The Low-City
10 Frost 121
Aurin had always been a shoe made for the city, but it had been nice to get out and enjoy the wilderness with Torin and Timon before Frost got well and truly frosty. The boys were busy getting the forge up and running, and Aurin had plenty of things to tend to himself. The Theater hadn't missed him too much; he had things running like clockwork on his end, but of course Yserloo wanted him there all the time and Elric had begun to rely on him for moral support. Aurin knew how to make himself indispensable when he wanted to. But when Yserloo left early for a "meeting" with "potential donors" that Aurin knew for a fact to be some sort of cocktail party some other noble was throwing and Elric was going to be in rehearsals until late, Aurin made sure the clockwork would run, and then he did, making for the Low-City to connect with Elwes and see what he had missed in his three days out of town.
The Low-City too had survived without him, and she had kept an eye on Yshvold for him. He knew the Lysanrin lad was capable or he would be dead; he still wanted to keep his investment safe.
It started as a prickle between his shoulders, but while he was taller now, he had grown up like any urchin on the streets of Cathena City and he knew when he was being followed with ill intent. He didn't know if it was some sixth sense or just heightened intuition from a lifetime of trauma, but he was careful not to alter his gait, nor his breathing, nor anything else. But winter was the time for voluminous clothes, and so he was able to slip his knuckle duster onto his hand before the tail's partner yanked him into an alley.
Aurin attempted to shout, putting on a bit of a show, and got a gloved hand over his mouth. The tail followed him into the dark, and so he was able to tell there were only two of them. He twisted and turned to keep them busy, felt the tail slip her hands into his pockets until she snatched out the eldritch key he kept only because he didn't know if it was safe to leave it anywhere else. As soon as he had their intentions and their numbers sussed out, he dropped the façade and dropped them. With a twist, he caught his feet under him and rammed his shoulder into one's sternum, battering him against the wall behind him. He drew back his elbow and punched him in the mouth, splintering teeth on the knuckle duster and the back of his skull against the wall.
The woman attempted to flee, but he clicked his heel just so, then spun around, the blade sprung out of his boot catching her just below the knee. When she went down, his hand catching her wrist, he pulled a blade and shoved it quickly three times into her side before flinging her back deeper into the dark. He hadn't aimed for the lungs, wanting her to be able to speak, but she was going to need a physician or she was facing a slow, painful death.
She was cursing and he clucked his tongue at her even as he stepped hard upon her wrist, stooping down to pluck the key from her hand and sling it back into his pocket.
"Now what could you possibly want this for?" he asked quietly, voice soft as velvet but not quite hiding the sharp menace.
"...fffuck you," she spat.
He clucked his tongue again and backhanded her thrice methodically.
"You fucked up and failed," he said reasonably. "No hard feelings. Now tell me why you want this particular key."
"Mmm..." she mumbled, either from the pain or the effort. She looked like she was working something around in her mouth, a bit of supper lodged between her teeth perhaps. Memory shot through him and he realized what she was about. Then he was kneeling hard into her chest, a hand on her throat. But she started laughing. He hadn't been quick enough to fish the poison out of her mouth. "The Mad King will return!" she hissed, and then her body started flailing beneath him so hard that even his greater weight lent him no advantage in riding her death spasms. He stutter-stepped backward, not wanting any poisonous froth hitting him. One never knew if one might become collateral damage that way.
He surveyed the scene as best he could in the dark. The semblance trick only showed him their fraying patterns.
"Fuck." He wiped the blood off his blades, using the soon-to-be corpse's clothes. With a click, the blade disappeared from his boot and the other was once more secreted upon his person. Even though he had been the target of the violence, he didn't want to be caught here if the Sky Guard or less illustrious constabulary appeared, and so he pulled aether through his masquerade trick and cloaked himself in a deceptive weave, doing the same with his aura with his other trick. He was scuffed and bruised, but nobody would notice him as he quickly departed the scene of the crime.
Aurin had made one mistake, though. Assuming the man's own teeth had shattered a suicide pill, he had left the both of them for dead, but the blow to the back of his head hadn't killed him, and he stumbled back into the growing vespertine shadows as Aurin made his way back to the safety of the Theater. If he wasn't the most skilled with his tricks, he at least knew how to use his limited power cleverly, and eased himself out of his own illusions, so he returned seamlessly to the land of the visible.
Rehearsals continued. His secretary had gone home. He locked the door behind him once he was in his office, grabbed two tumblers and the good spirits from a sideboard, and made his way out into the blustery cold of his balcony. He poured himself two fingers of the amber stuff and then poured it down his throat before pouring another one, and then another into the spare glass in case Talon answered in person. He didn't have a candle lit; it wouldn't live long in this wind. But he had an offering, at least. He rested his hands upon the cold stone of the balustrade, willing the chill into his hands to stop their shaking.
He tried to clear his mind, tried to picture the Shinsei, visually and with all the other impressions he had from the demigod.
"They've tried to kill me for the key," he said, willing the wind and his thoughts to bring his words up to the sky palaces of the Avialae. "They spoke of a Mad King and I don't think they meant your father. I've a drink here for you if you want to discuss. If not... I thought you ought to be aware."
10 Frost 121
Aurin had always been a shoe made for the city, but it had been nice to get out and enjoy the wilderness with Torin and Timon before Frost got well and truly frosty. The boys were busy getting the forge up and running, and Aurin had plenty of things to tend to himself. The Theater hadn't missed him too much; he had things running like clockwork on his end, but of course Yserloo wanted him there all the time and Elric had begun to rely on him for moral support. Aurin knew how to make himself indispensable when he wanted to. But when Yserloo left early for a "meeting" with "potential donors" that Aurin knew for a fact to be some sort of cocktail party some other noble was throwing and Elric was going to be in rehearsals until late, Aurin made sure the clockwork would run, and then he did, making for the Low-City to connect with Elwes and see what he had missed in his three days out of town.
The Low-City too had survived without him, and she had kept an eye on Yshvold for him. He knew the Lysanrin lad was capable or he would be dead; he still wanted to keep his investment safe.
It started as a prickle between his shoulders, but while he was taller now, he had grown up like any urchin on the streets of Cathena City and he knew when he was being followed with ill intent. He didn't know if it was some sixth sense or just heightened intuition from a lifetime of trauma, but he was careful not to alter his gait, nor his breathing, nor anything else. But winter was the time for voluminous clothes, and so he was able to slip his knuckle duster onto his hand before the tail's partner yanked him into an alley.
Aurin attempted to shout, putting on a bit of a show, and got a gloved hand over his mouth. The tail followed him into the dark, and so he was able to tell there were only two of them. He twisted and turned to keep them busy, felt the tail slip her hands into his pockets until she snatched out the eldritch key he kept only because he didn't know if it was safe to leave it anywhere else. As soon as he had their intentions and their numbers sussed out, he dropped the façade and dropped them. With a twist, he caught his feet under him and rammed his shoulder into one's sternum, battering him against the wall behind him. He drew back his elbow and punched him in the mouth, splintering teeth on the knuckle duster and the back of his skull against the wall.
The woman attempted to flee, but he clicked his heel just so, then spun around, the blade sprung out of his boot catching her just below the knee. When she went down, his hand catching her wrist, he pulled a blade and shoved it quickly three times into her side before flinging her back deeper into the dark. He hadn't aimed for the lungs, wanting her to be able to speak, but she was going to need a physician or she was facing a slow, painful death.
She was cursing and he clucked his tongue at her even as he stepped hard upon her wrist, stooping down to pluck the key from her hand and sling it back into his pocket.
"Now what could you possibly want this for?" he asked quietly, voice soft as velvet but not quite hiding the sharp menace.
"...fffuck you," she spat.
He clucked his tongue again and backhanded her thrice methodically.
"You fucked up and failed," he said reasonably. "No hard feelings. Now tell me why you want this particular key."
"Mmm..." she mumbled, either from the pain or the effort. She looked like she was working something around in her mouth, a bit of supper lodged between her teeth perhaps. Memory shot through him and he realized what she was about. Then he was kneeling hard into her chest, a hand on her throat. But she started laughing. He hadn't been quick enough to fish the poison out of her mouth. "The Mad King will return!" she hissed, and then her body started flailing beneath him so hard that even his greater weight lent him no advantage in riding her death spasms. He stutter-stepped backward, not wanting any poisonous froth hitting him. One never knew if one might become collateral damage that way.
He surveyed the scene as best he could in the dark. The semblance trick only showed him their fraying patterns.
"Fuck." He wiped the blood off his blades, using the soon-to-be corpse's clothes. With a click, the blade disappeared from his boot and the other was once more secreted upon his person. Even though he had been the target of the violence, he didn't want to be caught here if the Sky Guard or less illustrious constabulary appeared, and so he pulled aether through his masquerade trick and cloaked himself in a deceptive weave, doing the same with his aura with his other trick. He was scuffed and bruised, but nobody would notice him as he quickly departed the scene of the crime.
Aurin had made one mistake, though. Assuming the man's own teeth had shattered a suicide pill, he had left the both of them for dead, but the blow to the back of his head hadn't killed him, and he stumbled back into the growing vespertine shadows as Aurin made his way back to the safety of the Theater. If he wasn't the most skilled with his tricks, he at least knew how to use his limited power cleverly, and eased himself out of his own illusions, so he returned seamlessly to the land of the visible.
Rehearsals continued. His secretary had gone home. He locked the door behind him once he was in his office, grabbed two tumblers and the good spirits from a sideboard, and made his way out into the blustery cold of his balcony. He poured himself two fingers of the amber stuff and then poured it down his throat before pouring another one, and then another into the spare glass in case Talon answered in person. He didn't have a candle lit; it wouldn't live long in this wind. But he had an offering, at least. He rested his hands upon the cold stone of the balustrade, willing the chill into his hands to stop their shaking.
He tried to clear his mind, tried to picture the Shinsei, visually and with all the other impressions he had from the demigod.
"They've tried to kill me for the key," he said, willing the wind and his thoughts to bring his words up to the sky palaces of the Avialae. "They spoke of a Mad King and I don't think they meant your father. I've a drink here for you if you want to discuss. If not... I thought you ought to be aware."
