Poetic Souls
Sunday, December 14, 2014, 6:00 PM
Everyone needs money.
The sign mentioned a sobbing mother, and family woes. It was marked with tears along its delicate paper. ...and also underneath: BIG FAT REWARD.
Well. That's why you're here. Most of you. Some might be motivated by gold, some might be genuinely, motivated by the parental plight hinted at in the missive, the tears of agony suggested. The tragedy.
Raethon isn't here for the reward, but for a genuine interest in helping the woman. SO he makes his way for the room with the large desk, and waits off to the side....reading his book as per usual.
Tiasa makes her way into the room. The large sith smiles as she looks around, her tail trying to keep from sweeping into any chairs or people. She needed work, after all she has a healthy appetite. She glances around as she leans against a wall, waiting to hear more about what is needed.'
While perhaps lucrative in the long term, Alba's poisonous conscience is becoming positively irritating, lately; first a hike to the mountains to milk a manticore (posthumously, to her relief), then a trudge out in the snow to savage a band of ogre-led raiders (admittedly fun, in the bloody sense of the word), and now... a sobbing mother. A more alien creature to the Veyshanti's mind, could only be found on the planes. Now knowing what to do with the blubbering woman, and assuming that someone else might, Alba simply goes with her default action; looming, faceless, probably needlessly intimidating silence, comfortable in her shaggy fur cloak and blank, carved-bone mask.
Stirling shoulders into the room, looking fully prepared to take on a small army. A large black firearm on his back, massive chrome fists and a belt full of syringes, ray guns and other contraptions. Theres even a furnace on the back of his armor that emits a low hum. "Alright, who needs to be smacked around?" he announces.
Bahken is totally here for the fat reward. After leaving the mercenary company a new source of income is rather vital, and before taking up residence as the singer in a tavern, more lucrative work would always be nice. He looks around at the other folks gathered to take on the contract. For a moment he looks somewhat forbidding.. his dark eyes looking into their very souls. Then his lips part and a gleaming white smile reassures one and all, a friendly nod of his head is given in greeting.
"It's terrible...he was such a good boy, you know. SO good..." the grieving mother clutches the guildman as she's guided into the room. The sign was right; it spoke the truth. A first time for everything, perhaps, and she does clutch at the guildsman's robe, who pats her occasionally, saying "There, there," as he leads her into the room.
He pauses at the door for a moment before continuing...and drawing her to one of the chairs. She sits, falling into the supportive device as a wilted flower, the tears having long since dried.
He pats her shoulder for a moment before turning and giving each of you the gravest of looks. A serious expression.
And clears his throat. "It was good of you to come. There's...I'm afraid some awkwardness in this situation, as well as tragedy. It...well, you see, her son..."
"He was a poet," whispers the mother.
"Yes, well--"
"A very -sensitive- boy..."
The guilder twitches once, twice, a few times before forcing his smile into place...
"We'll pay you." He says. Gritted teeth.
"Such a sensitive, SENSITIVE little boy...not his fault..."
Sniff. Cry.
Raethon says, "We'll find him, don't worry." he says with a sigh. "How old is he? What does he look like? Where did you hear he was going? When did you see him last?" Standard questions."
Tiasa nods and looks at them, "What happen to boy?" after all all they said was ackwardness and tragedy.
Bahken arches a brow, "-was- a poet?" he asks quietly. He steps closer to the woman, gently laying his hand on her shoulder, and kneeling to look into her eyes, "Shhh shh shh. It will all be alright..." he promises her, "Then looks up at the man and looks towards Tiasa before returning his gaze to the man indicating that her question would be the most useful to answer.
Stirling rolls his eyes and makes a motion with his hands to hurry things up "So what happened? Kidnapping? Murder? A mime? Do we need to kill someone? Perhaps set your son straight so that he can pursue a worthy career like the military or artifice?" he offers. "Perhaps he's been brutally beaten to within an inch of his life by gnome thugs?" Stirling clearly understands how to deal with sensitive issues.
"Such a sweet..."
"He summoned monsters."
"They weren't monsters! They--"
"...they're expressions of his inner soul. Yes, yes. Well...councilman's son and all of that. A bit addicted to the moonsugar. He--"
"So SENSITIVE..." goes the mother.
"WILL YOU LET ME GET TO THE POINT?!?" he snaps, and the woman draws back, almost CRINGES...before looking down at her hands. ...and arranging her handkerchief.
Delicately.
"...he's a sensitive boy," she mutters, and then reaches up to clutch Bahken's hand before sniffling again. A well of sorrow.
Oh, boy. Perhaps that's why the figure on contracts, laid upon the table is so large. It's outlined in red ink. In case any of you might you know, miss it. It's very large.
Stirling nods "So your son is an evil monster summoning demon? Got it, he will be dead by sundown." Stirling says firmly.
Tiasa turns and stares at Stirling for a moment and then looks back. She is just really confused.
Raethon sighs a bit and lightly bonks Stirling on the head.
There are times when Alba is very grateful for her choice in clothing. Especially the mask. Because somehow, head-decoration that has no face is just better than a glazed, blank stare.
This? This is one of those times.
Raethon looks towards the woman and sighs. "Ma'am. I understand you're worried about your son, but if we don't get the rest of the information, we'll be of no help to you." He says before looking towards the man. "Please continue."
Bahken squeezes her shoulder firmly and reassuringly, "No one will harm him..." before looking to the man.. He pauses to look at Stirling, "Shhhhhhhhhh" he says softly but insistantly to the man. Turning back to the man, "Sorcery talents?" he asks curiously, "or did he stumble upon something that let him summon these things?"
"He's in his room. At...at their manor. He's locked the door and refusing to come out," mutters the guildman. "Battlefuck knows what he's gotten into this time..."
"His poems were so wonderful. The teachers never appreciated them...he...he is NOT evil!" the mother snaps, and points a finger at Stirling. It's so classic.
He just might end up with the Evil Eye.
Except that Nice Young Gentleman is patting her hand. She sighs, and squeezes back in a way that says: You, you sir understand All of My Sorrows. Your Gallance is Unparalleled Among All Men. Something is passed to him. A handkerchief.
"Look, just...here's. Here's the key. See what he's up to and...here's a note with the address. A letter that explains everything." The guilder can't put them into your hands fast enough, and attempt to usher all of you out the door.
Once outside, if you open it? The letter does explain--well. It gives the address to a middling-grand house...it's about a twenty minute walk through the streets of the City...from Lower Alexandria and across the river towards the Upper City.
To those of who know the Upper City, the address is to a nice place, you know. One of those 'nice places.'
Also included is a key to a room. It asks that once the young gentleman is apprehended...to please deliver him to Captain Wethers of the guard. He's to be shipped off to an uncle. For...well. Just. Perhaps the country air will do him good. Perhaps for several years.
Stirling walks down the street loading thick shells into his massive black deathray. "Alright, we do this fast and hard. We storm in, drop whatever he has summoned and bag the boy. I will take lead." says firmly.
Utterly bemused, Alba sidles out the door behind the party. Once the door is shut, and the blubbering cut off, the masked Veyshanti leans in toward her countryman, muttering; "...Do all wetlanders go mad when they bear offspring?"
Raethon looks to ALba and chuckles. "No. She's a mother that is worried about her child." He says as he walks along the street. Once they reach the address....he taps a finger to his spellbook, and uses the spidery language to form a barrier around himself.
Bahken takes the hankerchief as he sets out with the others, He folds it and slips it into a pocket where it can be retrieved later. Stepping closer to Stirling, he suggests, "But what if he summoned something already that will attack us from behind when we 'storm in'. Shouldn't you take up rearguard? After all, I don't think ANYONE could protect us from what his imagination conjured up to attack us from behind better than you?"
The house--the manor--looks little different than the others, save perhaps a trace of added pink along its edges. Where one might define such a color as petunia, or sweetened salmon, here it has a rancid flavor, and the ait a touch of alertness, a touch of sharpness that the wizard among you might recognize as "that sudden and odd flavor which at times emits from the most curious of the wizarding Schools, usually only at three past, and only when the students have been drinking heavily."
Yes, that smell.
The door of the house is quite large--it looks as though it might open outward, and is made of standard materials, heavy materials, the ones as might be opened by a butler.
Of course.
There are a number of windows, several with their own balconies, which overlook the busy streets of Alexandria's noble district.
Alba looses a disgusted breath through her nose, pushing back the hood of her cloak... revealing a small, pale-green scorpion clinging to her hair. "You did not answer the question," she notes to Raethon. Bahken's question, however, causes the mask to turn in his direction, blinking slowly. "...Would it not be best if the one with the most meat moved to the back? Much more likely, that he will not be savaged to death if surprised."
Stirling shrugs "We may also be walking into a meat grinder of demons and worse but if you really want me providing backup I can accommodate." he says grimly.
Bahken makes a slight motion for Alba to be quiet, and smiles at Stirling, "Thank you, that makes me feel MUCH more at ease." Looking at Alba, he says, "Actually, I think she should be up front..." and leaning closer he whispers, "She seems a bit more reasonable than 'storm and kill'" Looking between the others, he draws his bow off his shoulder and then walks up to the door, giving it a sharp knock and waits for a moment to see if the butler is home.
Tiasa cocks her head to the side a little and looks around, while she waits to see.
At the rap, the door creaks open. Yes, it does creak, here in this nice neighborhood, with the acrid-petunia covering...and the birds overhead.
...was that one blue?
Well, the birds overhead, at any rate. And the door does creak, revealing...
...a stooped over man, thin yet proud, his lantern-jaw'd visage quite hanging near to the ground. He blinks at you a few times as though the light were quite unbeknowest to him and...
"Thank the lady you are here..." That voice could not crackle, could not cringle where it made any more out of cobwebs and risen just from Vardama's playground this last Tariday. He practically falls forward, and clutches at your shoulders. ...
...before taking down the street, on scare-crow thin legs and as fast as his anchient legs may run.
Now, the door stands before you into--what you can see--a pleasant looking room, if 40 years out of style, with large, poofy cushions and...oh. Oh my. Is that a portrait of THE Kurrak Jacobian? In quality, mana-tinted oils, lent authentic shimmer through the delicate application of gifted faerie's blood?
Why, it IS.
Tiasa blinks, "Man open door and then run, sure is place?" she looks at the others and then back to the door.
"...Now I am altogether comforted," Alba mutters sourly, as the scorpion in her hair flexes its pincers fitfully, tail quivering. "Either there shall be a great many monsters to slay, or there shall be one madman to give a sharp rap upon the neck. Either way, the day does not seem wasted."
Raethon whistles. "Now these are expensive." He says with a chuckle. "Dang."
BeagleHugs pages: K/local, profession/scribe, K/history, or perform/...whichever equates to writer would work fine.
Bahken nods to Tiasa, gently ushering her forward, "Yes, I'm pretty sure that's a good sign that this IS the place. He says moving a step behind her. He looks back over the others to make sure they're following and that Stirling is taking up the rear, "Don't forget to look up.." he suggests. He glances over the painting, musing.
BeagleHugs pages: He's a poet and author of some reknown. He was part of...some artistic movement you can't recall, but was known for his traveling works and stream-of-thought process, which was somewhat underappreciated at the time. His most noted work was that of a khazad tramp making his journey eastwards. He passed along after an argument with his father--he said, though the man had been dead for years, and committed suicide in the precise same way his old man had, through beer and an unfortunately placed rope.
BeagleHugs pages: Ah. That movement. The Undercurrents...known for its bluntness, mix of philosophy and hedonism. ...founded by youth against The Establishment, of course...but some very good things were produced, actually quite remarkable work.
The painting's eyes seem to follow you, and return the thoughtful expression in an almost measuring way. Mage-painting, indeed.
The room you stand in is comfortable, a touch dusty...and notable for its paintings. Yes, PAINTINGS. Each of different poets, each authors, perhaps and each of them watch you with the same, measured gaze. Oh, mage-painting INDEED.
They must have cost a pretty penny.
That smell from earlier strengthens suddenly, and then wanes. It's then you notice there are a number of doors left open, displaying other rooms. ...to left is a grand table, which must be the dining room, and to the right, a sitting. ...forward and ahead is something of a lobby...and a great staircase.
Stirling holds his deathray up, ready for any surprises "Careful, you can never be sure with mage types... place could be rigged to blow..."he says bring up the rear.
Tiasa moves along, waiting for something to fight, if it comes to that, that is after all what she came along for.
"Teenage rebellion," Bahken chuckles lightly, "You're the establishment now..." he notes of the painting, before looking at the others, "I think he's embraced the movement a little too strongly. Freedom, beauty, love... What he's summoned might be problematic, but we might be able to deal with him alright aside from that..." he trails off looking at the open doors. Looking back at Stirling he gives the man a slow nod that he is perfectly positioned in back considering those open doors might be where threats come from. "We should continue on upstairs..." he says.
"How many rooms does one house need," Alba grouses. "Whole clans could live and travel within this bottom floor, and not see a the same room but perhaps once every month..." Pausing at the foot of the stairs, she sniffs once, and again... "Hn," she says, grunting her agreement with Bahken. "It lingers, this much I may tell. Up, now."
Tiasa nods, "Lets go, these paitings I cannot fight, might be others I can."
Stirling shakes his head "This is what happens when kids dont get proper discipline. This magic is wild, undisciplined and unnatural. Should have gone to a military academy. " he notes grimly
Raethon says, "Iiiii don't think a military academy would help in this instance." He says as he watches all of this. oooooo pretty coloooooooors."
Tiasa makes her way up the stairs. That is after all where she was told that the room where the young man they are looking for is.
Still clutching his staff, Raethon stays in the middle, near the back of the pack. For a wizard, he's decently fit. Thankfully his mage armor is still in place.
Holding his bow in his left hand, keeps his right hand ahead of him, encouraging Tiasa to move up and also making sure if she stops and he's not looking at her that he's aware. "Think he knows were here?" he asks, noting that the paintings CERTAINLY do.
One of the paintings appears to wink at Bahken, after that comment. Disturbingly, it's one of a frail little man.
Another chuckles.
"I doubt that we are fortunate enough, he does not," Alba says, slinking up the stairs, chain shirt and silvered chain chiming faintly. "And if another painting laughs, I shall set fire to it."
BeagleHugs pages: Another of the poets, of a slightly different era. X)
BeagleHugs pages: Someone born of a stuffy era, and who spent his youth rebelling and eloping. A Lord Byron figure.
Stirling points his deathray at the painting "Prepared to cause a thermal incident if need be." he declares.
As you admire the paintings (the one of which keeps winking...in a lecherous way. Yes, the old one. Yes, the really, really old man...he winks at each of you, regardless of gender, his eyes wandering up and...)
...something happens. Something...
There's...there's shouting. Wait...wait...what is that? It's...
Yelling. Most definitely yelling--an angry youth, a gathering storm, it...
"...BALTHAZAR! I SUMMON YOU! BALTHAZAR, I COMMAND YOU, TRAP YOU BY MY MORTAL'S BLOOD TO DO MY BID--
...what the FUCK you smokin, kid?"
The voice gurbles, it blurthles. It doesn't actually come out like that. It actually comes out something like:
the fuck
you kid
smoking
--what?
Four and seven or seventeen voices, building and roiling upon one another. There's a large THUD against the door as it bursts open, leading into, leading into...
A room of your nightmares.
Black, blackest night--and oh, that's just the DECOUR. The lights are drawn, nailed over with velvet cloth, the bed in black silk and black, shimmering paint upon the wall...which would be laughable, were it not for the scrawny, skinny teen screaming and held high by the gibbering, tentacled beast.
battle. --fire
kid
Hello my name is
Hello my name is
Balthazaaaar...
Rushing to make sure the boy is okay, Raethon runs straight into.....
Ooooo.....look at all the pretty liiiiights! ooooooOOOOOoooooo What does THIS but-ton do? But soon I shal be back in the garden! HEYYYY Diddle Diddle!
"Balthazaaar," Alba breathes, shaggy fur cloak swept off and tossed into a corner. "The child. Release him." There's a faint chime, as a wickedly hooked length of silver chain is unlimbered from her belt, bounced easily in one hand. "Do this, and I shall allow you to flee when you have bled enough."
Bahken watches the doors burst forth, his hand tightening on his bow as he draws in a breath as if to say something and then is hit with something.
Stirling eyetwitches, then draws upon his traditional hob upbringing and files the Insanity away for later when he has the time for it. "Down on the ground and tentacles on the back of your head!" he bellows.
"Done waiting!" Alba shrieks, the cruel barbs flicking out, wrapping around the tentacle holding up poor foolish Moody, Lord Snivellington. "Bleed now!" With a mighty yank, she hauls her chain back into her waiting hand, the barbs tearing rubbery flesh free of the demon's tentacle.
Tiasa growls a bit and then calls on her rage and her muscels seem to swell a bit and her hands seem to ripple and shift and turn into claws. She roars and charges at the summoned thing, and takes a slash, though she misses.
Stirling draws a syringe and stabs himself in the thigh with it. "Alright big n' ugly. lets tussle." as he approaches the creature he grows twice his size to a towering 12 feet.
I met Murder on the way--
He had a mask like Castlereagh--
Very smooth, he looked
yet grom;
Seven bloodhounds followed him
The voice cajoles and sings, even as a slithery tentacle lashes forward...and it clings to the air, almost dripping and oozing. Oozing. It waves one of those tentacles at Alba, but the man's chain is buried in the flesh. Enraged and infurated, it lashes outward--tentacles turning to screaming mouths that attach to the sithmakar's hide...and with a SCHLORP, it yoinks the snarling creature into its mass.
The youth screams, attempting to stand. "I COMMAND Y--"
All were fat; and well they might ...
paged Raethon with 'The words the creature had said make sense...in a sense. They were recited from a poet of an earlier era than the poets depicted downstairs. It's perhaps a poetic (haha) view that this entire thing was an embodied clash of ideals--of one era and movement against another.'
Bahken continues to hold onto his bow and might be casting a spell as his lips move and nonsense spills forth. His eyes are blank though without focus, "A little lightly trees through the sing..." he says as he sees the moonsugar lights dance.
Dancing pretty lights! and all shall end up in flames! Oooooo! mister big shiney pants! BALL! *WHIFFKICK* WHEEEEEEEE! This elevator is FUUUUUUUN! What's an elevator? MEET GEORGE JETSON!
"Tchah," Alba spits, backing up as she gets... more or less bitchslapped, really... across the face with a goo-covered tentacle. Stepping back, she points an imperious finger at it, speaking a greasy-sounding word. "Better songs I have heard from the mouths of rotting goats," she declares, as a coruscating beam of light lances from her finger, sapping away at the thing's living strength.
Tiasa does not like to be inside this creature and growls in fury as she slashes at its innards, tryingto claw her way out, she does succeed as she pops out onto the floor, covered in slime and stuff, the thing screaming in rage.
Stirling raises both fists and brings it down on the blob, succeeding only in cracking the expensive floor.
All were fat; and well they might
Be in admirable plight,
For one by one
and two by two,
He tossed them human hearts to chew
The creature gibbers, throwing the boy to the side. The boy hits the wall and slides down it...he lands in a crumpled heap even as it turns its eyes, eyes, eyes to the lot of you, its mouths moving in a mocking unison...
Turned to mill-stones as they fell...
Tar launched itself at Alba, searing the witch's eyes.
Bahken shakes off whatever THAT was, and takes a deep breath again. In a clear voice that carries more power than any normal words, he sings out, "A little less conversation, a little more action please!" and the energy from the sound fills the companions who can hear it as he moves back with his boy, keeping the up tempo melody up.
Shaking his head, raethon looks at Stirling's butt and rolls his eyes. "Crap....confusion spell. let's do this right now." She then raises his staff off the ground. "HASTE!" and slams the butt on the ground, with clocks appearing near all of his allies and appearing to speed up dramatically.
What wonderful timing... The world goes black, sound slows down, and Alba decides right about now it's time to let the unwanted guest know just how much it's unappreciated. Her muscles tense and knot, a red flush creeping up the sides of her neck to accompany the pulsing veins. "SPITFIEND! I SHALL PEEL YOUR FACE AND WEAR IT FOR A HAT!!!" Which she does very passionately attempt to do... but, blinded, only manages to lacerate it once.
Tiasa whirls on the creature and her flaws blur as she slashes, once, twice and even a third time. Only one of the slashes manages to find purchase but it slashes deep.
Stirling gets slapped across the face by the monster and grins. "Oh baby, you should have told me you like it rough." he lets his great big chrome fists fly, landing a telling punch in the midst of the mass.
And the little childen, who
Behind his feet playd to and fro,
Thinking every tear a gem....
Had their brains knocked out by them.
The creature which is 'Balthazaar' lashes out, striking rapidly at those surrounding it. It strikes Alba once and Stirling twice, but the wizened, horrible tentacles fail to do much. Enraged at its loss, it spews that self-same tar at the glittering sparkleman, who fails to match the decour whatsoever.
Still humming that high tempo tune, almost too fast as his hands nearly blur as three arrows are drawn and loosed before he realizes it, but as they hit the blackness and are slurped up he frowns shaking his head.
Raethon watches the darkness quietly, even with his haste intact....and smiles. "Where there's darkness....." He then points his staff at the darkness. 'there's light.....SCORCHING RAY!" The entire staff lights up and zaps a beam of light towards the darkness.....burning a good portion off.
"PEEL! YOUR! FACE! ...You have no face BUT I WILL MAKE ONE WHEN I AM DONE!" Whipping her chain over and over, screaming litanies of stitchwork and taxidermy, Alba continues to punish the creature for daring to spit in her face. The fact that she misses as often as she hits... well, that's sort of secondary, really.
Tiasa tries to attack the monster and her claws just do not find purchase as it completely misses.
Stirling is slapped twice more but he continues to grin, however when he is spit at it he waggles a large chrome finger "Naughty boy, didn't your mom tell you not to spit?!" the last word punctuated by brining both his fists down on the mass causing it to explode and splash all over the room and people in the room.
And many more Destructions played
In this ghastly masquerade, All
Disguised
, even to the eyes,
Like Bishops, lawyers, peers or spies.
Last came Anarchy: he rode -- On a
white horse, splashed with blood;
He was pale even up to the lips,
Like Death on the Apocoalypse...
The shadow-shapes which are its tentacles coalesce, joining and forming in twos and threes, the small mouths forming larger mouths...the myriad sing-song continues in its multiple vocals, each over the other and back again, the words rending the lines roiling and spilling over one another as there was no beginning and no ending...and it lashes forward with its greater maws...
And the attack -never launches-. It never does. Already softened by your terrible blows, your cuts, your magic...it's then the artificer's fists make short work of it...and it coalesces, descending into BLACKNESS...
...leaving only the puddle, and the boy, the teenager...the NOT YET A MAN, who lies slumped against the back wall.
Stirling removes goo from his face "I call this painting, goo on walls."
Alba 's chain comes down on floor, where there was supposed to be a singing, leaking black thing of nightmare... and she pauses, pushing up her mask and wiping away gobbets of spit to reveal pupils shrunk to pinpricks. Pausing for a moment, she slows her breathing down... then slinks toward the crumpled form of the boy, grabbing him by his collar and lifting up nones barely a couple hairsbreadth apart. "YOUR MOTHER WISHES TO SPEAK WITH YOU," she breathes, voice ragged and a killer's grin on her face.
"Shut up." Raethon says as the puddle forms. He then rests the butt of his staff on the ground and looks to everyone. "Good work everyone." He says rather proudly before looking to Alba. "We really don't want to give him a heart attack after we went through all the trouble of saving his life.....do we?" He says calmly.
Stirling grins "Sure do, this boy needs to be set straight! Its the military academy at 5am sharp!" he announces.
At first the boy lies there sleeping...his head knocked against the wall. When he's shaken? he springs to life, eyes opening wide and bloodshot, baby blues staring at all of you, and his first words, his very first words?
"AM I A VAMPIRE YET."
Obviously, he is not. Obviously, the goblet at the edge of the summoner's circle is found to contain blood...and moonsugar.
This is one messed up kid.
Obviously, at Alba's words, his eyes go wide and he lets out a manly SQUEAK!
And kind of withers.
Stirling levels his deathray only inches from the kids face "Wait, havn't you heard about what happens to vampires? I turn those into art as well."
Raethon, upon hearing this guys declaration, walks right over and smacks him on the top of the head with his staff. "Dumbass. You want to live out a normal, natural life......or become a horrible undead monster and hunted by the Vardamen? I think the former is more acceptable than the latter." He lectures.....provided the staff doesn't knock him out. he then looks to Stirling. "I don't think a military academy will work if he's able to cast spells upon his intructors, Stirling. Someone needs to keep him under their thumb....and know of ways to counter his lust for power......or seal it away."
Alba lowers the kid away from her face... but apparently that's just so her pet scorpion has enough room to climb the side of her head, using her hair as a claw-hold. "I shall so terrify him," she snarls, eyes flicking toward the insect.... that... is apparently the other half of a conversation. "And so shall he. Almost it was that he killed all his household, chasing stupid, foolish, snivelling wetlander dreams..." Her eyes go wide at a thought, grin returning. "Perhaps we shall place him in the tombs for a day, to see what the dead truly look like...
Tiasa watches the monster fall and then just stares at the boy, "Someone smack him." she mutters and then shakes her head a bit. She glances around to make sure there are no more surprises.
Stirling grins "Nono, we will send him to the military academy in Blar, they can handle arsonists."
Singing softly, Bahken looks carefully into the boy's eyes, "Why can't we be friends.. why can't we be friends.. why can't we be friends.. we be friends..." He pulls out the boy's mother's handkerchief. "Your mother sent us to help you.. and you needed it too... You have to come back from this.. THIS is how souls are lose and lives are ruined.. I know you think of yourself as the Khazad tramp, or the old man's vampire.. But each of them were just flawed men who created beautiful things.. Focus on the beauty you can create, not the horrors and earn your mother's love.. not cause her misery..."
You're able to (with some grappling) get the young gentleman to the head of the Watch, a man without much, it is said, sense of humor.
Perhaps this explains why.
Along the street, most of the nobles, merchants, pretend not to notice you.
Some do.
Some can't help but STARE at the flailing young man who screeches, "I AM A VAMPIRE! LORD OF THE NIGHT! UNHAND ME, SERVANTS OF ANARCHY! COME WITH ME MY FRIEND, WE SHALL RULE TOGETHER!"
...and etc. Bahken is his best friend, now. Bahken and he shall be vampire-poet-lords together, in his mind.
It's very nice to be able to turn him over to the Watch's head.
Though by the look he gives all of you as you leave, he looks at you. Just looks. With an expression that says: YOU HAVE ALL RUINED MY DAY, AND MADE IT VERY BAD, INDEED.