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Mykur: The thorn imperium

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Condensation huffed beneath a dashed in mustache as he looked through the clouds, out from a the veritable Tech Mountain, to the East. Skeletal word, like tingles up the spine, had found its way up the chain to Cain. Word of something left, or perhaps something unfindable. Unattainable.

Aidni, all over, had been tropical inside its biome atmosphere. Seven leagues and 20 seas, scores, scissors, whatever. A few miles under the ocean, Aidni had possessed its own atmosphere. There were three gardens then as there were now, but the mountaintop Garden Ichthys had once been a lush grassland imbibed with the crystalline shine of its stretching calquartz trees. Now though, that the Ginger God had dragged them to the surface lands, Mount Ichthys— the endless expanse of tropics— was no more. Blown to smithereens, as some might say. In the underwater mecca’s place was a cold, sharpened peak— Tech Mountain. Panels of steel orbited around the mountain’s upper hemisphere, puppets climbing across their surfaces affixing sensors and solar power panels to keep them calibrated with very sensitive gravitational pulls emitting from the mountain itself.

Now word came down the mountain. It crossed the seas on dead lips exclusively and found its way to vagabonds of the most sustainable sort; killers of the killerest magnitude. ‘When you look a certain way and see a something you want, we can give it to you,’ said the whisper from the gaunt, icy-eyed puppet that approached each of them on legs driven by eldritch and far-reaching power, ‘serve us and we shall give you wings to fly to the ends of Valucre.'

“Visas, check. Mask pellets, check” the ginger, wearing brown slack and a black tunic open at the chest, held up a small black pill to the three present. His face did not change at a noticeable rate, but at looking away and returning one’s gaze it was clear that his facial features were constantly shifting. Nothing notable about him remained the same for long. “Personal effects, some extra gold, your guts. Everyone good?”

The personal effects were a bag given to these individuals by a skeletally masked figure on their first discrete approach. Inside the received black messenger bag, wherever the selected recruits were when they accepted a call to join the hands working behind the curtain, would be three things. The first was a black ring which, when worn, dulled the wearer's ability to feel pain. The second item in the bag was a golf ball sized circle of matte grey fabric. The last object was a dossier containing details on where to meet for shipping out should the given conditions be accepted.

A public Genesar airship carried the four into Genesaris. Across deserts pocked with warping sandstorms of random and terrifying proportions, lush grasslands, and over unimaginably forests they went. Dr. Amantis, an associate of the Dead, had acquired the visas associated with these particular peoples’ faces so they could access Genesaris on a visitors’ basis. Once inside Genesaris, they would make their way to Jorah City. This hub of magitech innovation had an underbelly teeming with crime of all levels of fidelity. From pickpockets to illegal art connoisseurs, a creative individual could find any degree of right or wrong they wanted.

“We’re going to meet a contact at Hero’s Lounge who says he’s found something… unprecedented,” said the ginger as the group pulled up to a public drop-off zone and passengers of all races and proportions disembarked. The aisle was tight on the way out, but the ginger found his way out quickly. There was nothing for them to look suspicious about, because in essence this wasn’t even a criminal journey. It was, in a sense, a breath of fresh air for one of these tryouts. That was why an unexpected face had tagged along. Or rather, partly why.

Waiting for them to gather outside, the ginger led them down a crowded street. Jagged towers of steel curved and sloped over them in the form of exuberant buildings interwoven with laced jetstreams from all manner of aircraft. The group was, by all means, concealed by the sound of the dense city but assumably perceivable if anyone wanted to technologically listen in on them. The ginger was wary.

“So,”: he said, walking in front of them. Neon signs were visible up ahead which read ‘Hero’s Lounge,’ “we’re meeting up with this guy who trades stolen museum art. Says he disguised his goons as cops and raided an old as dust vampire. Got him with a holy spell and he gave ‘em the key to his vault. Inside… well, that’s what we’re here to find out. Only his goons could take on a vampire, and he knows the reputation of the people he’s dealing with. Guy likes to flash his wares, so expect these vampire fighting goons. I don’t want trouble, and he knows me, so maybe one of you can try to see what he wants for the information? You just tell him we can give him just about anything,” said the ginger with a wry grin.

@Die Shize @Sentient @Ataraxy

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Music

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Sound Presence: OOC

 

 

The Plague That Walks

‘When you look a certain way and see something you want, we can give it to you.’

 

When the whisper had slithered inside one ear to exit the other, their skull wasn’t sure where the snake’s head began and where its tail ended. The body of that skull, in turn, stood frozen on the castle’s parapet, gazing down at a cold world whose comforting chills had crept up his pale skin just like the serpent that had come before.

 

“What I want?”

 

His voice called into morning’s fog, his black eyes looking at lands lost beneath nature’s smoke. Amid his misty breath and the murky breadth beneath a stone wall erected high above, the man in the black mantle could yet make out enough of his surroundings to ponder the question. Moors, fields, hills. Ride seven hundred miles that way, four hundred miles that way, three hundred miles that way. It didn’t matter. It was all still the same realm. And the realm was not his.

 

‘Serve us and we shall give you wings to fly to the ends of Valucre.’

 

The man looked up again, this time with a sigh. The clouds overhead; vessels puffed with pride. They ruled those skies and they knew it. No airship could best them. If it tried, all the clouds had to do was unleash the torrents and let the rains wash over their hulls, with not a soul to hear. He smiled, then, but at a different thought.

 

“But I already can fly.”

 

With that, the man in the mantle planted one foot upon the edge before the other foot followed, and he fell. Down, down, down he fell, plummeting beneath the castle wall, until his body shifted upward and he took to the skies and the clouds that called to claim him.

 


 

A skeleton, a bag, an airship and all such time later, and there Averitt Dumaer was, walking down a street in Jorah City of Genesaris. Slabs of meat flanked his every direction, some minding their own business, others making it their business to mind his. They didn’t matter. He didn’t matter. Still, given the mantle that draped from his being like the night’s curtain, he was sure to earn a few gazes here and there. The closest comparison to how black this garment was would be that of the Vantablack material, though this ‘cloth’ was of a whole different caliber. It was among the darkest substances known all around, absorbing nearly one hundred percent of all visible light, if not swallowing it whole.

 

Amid the getup, the man in the mantle had a pale complexion, heightened by baldness amid a chiseled countenance crawling with the carvings of rage and joy that looked much the same. Where eyes were embedded within his skull like any other humanoid’s, there were two black moons where irises should have surrounded pupils. He used those eyes to gaze upon the would be tour guide and recruiter for the three candidates that included himself. It was fortunate that they were close to one another as the Ginger spoke, what with pedestrian pandemonium and the thrum-boom of the vessels in the air as pregnant with pride as the clouds stretching far above them.

 

Hmm, museum art. That had brought a smile to Averitt’s face. He might have stroked his chin but his hands were too busy stroking something else in the pockets of his mantle, one of which had been found in the gifted black bag. Vampires, is it? He didn’t like them very much. The feeling was mutual. At the Ginger’s grin, Averitt was swift to return it with his own, while pulling out a jar of whose identity would be unmistakable at a glance.

 

“Does he like peanut butter?” He looked about the buildings. “I’m sure I can buy more around here.” With that, he opened the lid, dipped his finger inside and gave it a good suck. “Mmm. Yes. JIG is one of the best brands, bucko!” Then he scooped some more out with the same finger and offered it to the Ginger. “See for yourself!”

Edited by Die Shize

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Jorah’s denizens covered themselves in cloaks and turbans, masks and hijabs of all sorts. The reason why became quickly apparent, dust sweeping down the city streets in a nature similar to dirt gathering in cracks in cement. The effect of this atmosphere was nearly suffocating but Cain, whose facial features changed on a constant basis, bore face first down the whipping street with a furrowed brow whose countenance altered from great to diminutive in stature. Generally, all Dead were to wear skull masks when on duty— even tryouts groups— but when Cain took others out he did little to conceal their identities. In fact, as the Dead reclutched notoriety with him at the helm, the reasons behind his changing facial features were obscure. His red hair alone was becoming a trademark that narrowed the search down too much for most peoples’ liking.

Cain was anything but overt in his challenge of the powerful, but when he came for somebody’s life he lunged for it; dove for it with all his might and being in an eloquent, ferocious manner that dwarfed the man he molded himself to be presumed. The airs and tools he honed were equal parts unassuming and terrifying, both in impression and utility. Black, the thief merchant, was not one of the powerful with whom Cain wanted issue. Perhaps it was because Black was an incredible underground asset to the Dead; perhaps Black scared him.

Even on the coattails of Averitt’s gesturing toward Cain’s ever-morphing visage, the man in black put his hand palm-down over the jar. The motion was calm, not violent or reviled; no thank you, it said, maybe another time.

“Please don’t take that out in front of our quarry. Black is his name, and he usually demands to be taken seriously,” said Cain. “Just remember, one of you has to act like you’re in charge. We may need to barter for the information of where this sword is, but like I said. Offer him what he needs.”

The group entered the Hero’s Lounge. Immediately they were met with pulsing lights of purple, yellow, and green. Seven stages decorated with poles lit up the ballroom. Human and elven women, sirens and sprites flitted up and down the poles and amongst the crowd with trays bearing drinks. Cain, who usually like to make a big scene, removed a skeletal mask from his blazer and lowered his face into it. The suit didn’t look around or hesitate, just led the group left and skirted along the wall to a doorway outlined with fluorescent red dots. Before the doors were two guards.

“What do you want?” One said. Cain looked at the others from beneath his mask. Typically skeletons didn’t have the authority to answer that question, and his goal here was to minimize the weight of his presence.

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A warrior. A survivor. A champion. 

A badass. 

Joanna Vyse figured herself to be all the above. But in truth, she really didn't know what she was. Who she was. All her life she'd been raised to fight and trained to kill. There was a playful twinkle in her eyes that sometimes gave a contrasting view of that upbringing; right up until they engage her in a fight. She was playful because she was unstoppable. Playful because she would play them as if they had the minds of children. Playful because they were toys to her. Objects to be played with. Her life had a single driving goal: to win at any cost. If that cost was death, there wasn't a bone or thought in Joanna's being that would hesitate to do so. 

Lately, however, that hadn't felt like enough. In fact it had begun to feel like so very little. Almost nothing if she was being honest. The excitement of death battles had long sense faded, as had her enjoyment of toying with the other fighters. The rare challenge could still bring a smile to her face, but she needed something else. Something more. Something different. A brief, though informative, discussion with her mentor later and Joanna decided what she needed was an adventure. To do more in the world besides just win and kill to win. 

That, and she wanted to discover who she was beyond what she was or what she did. 

To that end she'd gone out into the world and had been quickly recruited to try out for some mysterious organization. Seemed fun. So she'd agreed to the try out. All she needed to do was help get a sword- how hard could that be?

When the red-haired man, the one Joanna decided was in charge and might make for an interesting opponent, asked around to see if any of them wanted to take charge, she kept quiet. At least for the moment. Her expertise was in combat, not verbal stratagem or politics. But, after the other man offered to give the art broker peanut butter, well, she was at least better than him. At the same time Joanna noticed the dark pits he probably called his eyes and could've sworn they almost glimmered with amusement. If the Dead had invited him to their ranks he probably wasn't that dumb. The man was either tactically proficient in disguising his intelligence or had been dropped as a child. She could only wait and see. 

"Please don’t take that out in front of our quarry. Black is his name, and he usually demands to be taken seriously. Just remember, one of you has to act like you’re in charge. We may need to barter for the information of where this sword is, but like I said. Offer him what he needs.” [Cain]

Noted, she thought but only nodded in response. 

“What do you wa-” One of the guards ask with an slightly irate tone. Joanna instantly took charge of the situation and interrupted the guard, following the First's request for someone else to take charge. The small black spheres that had been bobbing silently around her beginning to squirm, amplifying the displeasure Joanna was shooting the guard's way.

Her face transformed from an expression of serene observation to one of annoyed authority in the span that it took the guard to realize someone had cut him off. "That is none of your business," she snapped with a sneer. "Do you dare assume you are cleared to hear what your employer hears? Open the way to Black. Now. Or I guarantee he will not be pleased and you, well. You certainly won't be pleased either after experiencing the consequences I have in store for disobedient grunts."

To much? Maybe. But powerful snobs in positions of authority usually were. So too much was likely just right.

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The masked skeleton behind Joanna watched as she crassly addressed the guard who had approached her. Cain was as a diminutive figure in the dim background as the guard appraised Joanna. Had her response been too much? Maybe? But the point wasn’t for her to be bffs with the guys either. The guard stood down, picking up on the impetus of her words to mean that these were the people with whom Black was to meet, and the topic of discussion was both important and too private for the guard to know. Cain knew it was too private, because the fact that the item in question even existed was little more than myth to the people of this region.

“Alright then,” he said, unlatching a velvet rope in front of the door, seeming suitably placated. “Right on in.”

Walls, carpet, the glow all over the Hero’s Lounge were dichotomous to its name; black mass and neon rays of crimson light skewering the blackness, skewing the perception. When the guard opened the door to Black’s room, however, there was but an office lined with bookshelves and lit by two candles; one on his desk, one on a small pillar nearer the door. Behind a desk that bespoke unbelievable weight and ornamentary, upon a chair that neither swiveled nor leaned with his feet propped on the desk, sat Black with an open book in his lap.

Black looked young, but was a ghastly white visage with shocks of black hair matted to his forehead and neck. He donned all black, like the Dead operative behind Joanna.The shift in his green eyes to address them was barely perceptible. He flipped a page absently before saying anything.

“Who are you?” finally said the man who looked to be in his thirties, as if he hadn’t expected any company.

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Shikai breathed heavily as he ran down the crowed streets to get to the club where he knew that Cain and the others would be meeting Black. He had been out on personal business when news of the mission had spread, and he had raced to catch up as soon as he heard. The pale man was growing frustrated as he tried to make his way forward, feeling like he was swimming upstream. Finally he'd had enough, an he jumped into the air and bounced between the buildings around him until he reached the rooftops. Now that he was away from the crowds he felt like he could breathe again, and he quickly located the building he was looking for from his better vantage point. After that, it was a quick run to the club.

From the rooftop he quietly made his way into the building, and soon he was on the club floor. The place was thick with the smell of sweat, booze, smoke, and drugs; and it took him a moment to pick up Cain's scent again. Once he had it, he found that it led into what looked like a private room. This proved a problem, as he wasn't sure that the guard would let him in, and he didn't want to put his leader into an awkward situation by trying to get in. For now he would sit at a table with a good view of the room, and wait to see what happened.

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“Who are you?” Black asked.

Still maintaining the persona of someone in a position of great importance, Joanna lowered her tone so that it held more authority than it had with the guard but also with much less bravado. "Who I am doesn't matter," she answered, implying he didn't get to know. "What we are, however, does. It is a matter of great importance." Her words came out as deep and gravely behind the skull mask, her fair and feminine features hidden and disguised. 

"We are the Dead," Joanna continued. "And we are here for information regarding the great Genesaris sword Mykur. A few of our... acquaintances have noted that you are the man to ask in regards to the great blade." She opened her hands in mock surrender. "And, of course, we are open for negotiations should you desire something in return." Her words were gracious and amiable on the surface, but below and in-between held trained expertise in negotiations. She'd moved the ball so it was no longer them asking Black what he wanted in return, and was instead position Black to be the one who had to barter for their information or item of barter. 

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THE DEAD MISTRESS3FrTBNR.jpg


Unlike the others, the white-haired woman was the most knowledgeable when it came to the legendary Genesarian blades. It was part of her responsibilities after all, especially when she's the owner of the legendary artifact Baeoi, the blade of Both. While the offensive capabilities of the said sword might be a bit tricky, but its ability to seal the power of its other sister blades was what propelled the woman to seek out the other Genesarian artifact. Once she knows the location of the blade and its current owner, the woman can now start trolling them by appearing out of nowhere just to prove her dominance over their weapon.

That and the prospect of recovering another artifact thrilled her. One can call her an artifact hunter if one were to count the number of times the white-haired woman had acquired an artifact. After hearing that there's a lead to finding Mykur, one of Baeoi's sister blade, the woman headed to that one specific club where the other's had been waiting. All she knows right now is that Cain and possibly Shikai are already there. Well, she knew Cain had some business around but for Shikai, the man was so too much. His recent antics were too showy, too obvious for the naked mundane eye. Like, who blatantly jumps on rooftops by the way?

Chuckling, the white-haired woman sashayed into the club. She paused for a second, taking the opportunity to look for a familiar face and her eyes finally landed on one queer roof-jumper sitting all alone on a table. The woman made her way to the man, deposited her wrapped blade on the table and then taking her seat. Without looking at the roof-jumping man, she produced a stick of cigar from her coat pocket, lighted it then placed it firmly between her supple lips.

After a few lungfuls of cigar smoke, she turned her attention to the person sitting across her. "Hello, friend."

@danzilla3

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"Hmmm," said the ghostly, ghastly figure leaning forward. His hand closed the book, which looked and sounded as if it should have produced a puff of smoke but did not, with a clap. Setting it on his desk, Black stood. He was thin, but even in the motion of setting his book down the flexion of his forearm bespoke physical conditioning on the white clad man with a black mane. "I think yes, but..."

Black stood. It wasn't easy to see, because everything in the candlelight of the library-like office was a velvet cacophony of every-layered darkness; but when Black stood, the deepest layers of shadows in the office's corners, as monotone as a color can be, seemed to shift with him. He brought a forefinger to his chalk chin, carelessly bagged eyes fixed heartlessly on Joanna, as if he could make considerations based on the little information he'd given him.

"I have heard of the Dead," he said, walking with one hand in a pocket and the other ushering the book back into its dark slot. "Heard how you like to deal in the shadows. I suppose it's fitting you could mention them openly here, but what's less fitting is that the bastard who sent you would do it to begin with." After slipping the tome away he turned with a finger swishing through the air in patterns around the room. "I also happen to have heard about a vault the Dead keeps, which is where things like the pretty Mykur go when you get your bones on them. There are applications, submitted to whatever you have for higher-ups. Well, I want to be able to apply too, and you can't deny me if the artifact isn't in someone else's hands."

Black's demands were a little steep, but on the agreement that he come help them get Mykur after telling them where it was and a couple pounds of gold, he agreed.

Walking out of the black office into the redlit nightclub, led by Joanna so as not to look suspicious and still masked so as not to alert Black— who had bad blood with Cain— Cain spotted Shikai and Madame. His masked form wouldn't be immediately obvious to them, but as the entourage passed by he gestured for them to follow. Once a meeting time had been agreed on for their excursion and the groups split off, the skeleton standing between Shikai and the lady unmasked himself to reveal that it was, in fact, Cain. They were standing, mostly casually, in the mouth of an alleyway in the busy afternoon rush hour.

"Meeting at 2400 tomorrow evening," he said, shaking his hair out and itching a hand through it once or twice. "There's an art show venue here called Mons Swerve, apparently frequented by a high-profile art connoisseur who's purchased the blade. I don't know if I trust Black, but he says he'll be there and get us alone with the guy. His name is Keli, a real flamboyant fella. Anyway, see you tomorrow! Dress the finest, prepare for the worst."


The next evening around 2300, near Swerve, Cain stood in a sharp black suit. It was perfect in its simplicity. Even his wild hair was tamed into a practiced wildness that managed to look somewhat fashionable. Farther down the starlit block from him, there were skylights that splashed great beams into the night sky. Cain had one hand in his pocket, the other dangling before him a tiny golden orb from a chain wrapped around his middle finger. When he shifted his yellow eyes on the approaching group they lit up, snatching the gold sphere in his hand and pocketing it inside his blazer— the attached chain draping across into the outer pocket on the other side.

"You all look ravishing! My stomach is rumbling just looking at you. Before we meet with Black, does anyone want to be my date, or am I flying solo?"

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Shikai glanced over at the new arrival sitting at his table, "Ah! You're the Mistress right? I think we met at the victory party..."

It wasn't long before Cain and his followers came out of the room, and he discreetly signaled to him and the Mistress to follow. Of course, at the time he hadn't known it was the boss, and hadn't until the last moment, but as a member of the Dead, he knew to pay attention to skeletons. It sounded like Cain had everything planned out. Now all they had to do was pull it off, and try to survive. Simple and uncomplicated.

In theory at least.


The next evening he had managed to find a nice outfit, and made his way to the meeting point, where he grinned at his bosses greeting.

"Why thank you! I'm never sure what to wear to these things."

When Cain asked if any of them would be his date, Shikai flipped his tophat onto his head, and walked forward to loop his elbow with Cains, "I'm game, if you'll have me!"

 

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The Dead Mistress only nodded at Shikai. The acrobatic person was actually an undead thingy and the Mistress had enough under people in her life. Still, she needed to play nice so it's best for her to socialize. "Yeah. Well met."

Soon the base appeared and the Mistress found herself trailing Shikai to where ever they are going. She has seen Cain long enough that she could easily recognize him even under that edgy mask. Still, it was best not to be too familiar with the leader. After all, she has her own interests as well.


 Then came the next evening and the Dead Mistress is back with a rather passable dress. Unfortunately for her, she's doesn't feel comfortable wearing it. Her yellow eyes lit up as both Cain and Shikai found joy in each other's company, leaving her all alone.

"I guess I'll be flying solo then," she spoke, a bit dejected, "Hope you two boys enjoy each other's company."

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Shikai had already attached himself to the undercover supposed First Officer. The ginger’s presence was a confusing one. Perhaps more unsettling than a clear disposition was somebody who wore a smile on their face, but let just enough slip through the eyes for the keen observer to know something was amiss; somebody who carried with them one of the Dead aurae. Cain’s was one of something hungry. Something suppressed. Why, if he had reached such lofty status that he do what he like in the shadows, did he still walk among men?

“None of us are flying solo,” said Cain. While the rest of their exchange had been relatively lighthearted, his were hard words. His extended arm was not a request.

The three walked in together, arms linked, and it wasn’t even a strange sight. There were crossdressers, dancing waitresses, peacock feathers and confetti. In glass cases and open enclosures were obnoxious art fixtures and sculptures. Crowds of people surrounded them all, some harnessing the attention of larger groups than others. One such display had acquired quite the entourage. Picture flashes splashed across the alabaster installment.

Upon a slab of black granite, feet sinking in as if the neverending sink were impending, were planted two muscular legs. Instead of one figure extending from the naked male waistline, however, were two torsos. The arms were twisted together in struggle, hands pushing against one another as if trying to separate from one another violent. Their faces were twisted in pain, irisless eyes gazing off in despair infinitum. 

There was one man before this landmark who stood above the rest. He wore a pretentiously cocked stetson and round spectacles, a black turtleneck and pants, and flipfliips. His skin was as pale as the fluorescent light, the only visible hair on his body the painfully triangular soul patch perfectly centered beneath his lower lip. He did not speak to the paparazzi, he did not smile, he did not so much as alter his posture; the windows of Keli’s spectacles, pressed against his very eye sockets so as to expose nothing beneath, gazed unwaveringly through the crowd. It appeared as if he was looking at the operatives, but as they probed around the left side of the group, his neck did not shift. He simply stared ahead, arms folded as his work and him were photographically admired.

“Who are you?” Suddenly, Black was standing beside the Dead Mistress. Even wearing a white shirt with a black tie and black slacks and shoes, all of strikingly good quality, his scruffy black hair and bagged eyes tagged the entrepreneur of the Hero’s Lounge a real bum. His blank eyes indicative of long staring and lights in the darkness looked incapable of great surprise; they simply reflected matter-of-factly on her.

Then his eyes made their way past her, to the red-haired man in the center, and perhaps a glimpse of surprise could be seen. Then, deadpan disappointment.

“Are you here to kill me again?” he said to Cain, who looked off and pretended the moderate buzz had drowned Black out. Black was no stranger to Cain’s tactics, and so directed them toward Keli.

“So this is Keli’s display. The thing about his works is, people worry because they’re so realistic that he’s been abducting people and using quite real examples to create his sculptures. Looking at this sad beauty, it’s not a far cry from possible. He’s the one who knows where Mykur is though, so he’s the one we have to get close to. There is an auction for this piece at the end of the night. Can we use that to get close to him? Any ideas?”

Black looked around, Cain having disengaged his arms from Shikai and the Mistress and pointledly making his way away from Black. The operatives had been made aware earlier that the Dead had no shortage of resources to work with here, including financial, so the possibilities were endless given some creativity.

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