Legend of Ransera

The Menagerie
25th of Searing, Year 122 Steel

Though he had never set foot in the Menagerie before, it felt familiar. After years managing the Velvet Cabaret, he didn't need his tricks to see how the seeming was being managed, to see how the energy of the place flowed. For the first time, he felt almost at home in Zaichaer and among the witches.

Their communications were a bit arcane, but he had been led to the Market of the Railrunners, and the Menagerie of the Myshalarai within. He was making progress although they were still taking precautions with him, which he could appreciate. Arry had often called him paranoid, and he wasn't wrong. But he was here at what he thought was the appointed time and where he thought he had been told to wait, sitting there with a drink that didn't seem to contain anything he couldn't handle. He thought the Grymalka might speak to him at the same time, but that had been unclear. He hoped Urs was getting the same treatment from them or similar, given they were his focus here. Tease though he might, Aurin wanted the surgeon's visit to be successful, and he wanted to get him safely back to Kalzasi so his lover would be happy, which would keep Aurin's lover happy.

When one loved someone, the chains spread ever outward, but as he took a sip of his narcotic drink, he found he didn't regret letting Torin under his skin at all.

He supposed the illusionists might be prone to taking him into their ranks. He was already skilled with that trick, though he understood that the black rose was how they contracted themselves as assassins. Aurin could do that too if push came to shove. He hadn't needed to in Kalzasi, but the skills hadn't been allowed to rust or gather dust. As for the spiritists, well, perhaps they would answer questions from far in his past, questions about ghostwine and demons.

Aurin shivered.

His reaction was measured, but played off as without guile or thought. Aurin liked to claim he wasn't an actor, but rather he didn't act on stage. He played countless roles as a confidence man. As his hazel gaze caressed their face, their body, they might almost have imagined they could feel his fingers upon them, another subtle, sophisticated use of his trick. But he could sense the refinement of theirs, the sort that likely came from belonging to a coven, to having people to instruct them in the best practices gathered by a long lineage.

Aurin didn't have that.

"Hello, Eshar," he replied, matching their tone and carriage somewhat; not copying, but complementing. "I hope the pleasure is ours." His smirk cut like a knife, but like a knife so sharp one felt no pain, only the delicious warmth and wet of blood.

"I am certain you are aware of what I desire, but I will spell it out for you. I want information and I want allies. I am attempting to rebuild the bridge between the theaters of Kalzasi and Zaichaer in order to help the Railrunners evacuate anyone who can no longer safely abide in the Brass City, and I want to become a member of all the covens that will have me." He paused, smirking again.

"This place," he said, indicating the Menagerie with a rakishly lazy wave of his hand, "feels like home. I already know the illusion trick. The Myshalarai seem like people I could get along with." He paused, and offered another, truer thing. "I am not good at belonging, but I do desire it. And you... what do you desire?"

"'Tis always better to aim a bit high," he replied with one shoulder shrugging lazily. "One has to overcompensate for gravity."

Bemused, he watched them order the barman about. A secretive smile curled his lips, but whether he was imagining applying fire to someone back home or enjoying lurid delights here, he didn't divulge. In any case, he took the folder, leaned back and began to peruse it right then. He figured this was a safe enough place to look into Myshalarai business.

"Should I feel undervalued that you didn't come bearing black blooms?" he teased, even as his eyes cut through the text like razors. He barked a laugh at the target. "No wonder you love me ambitious."

Aurin could banter while his eyes were otherwise occupied.

"Call me brother... call me anything you like so long as you call upon me, Eshar." His voice vibrated, or was that a bit of glamour? The air in this place thrummed with it: his, theirs, the glamours of all the Myshalarai who had passed through, bending the seeming of reality to their own purposes. Finally, he looked up, his Rune shredding all pretense and illusion, at least to his senses. Aurin smirked, but then he always did. It was like he was in on some joke, had some secret, or already knew how the story played out. Some found it aggravating, others attractive. Few had milquetoast reactions to him when he was being himself rather than fading into the background, observant and patient.

He stood, and the folder disappeared, or at least seemed to.

"Well, I suppose I shouldn't waste any time. You'll want to see my... talent... straightaway."

"And here I thought you were the biggest flirt in the room," he drawled, glancing sidelong at the Grymalka trio, offering them a wink and a nod. To Eshar, he only chuckled. "A challenge? We'll see."

But there would be more time for verbal sparring later, when he had accomplished the mission. The bauble disappeared as well, and soon enough he was out and about, being tailed by a witch whose Semblance trick wasn't quite so strong as his, but had a strange resonance to it. Aurin didn't know if this was someone from a faction within one of the covens, or one of the minor covens; either way, if people were coming to court him, that was well and good. Then he wouldn't have to do all the work.

"I can," he said casually, giving the young man a critical look with eyes and Rune. "So can the Railrunners. But if their price is too high, we could negotiate my help for your help."

Hazel eyes softened a touch and he put out his hand to shake.

"Aurin." He paused. "You're more than you seem. Tell me more about yourself and the others for whom you speak. The Myshalarai gave me a deadline, though. And who knows how long the Grymalka's stone will last without more magicking." He knew a little about necromancy, but basically just enough to know he didn't know anything, which was supposed to be the seed of wisdom, but really just meant he had no idea what he was doing.

But even if he hadn't been given a deadline, he wanted to knock these goals down quickly and expeditiously, get whoever wanted out of Zaichaer out with him and with Urs, and get back to his responsibilities in Kalzasi. He didn't like being away from Torin, either.

"All right, Jacq," he said after hearing the young man's story, weighing it against all he could sense from the man's aura, from the flows of aether around them, and even the other young Whisper keeping an eye on them. "You help me trap the soul of Imogen Strauss in this little bauble, the Myshalarai take me into their bosom, and in a couple of weeks, you and your fellows come with me to Kalzasi. I'll set you up there, or you can keep on moving if you prefer. Now..."

He waved off whatever Jacq might have said, perhaps sensing sentiment he didn't want to deal with in the moment. Then he waved to the hidden Whisper, calling them over to converse. Aurin opened the file and began spreading things out, letting them chime in with local context as he began to formulate the plan.

It all went down the next day.

The Whispers were as good as Jacq's word, perhaps because their survival and freedom were on the line. But Aurin had them maintain a safe distance; he didn't want to endanger them and he didn't want them to help more than they had agreed to, lest Eshar deem his kill unworthy—he didn't know how twisted the games the Myshalarai played could be.

They helped him tail Strauss' secretary, and he was able to finesse the man into a drink, the which allowed him to take the man home, read every document he had upon his person, and assume his identity the following morning. The sleeping draught would keep him out for an entire day, so with luck, he would just bumble into the Order of Reconciliation the next day with no idea that his supervisor was slain.

The members of the young coven went over the entire apartment looking for any information that might be useful or valuable, and they were surprised when Aurin assumed the man's face and form, even masking his aura. A couple of them kept glancing between him and the prone form of their victim, amazed and suddenly feeling a bit better about their own chances. Aurin led the way out, gave the all clear signal, and the witches left the scene of the crime. They took up positions far enough away from the entrance to the Hall of Reconciliation to be safe, but close enough to his probable points of egress to help should he need it. He told them he wouldn't need it.

The soul gem was kept in a lockbox, and he managed to get by with a smug, self-satisfied smile, nodding vaguely to anyone who recognized his façade as he followed the path that had been mapped for him. At his desk, he read everything he could, hoping—as his new friends had—to come away with this with some intelligence to sell as well. And he was pleased to find that Strauss had no meetings that morning; he ought to have time to do his business and depart with plenty of time to avoid alarums.

"What's that?" she asked as she walked up, tossing her summer-weight coat onto his desk peremptorily.

"A gift from the Grymalka, I believe," he said.

Her lip curled with distaste, then her gaze cut to him.

"What's the matter with your voice?"

He coughed dutifully. "Allergies, ma'am."

"Bring it in, then." She swept past him into her office. Instead of hanging up her coat, he folded it and tucked it into a drawer. Picking up the box, he followed her into her office and closed the door behind her. She was already rifling through papers, standing at her desk. When he set the lockbox down, however, she shooed him away, set her papers aside, and opened it. The soul gem was inside, bound up in a ward-stitched silk handkerchief.

She slapped at her neck as if bitten by a mosquito, but Aurin's hand was already out of the way, the needle with its paralytic already delivered.

"There we go," he said, gently easing her down into her chair. "I apologize that this has to be drawn out, but the contract was specific. It would be infinitely more difficult to bring you to the necromancer, so I'm bringing the necromancy to you. Ghastly stuff, really, but effective. You have some powerful enemies, Madame Sentinel."

Aurin didn't drop his guise, but the confusion in her eyes gave way to rage all the same. Her mouth opened as if to speak, but her jaw could only twitch. He nodded. It was now safe to turn his back upon her. Quick fingers untied the handkerchief, laying it out in the bottom of the box and placing the gem in the center. This was, apparently, not how soul gems were normally created, but some elder among them had primed it and the complicated glyphs picked out in thread would ensure that the transfer was complete.

The door opened, Aurin's borrowed eyes shooting up to find a platinum blonde androgyne walking in. "Apologies for int— What—? Traitor!"

She pulled left, Aurin's blade missing her face and planting itself in the door behind her; it closed with a snick. He vaulted over the desk, and she met him halfway. What ensued was a knife fight, dirty and desperate. She gave as good as she got, older than he was by two decades, at least, but honed like a weapon. He had to respect that, though it ended abruptly when a flurry of his blade sent her back, knocking Strauss out of her chair. The woman glanced into the box, then coughed up blood, and then things started to really go awry. Ever muscle in her body went tense, and a ghostly mist began to pour out of her mouth and into the lockbox.

"Fuck," he grunted, then bum rushed her, but even with distance between her and the soul trap, the umbilical of spiritual energy just grew longer to accommodate. "Fuck." Aurin lifted Strauss bodily from the floor, bent her over the lockbox and slit her throat with practiced ease. She made a sound that might have been a response to pain, or perhaps the existential crisis of one who would soon bleed out, blood and soul. Her body froze much like her would-be defender's, the blood invoking another umbilical.

He had an idea how long the process would take, so he took that time to bind his wounds before glamouring over them, and then he set about confusing the crime scene. He knew enough about investigating to mitigate anyone's ability to do so. When he had obfuscated his tracks and the corpses went limp, he rolled up his sleeve and shoved his hand into the cooling lifeblood of the two women. His questing fingers found only shredded remains of the handkerchief; perhaps the aether going through it had torn it apart. But the gem itself was cold to the touch, and once he cleaned the blood from it, from his hand up past the wrist, it glowed coolly, as well. There were two motes of power circling each other within, and he could only hope that meant both souls were trapped. He hadn't wanted anything to do with the blonde woman, but as long as Imogen Strauss' soul was intect within the trap, he would assume the Myshalarai would honor the contract.

The lockbox was Order issue. He retrieved his weapons, his tools, and then he locked Strauss' office behind him.

His face and form changed several times before he exited the building; he was even able to sneak up on Jacq, who was looking for him.

"Meet you at the pub tonight," he mumbled, and then took a circuitous route back to the Market.

He wasn't Aurin again until he arrived, and as he made his way to the Menagerie, he willed his shoulders to relax.

Eshar's pet was bartending again.

"Tell Eshar to bring me flowers," he said, ordering a drink and taking up his old seat again to wait. The black rose wasn't supposed to come at the end of the contract, but then he wasn't Myshalarai—yet.