, his outfit. Tonight, he wore a red silk shirt, marred by food and wine stains, and black pants with dust on the hem. Clothing is the only thing they ever remember about me, he was always proud to say. And it is so very easy to change outfits. “Have you forgotten how to count? I thought counting coins was an essential skill for thieves. Especially someone who calls himself a master thief.

“Fuck you,” Roy replied with a quick scowl. “Spying isn’t any different from thieving. Hell, I was better at stealing shit than you’ll ever be at secrets.” The short crossbowman seemed ready to launch into one of his exaggerated tales of the years of his youth he’d spent in a thieves’ guild, but a grunt from Thorn stopped him.

“Roy,” she said slowly, glancing at him with a stony expression. “I said, shut the fuck up.” Her tone was flat and unamused. Confusion briefly replaced the irritation on Roy’s expression, and he shot a look at Darden as if to ask what had gone wrong. While Thorn didn’t usually partake in the verbal fencing matches Roy and Darden so often got into (matches Roy usually lost), it was rare for her to end one so abruptly. Even Darden seemed a little surprised.

Before either man could press the issue, however, the final members of the Roses arrived. Angharad and Martin walked hand in hand, walking together like they belonged at each other’s sides and always had. They made an odd pair. Martin Caldwell was six feet tall and built like a brick shithouse, but his wife stood taller than him by at least another four inches. Angharad hailed from the far north, where barbarian tribes followed herds of caribou across cold plains. All her years in the south had done little to darken her complexion, and to this day there was something wild and free in her gaze. She carried herself like no one had ever challenged her, and her tight braid made her beautiful features seem harsher than they were. She was all muscle and curves, and utterly unashamed. Martin, meanwhile, had a friendly and open expression that made him easily the most approachable of the Roses. His dark skin made him look like a native of the Rimar deserts, but until adulthood he’d never left the city of Rimarin. The thick muscles of his arms, bared by the sleeveless tunic he wore, bespoke his skill with a sword and heavy shield, but around his neck hung a carefully-carved amulet in the shape of a set of balanced scales. It was a Dornan symbol, and a sign of his powerful faith.

“Sorry we’re late,” Martin said by way of greeting as he and Angharad joined the others. “The theatre ran longer than I thought it would. And I promised Angharad we could pick up her herbs after, so we had to do that.” He released his wife’s hand as he spoke and carefully pushed the chairs left for them a little closer together. He sat down carefully, as if afraid of breaking his. Angharad, meanwhile, threw herself down into her seat with enough force to scoot it back an inch or two. Martin frowned at her lack of care and move his seat so it was aligned with hers once more.

The moment she was seated, Angharad began to flash a complicated series of signs at the rest of the crew. Only Roy seemed to struggle to follow the quick gestures.

Do we have a new job? she asked. Long before Angharad had joined the Roses, before she and Martin had ever met, the same slavers who had decimated her tribe and captured her had taken her tongue. It had been a punishment for the prayers Angharad had sent to her gods every night she was trapped aboard the slavers’ ship. The eerie chanting, as much an act of spite as of faith, had kept the slavers awake and nervous for the better part of a week before they’d tried to put an end to it. When Angharad had regained consciousness she’d merely begun to chant once more. Distorted as the words were, the chanting was more disturbing than before.

Roy was just opening his mouth to respond when Darden beat him to the punch. “Not yet,” he replied with another glance at their quiet captain. “Not that it’s much of a surprise. With winter coming on, we knew it wouldn’t be easy to find a new contract.” Martin and Angharad nodded in agreement. Roy did as well, albeit more begrudgingly. Winter was a tough time for mercenaries, even those working out of the desert kingdoms. Wars were usually stalled, travel was often disrupted, and the caravan masters had little work. At best one could find work in assassinations, but those sorts of jobs could be difficult to find.

Damn, Angharad signed with a disgruntled expression. Her choice of word made Martin look faintly pained, and after a glance his way she amended it. I mean, darn. Martin looked a little happier.

“We’ll find something eventually,” Thorn finally said, shifting in her seat. Her gaze landed on each of the Roses for a moment. “Adler’s been bitching, but this is what we expected. If we don’t have something by the end of the week, Darden and I will start looking for leads in a few other places. Anyone needs money in the meantime, talk to one of us and we’ll cover for you.” Roy was glaring at Thorn, but everyone else nodded. After a moment, Roy did too. “Caldwell and Angry,” Thorn continued, glancing towards Martin and Angharad. “We’re good on healing supplies? I want to be ready to move out as soon as I sign a contract.”

Herbs are good, Angharad replied. Before the loss of her tribe, Angharad had been a shaman. Her skill in healing far surpassed that of any of the other mercenaries, and for all that the herbs she used cost an arm and leg the Roses still trusted her to keep them healthy.

Martin nodded again. “One of the priests the temple in the trade district offered me a deal on bandages when I visited,” he added. “So we have extra, actually.”

Thorn acknowledged them with a quick thumb’s up. “Good. Good work. If it’s more than you have space for, let us know and we’ll split the supplies evenly. Does anyone else need anything they can’t get themselves?” Four heads shook no, so she moved on. “Fine. Stay out of jail, don’t get killed, and be back here same time tomorrow.”

With that, she grabbed the arms of her chair and hoisted herself back up onto her feet. Taking that as a sign that the meeting was done, Roy went back to fidgeting with a puzzle toy and Angharad struck up a signed conversation with her husband. Thorn began a casual stroll towards the bar.

“Darden,” Thorn said quietly as she passed her lieutenant’s seat. “Meet me upstairs. We need to talk.” She didn’t have to see Darden’s quick nod to know he would be waiting for her.

#writing #excerpt

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