Shadow War [Cult of Donjon]

[Plerumque]

Shadow War

Spoiler

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Characters:

Fiddler
Carticle
Harvestman

People seem drawn to Vale, like moths to a flame. The inescapable attraction, the knowledge that it can't be good, but desire, one of a thousand kinds, brings them here. You wouldn't think it- on the surface it's a perfectly normal city, where people go by their business in daylight, laughing and talking like they hadn't any care in the world. The only thing that might give them away is the little flicker in the corner of their eye. Watching, always watching. In Vale, you have to watch. There's no other way.

And yet people keep coming. Perhaps their head is occupied with fanciful visions of a city of wonders, perhaps their dreams are of a darker sort, filled with the glitter of gold and the shine of steel. Or perhaps they come to Vale because they are seeking something: the answer to a fiendish riddle, the cure to a terrible ailment, the key to something they need unlocked. You can get anything in Vale, the stories say, and the stories would be right.

Vale does have a governor, faithfully elected year after year, mostly because he's smart enough to not try and mess with the real leaders of the city. In the more typical matters of the city, he's fairly competent, and does a decent enough job keeping the city running smoothly that no one feels he needs to be replaced. The police force is a pack of brutes that are under no one's command, except ostensibly Vale's governor. They take what they want in the name of protecting the city. In some ways, they're worse than the mafias.

And at last we come to the mafias. They're where the heart of the city is, after all, its past and its future. There are three main ones in the city at the moment, though there have been many more before. The name depends on who you ask, but everyone knows who you're talking about regardless. There's the Associates: enforcement and brute force, mercenaries and soldiers by nature but not to be underestimated on the political battlefield. In order to get inducted into the Associates, you must give up your previous life entirely, and you must prove this by killing in cold blood the person who was most precious to you. There's the Cartel: smugglers and thieves and backstabbers. They supply most of this continent with the drugs that they cook up or import, but in the process, most of them get caught up in the cloth of artificial happiness they're so eager to weave for others. Finally, the Guild: they do pretty much everything the others don't, and some things they do. The thing about the Guild, though, is that its members don't traffic in gold, silver, jewels. They'll take your soul, your voice, your beauty, as payment for a service, but only the lowest of the low ever touch currency.

Vale isn't run from gilded palaces, elegant manors, even crumbling fori. It's run from shadowed alleyways, abandoned warehouses, crowded docks. It's shaped by deals made from behind locked doors and its inner workings are hidden behind thousands of layers of secrecy and intrigue. Vale is a city of masks, and if you're to live long there, you'll have to learn to wear one yourself.

[JanusJones]

The Spider

There are creatures who think and creatures who feel.

Fiddler is a creature who knows.

Fiddler knows it is time to breed. Time to nest, time to build. Time to hunt the prey for young to feed on, to grow in.

Fiddler needs a safe place.

Safe places are best in dark near the light. Light draws food, and dark keeps Fiddler safe. A dry place, for egg sacs to grow fat and rustle with new brood.

But others come to feed near the light.

So a place with no others - or others weak enough to kill and eat. This place - this Vale - is full of life. A good place to eat and grow, with many dark corners to hide. But the others are plentiful. Hide and grow, then strike and eat. Find a better place, grow more brood.

Spin, spin, spin.

A warehouse near the docks - a place where many drunken sailors go, the poor and the ignored. A sewer, or a belfry - a loft or unused attic. A place no-one goes, right in the middle of where everyone is. Everyone that no-one would miss.

Spoiler

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Step one is to find a hole to hide in. Step two will be to begin recruitment. Step three will be to find prey - weak prey with better hunting grounds.

[JanusJones]

Spoiler: Chapter 1 - Finding a Nest

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Fiddler's using Scent, Survival, and stealth to prowl about the likelier areas in tiny spider form. He's a spider, and he's using instinct to locate a likely nest as much as planning. He'll use Camouflage if the area's particularly crowded, and have his companion stay hidden (she's not as sneaky as he is).

I'll make a few scouting runs:

Dockside warehouses:
Hide: (1d20+36)[53], +10 for camouflage.
Move Silently: (1d20+20)[35]
Survival: (1d20+12)[16]

Shanty town (slum loft or basement):
Hide: (1d20+36)[41], +10 for camouflage.
Move Silently: (1d20+20)[35]
Survival: (1d20+12)[19]

Junkyards, sewers, etc.:
Hide: (1d20+36)[48], +10 for camouflage.
Move Silently: (1d20+20)[28]
Survival: (1d20+12)[19]

[JanusJones]

Spoiler: Chapter 1: Feeling the Web

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Realized I should throw in some Spot and Listen checks to overhear what I can about the local setup. I'll be down to do some Tracking (I have said feat) if I hear of or observe anyone of particular interest. Worth mentioning I have darkvision 60 ft. and Tremorsense, so I know when to skitter and scurry.

Listen: (1d20+18)[36]
Spot: (1d20+12)[16]

Listen: (1d20+18)[38]
Spot: (1d20+12)[24]

Listen: (1d20+18)[36]
Spot: (1d20+12)[26]

[Plerumque]

Spoiler: Chapter 1

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The city is vaguely divided into four wards: the market and trade district, by the river; the upper-class residential district; the slums, which are the largest part of the city by far; and the administrative and scholastic ward, which is the smallest and not really a district at all, just a cluster of establishments that don't fit into the categories.

By the docks, you can easily find a few empty warehouses. Cargo is constantly being loaded and unloaded, as Vale is quite a center of trade. However, a not insignificant portion of the warehouses are operated by the Cartel, and they wouldn't take kindly to a stranger muscling in on their territory. Still, you'll have to do it sooner or later. But yes, finding an empty space isn't an issue, it's staying hidden there that's the problem.

Slums? Take your pick. The majority of the city's population resides in the gutter. The slums have intricate networks of contacts and personal bonds just as much as the others do, though, so you'll still have to step carefully in order to not attract the attention of the other mafias, who each have a large presence here. You'll be entirely unmolested by the city police, but I don't think that's what you're worried about at the moment.

For sewers, belfries, and so on, I'll assume you're referring to a place in the residential or administrative sections of the town. It'll be a bit harder to go unnoticed here, but you can find a place from which to overlook everything that goes on in your web. The other mafias have little to no presence here, although the Guild, as a more high-class establishment, has a bit more than the others. The police will be nosing around much more, though you will have much more chance to influence the running of the city.

I'm not describing specific places at the moment, just advantages and disadvantages of the relative locations. Once you pick one, I'll give you a few spots to choose from. Sound all right to you?

[JanusJones]

The Spider

Too many others. With so much prey, many come to feast.

Start where no one sees, but even the smallest shiver sends quivers through the web.

A high place. A place without ... competition. Time for them later. Now, a quiet place, high and away. Hunting will be difficult, but no more than in a place with many eyes and ears.

She can rest there, and grow the brood.

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We'll take a belfry with a view, thanks. I'd also like to keep an ear open for fights - territorial disputes, maybe extorted merchants, etc. Anywhere there might be an underdog who would appreciate someone making his "problems" disappear. Either a smaller gang leader who would want a rival or foe assassinated, or a normal merchant behind on loans who would appreciate the in-house protection and provide a good secondary staging ground in return.

[Plerumque]

Fiddler's web hums as each gnawing conflict beneath the deceptively calm surface of the district reveals itself to him. Everyone who's in Vale has a reason to be there, everyone has their own personal battles, and the wealthy are no different. Perhaps more so.

There is a woman, Lise Moreaux, a schoolteacher addicted to the latest designer drug, called Prism. Her contact in the Cartel is threatening to sell her out, and she would do anything to avoid the fate that would await her then.

There is an ambitious aasimar in the police force, who feels that the process of justice and righteousness is being delayed too much, and who seeks an assassin- discreetly, of couse- to aid it, starting with his immediate superior.

There is a paranoid politician who believes that all three mafias and the police are out to get him. He's 3/4 right.

There is a rich author who discredited the Associates in a novel and is now fleeing for his life. No sense of style, the Associates.

And there are a thousand more.

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Honestly, describe your preferred case and you can probably find it. No shortages here. Later there'll be more important cases and stuff you have to react to, but for now I'm fine if you help set up the world as well.

[JanusJones]

Spoiler

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Oh, I was going to - I thought you wouldn't want me just stating where I set up and why! I was trying not to step on toes ... my bad! I'm gonna go get some DIRTY done, baby!

In my "home base," my companion will lay an egg-sac. Yep, the vermin druid knocked his own spider up. Bug values - it's not about all the weird, squishy stuff it's about for mammals - it's a breeding imperative, and about function. She's going to stay and protect the eggs while papa goes out to pay them bills.

Give me a day - I'll post soon.

[Plerumque]

Spoiler

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Ah, okay. I misunderstood- my bad.

[Eonas]

Carticle

It's a warm night, but I feel deathly cold. I wander the slum alleys alone, searching for someone to bite, maybe somewhere to stay. I can't stay in Kurylenka's old home anymore - it feels wrong, and anyway the gangs might have their eye on it.

I've got to cut myself loose from the old way of life, maybe make something of myself now. Hard to believe that less than two weeks ago an eternity of servitude to Kurylenka yawned before me. But now there is no servitude, no Kurylenka, and probably no eternity.

It took me an entire two weeks to realize that simple fact. I don't age, but I can still die, and if I do die, it's for forever. This is my last shot at the world, so I have to make the most of it. No longer will I hide in the darkness. Instead, I shall reign in the shadows, make myself somebody worthwhile.

But first, blood.

Spoiler: Dinnertime

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All right! Basically finished the character, and ready to play now. I figured maybe I'd start with something very concrete, just to get used to Carticle's character. Then I can start planning and scheming.

Carticle looks for someone walking alone in the slums, someone looking vulnerable. Preferably when there aren't a lot of other people walking around.

Due to his hat of disguise, he looks different than normal: taller than usual, with short red hair, darker skin, and dirty peasant's clothes.

Disguise: (1d20+21)[35]
Spot, if necessary: (1d20+3)[4]
Listen, if necessary: (1d20+3)[19]
He's going to ping the person with Detect Magic, concealing his casting (Conceal Casting skill trick, Sleight of Hand vs. Spot).
Sleight of Hand: (1d20+14)[34] Wow. Too bad the roll's wasted on something probably not very useful.
Spellcraft, if there are any magical auras: (1d20+14)[26]

[Plerumque]

Carticle waits, and eventually the street clears out, for many of the temples to various gods and powers have services at the same time. He waits longer, and eventually there's one person who was enough of an idiot to walk down alone. A young man, looking like he hasn't yet quite grown out of adolescence and still has more than enough knees and elbows to go around. A shock of brown hair covers his eyes, and although his gait is loping and awkwards there's the telltale bulge of the hilt of a weapon beneath his long coat.

[cameronpants]

Harvestman

Another night in the Wet. This time was my fault; I'm man enough to accept it when it is. I just couldn't let sleeping dogs lie.

Kell should have kept up his end of the bargain- tossing me to the dogs like that, like some trick up his sleeve, reserve scapegoat- that was just too far. I couldn't let him get away with that. No chance. I have standards. I have a reputation I need to live up to.

But the fact that Kell, the one guy I knew I could trust- thought I could trust, I guess- turned me over to the Runners was hard to wrap my head around. It didn't track, either. Kell had been on the level, straight with me: I get him the Lily, he gets me the fresh bodies. Having a taste for flesh was bad enough; having to eat it almost cold was unbearable.

Ghoul-this, monster-that. I'd heard it all- but never from Kell. Kell fit in with people like a snail fit in with hummingbirds: living on the same scale but entirely different speeds. Kell was meticulous, slow, and half-mongrel. No wonder the city shoved him into the Hallows to act as mortician and gravedigger.

Too bad for Kell, but stroke of blinding luck for me.

He used me. He tossed me out to the Runners, the slag-head junkies that owned that racket down off the concourse. He turned them loose on me, narcing on my intent to purge, sell, repeat...

Those bodies were mine. I traded for them right proper. No Runner slag-spawn gonna take them and tell me where and when I can trade their bones. Not a chance.

But they saw it differently.

So another night lying low in the Wet, floating a few dozen meters from the reef. Floating on that water was as safe a place as any to lie low- no deep-fish nearby big enough to chew on me... not that they'd chew on cadaver anyhow. Slag-spawns sink when they hit the Wet, so they'd need boats to start looking for me. I'd see them coming a mile back.

I can also see the night sky out here; counting, endlessly, the multitude of throbbing lights. Incandescent curtains of lights shower down onto the city, most of its inhabitants blind to the beauty of it all.

Poor Kell. He shouldn't have turned on me like that- we had something good going. Now I owe the Necs another half dozen frames, I have no supply for food, and the Slag-head Runners are on my trail. I need to find a new trench, a new market.

I need a new ally.

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Harvestman had a deal with a pseudo-undertaker of the city: Harvestman would steal/buy/haggle for Lily, a drug, for fresh(ish) dead bodies to feed on. He would then take the nicer skeletons to a small gang of Necromancers to use for whatever purposes; organs he didn't eat would be traded to other flesh-eaters or any witches that he happened to meet along the way.

The Runners are Warforged, Incarnate Contructs, Mastermakers, Half Golems, etc. They are a 'courier' service for some of the more underhanded companies and transactions out there. Harvestman was fingered by Kell as being central to a significant export set up that the Runners had been investigating. In reality, Harvestman has nothing to do with it. And because he ghosted Kell, Harvestman has no way to clear his own name.

Nights are spent floating out in the bay where he can't easily be snuck up on.

[Eonas]

Carticle

I look over the boy. He doesn't register as much of a threat, but the voices in my head tell me to be careful anyway. So, considering myself warned, I lightly step over to stand in his way, and make eye contact.

They tell you wonderful things can be achieved with eye contact. And they're right: eye contact is almost magical, communication at its most primal. What they don't tell you is that like all communication, eye contact can also be a type of mind-control, if you only know how to channel yourself into someone else by mesmerizing them.

Spoiler: Domination

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Make a DC 22 will save or be dominated, little bloodbag.

[Plerumque]

The young man's step falters and he looks up, straight into Carticle's hypnotic eyes. His posture immediately relaxes and the light in his eyes goes out. "Hello," he says, as if to an old friend.

[Eonas]

Carticle

Trivial. The living are so weak-willed. Telling the boy "Don't make a sound, don't move an inch, don't struggle, and don't worry. You'll be okay.", I slowly lean down to bite his neck. I relish every moment, every new pull of fresh blood - every gulp of vitae is a delicious, euphoric echo of that moment when Kurylenka Embraced me.

However, I only drink for a few seconds before I step back to chop his head off with my longsword. Then I lick my lips, and magically wipe myself clean of blood. Time to begin the real hunt.

Spoiler: OOC

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He sucks on the boy for only two rounds, and then hopefully he can coup de grace him? If the first one fails, Carticle goes and take another swing. And the magical cleaning is via Prestidigitation, in case that wasn't already obvious.

Carticle spends the next few days checking out bars and old streets for people to Embrace. He's mostly interested in young adults who show potential and look particularly twisted. If you wanted, we could simultaneously roleplay through several encounters with various people who fit his criteria. I figure that since with roleplayed conversations posts tend to be short, we could fit 5-10 different conversations in a single post without it getting too long. Does that sound reasonable or a bit much?
A simpler alternative would be just if you summarized what Carticle learns about various people. Or something.

By the way, in my posts I'm often narrating large chunks of text and taking liberties with defining what everybody else does and what the environment looks like and stuff. If I take a liberty that I shouldn't have (like maybe assuming the boy does nothing at all), correct me and I'll edit my post.

[Plerumque]

Spoiler

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Sorry it took me so long to get back to you. Sure, that's fine. I'll post a bit about a number of potential victims, then, and you can ask for more information or strike up a conversation as you wish.

Carticle walks the streets for a number of days, beneath the rain and fog and stars, and sees not just people, but prey:

Alexander, an apprentice to a small, disreputable 'Guild of Physicians and Medics' operating out of a run-down building in the slums. Cuts people up for fun, like most respected members of the guild. Supposedly involved in a Burke-and-Hare type scheme that went sour and is now on the run from the police. Still has hopes of graduating and getting paid for what he already enjoys doing.

Jean, a previous member of the military who now spends most of his time in a drug-addled haze where he doesn't have to confront his own guilt from the wars. Easily provoked and often does things he regrets afterwards while under the influence, which means to drown out his fears he acquires more and more illegal substances, which means he does more and more bad things, and so on. Trapped in a vicious cycle that can pretty much only end with his death.

Vivienne, a young woman working as a dancer in various pubs and less savory establishments. Owes massive debts to various moneylenders, sold her voice to the Guild to help pay them off, but they're still looming. Her best chance is to find a rich man who would take her on as a wife or at least a mistress, but she has refused repeatedly despite several offers.

Malik is a member of the Cartel who made a bet with one of his higher-ups, one that he knew he couldn't fulfill but didn't expect to have to, as he cheated. Unfortunately, the other guy cheated better, and Malik has to pay up or the Cartel is threatening not to take his life, but his young daughter. They would raise her as an orphan, a child of the Cartel. In order to not lose her, Malik has to kill a captain of the police force who's been getting in the way of the Cartel's shipments upriver.

Andreis happens to be that captain. He's staking his reputation and his life on this particular case, and though he knows that the Cartel doesn't care much for him he'd never have thought they'd try and kill him. He's got plenty of people with that job already, both from within and without the police. Vale has robbed him of his once optimistic outlook, and he has had struggles with depression, though never resorted to the common solutions. He has the unusual and possibly unwise habit of patrolling alone, as usually watchmen are only ever seen in packs.

Connoire, a member of the aristocratic class of Vale, who would never be seen in the slums if it weren't for an unlikely romance between her and a handsome street urchin, a love that transcends class barriers- or so Connoire thinks. The street rat in question, named Davos, is playing her for her money, a fact clear to everyone except Connoire. It's not the first time Davos has pulled this con, either. He plans to get another few hundred gold out of her and disappear.

The Rat King, a small legend, a half-real figure whose presence lurks in the sewers. No one knows much about him, beyond graffiti scrawled in pipes or on walls, murders committed in his name. It's said that he once murdered eight men and women on one day, each corpse found as if it had been gnawed to death. No one ever found the culprit, and it slowed after then. One body found chewed on every two or three months, maybe. A drop in a bucket in a place like Vale's slums. The murders were always attributed to the Rat King. No one knew who it might be, but it gave some comfort anyway, knowing that it was local, home-grown murder. Recently though, Carticle has identified a few different men scrawling the Rat King's name on the walls, and once one lifted the grate and descended into the sewers when he thought no one was looking. Perhaps there's a bit more to the legend than one might have thought.

Isolt, who runs a small shop by the river, selling all manner of curios and oddities as well as a few genuine magic items. She also does the occasional job for the Cartel, making sure that a few more specialized items get to their proper owners. The thing that she's really interested in, however, that all of this is merely the vessel for, is secrets. She's sold something to near everyone in the Blackriver district, and she holds them all in the palm of her hand. She rarely, if ever, uses any of her power, for a secret's not a secret if it's been told, but ever so often she'll give it a twitch, just to make sure all the links of her chain have been made properly.

[JanusJones]

The Spider

He knew we couldn't make vig. Knew it.

Its why he leant us the coin up front in the first place.

Bastard.

He leaned on the counter - my counter, the one I'd put together from that good piece of lumber that Frida found in port, with the lovely driftwood edge with the salt-stains still in, but like it was meant to be there. His grubby hand leaving a greasy paw-print on my counter. Like it was his.

And it was. That was the worst part.

"See 'ere, now, Tom, I know yer workin' yer 'ardest to make this place work out. But me, I'm a businessman." That stinking leer.

"And yer' know, business is all about investment, yeah? I puts some coin down, you makes it grow. It don't grow, then I ain't in business - and if I ain't in business, friend, well neither are you." This with a fat finger in my chest. I fought a sudden urge to snap at it like the hungry dog in the alley, the one that kept coming around since Frida fed it some crusts one night, just bite the damn thing off, spit it in his face.

Like I wasn't three feet tall with a mouth full of rot. Like I wasn't me. Good ol' fat Tom the barkeep, friendly ol' Tom who's always ready with a beer and a grin and that pathetic, needy look I see every night reflected right back at me in Frida's face. Poor Tom, down on his luck, had to borrow from Sharky to get his place started, but you know what business is like near the pier with no hard boys to hang about ...

Stupid, fat Tom.

I could read it in Sharky's beady little eyes, and the worst part - the part that made me feel like puking my fat guts out - was I couldn't argue with him. He was right.

"So 'ere's what's gonna 'appen, my fat friend - yer gonna 'ave another two weeks to make a go of it. Not just doin' what you do best, which I assume is fillin' mugs and eatin' yer profits, since yer gut's so big and yer pockets so empty." Here Sharky leaned down again, his bushy beard almost scratching my face. "No, my friend. Yer gonna be sellin' somethin' better. And a lot of it, too, or next time I have my discussion with that little thing you keep round 'ere. Pretty little thing ... and I likes 'em little." He grinned, and the stench of whatever greasy meat made the gorge rise in the back of my throat. "Little and wiggly. I bet she's a screamer, yeh?"

He straightened to his full height - almost seven feet of heavily muscled, thick-skinned thug. Pulling something from his pack, he tossed it on the counter - a package. Wrapped in oilskin, rectangular, bound with twine. "That's two-hunnert worth. Going rate is twenny a dose - you measure it with your scales, about an ounce. You want to make sure they don't take it round 'ere - nobody'll 'assle you, but they won't be good for business. You make that two hunnert work, I'll consider it a stay of execution."

"But me? I'm 'opin' you don't. Give me an excuse to show that little girl what a man-sized pecker can do." He moved towards the door, not even bothering to look back. "I bet she screams. I do like it when they screams."

The curtain over the doorway fell shut on the rainy street. It wasn't long - probably only a minute or so, though in the silence of the pounding rain it felt like forever - before Frida crept out from the backroom and I felt her arms around me.

"Oh Tom. Oh baby."

I felt a nameless thing in my throat, stuck but trying to rise. The only reason worth living, the one perfect thing in the ****hole I'd made of my life, and I was going to **** that up too - she was feeling sorry for me. I could feel the bulge in her belly in the small of his back, a tiny, warm roundness, a stirring life.

The curtain pulled back again, and we both jumped.

[Eonas]

Carticle

Alexander.

Rotten to the teeth and mad as a derro, just the way I like 'em. He's young, committed, impressionable, and better yet, desperate. There isn't a thing berks like him - and me - wouldn't - and haven't - done in order to further our art. And I like that. I like that a lot. Enough for me to want to make him dream the big, bloody dream. Enough for me to want him to be my very first vamp-kiss.


So that's how I find myself standing in the Smiling Fiend on a cold night (not that it matters - every night's cold, when you're undead), looking like one of those dames who'd just as soon kiss you as kill you. I'd picked the disguise carefully, like it was a costume for an 8-hour play: human, about 28, hair like soot, dangerously low-cut black dress, and a general air of having softer hands than knuckles.

I glance around the Fiend. You can learn a lot about a shop just by looking at it, like what its contents are.

Spoiler: OOC

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I just realized upon reading JJ's post that I haven't really been getting into the whole hard-boiled-film-noir-omnipresent-cigarette attitude that I was initially aiming for. Well, here we go now.

Taking 10 on the disguise check, for a total check result of 31, counting the Hat of Disguise.

Spot check: [roll0]
What sort of things is the Smiling Fiend selling, how well-off does it seem to be, how many other people are in the shop, what are they like, and what are they doing?

[Plerumque]

The shopkeeper smiles a bit too wide as Carticle enters, looking suspiciously from side to side. "Most excellent to have your business today, madam. Might I inquire what your pleasure is today?" He leans uncomfortably close to Carticle and jerks his thumb over his shoulder. "What madam is most likely looking for would be in the back. Can't put the real goods in the window, can we? That'd just be inviting trouble." He leans back, the smile reappearing on his face as if by magic. "Although I can assure you we have many quality products out here, too. Only the best, only the best, or we couldn't call ourselves the Smiling Fiend." He nods sagely and steeples his fingers. "So, what'll it be? Or would madam prefer to merely have a look around?" He spins a key on one long finger.

Around him in the store are arrayed a variety of curios and faintly-magical objects, many of which would seem to have concealed purposes: unmarked scrollcases and books with plain paper jackets, trinkets and models of every conceivable nature- Carticle notes what seems to be a three-dimensional model of the overlapping planes on prominent display, which seems to be warping space ever so slightly in its vicinity- feathers, eggs, and scales from unknown creatures, phials filled with glittering dust or opaque liquids, mirrors and picture-frames which show not the views you would expect them to, stacks of lustrous jewels and coins from every known nation beneath a sign that reads, 'Exchange', and a host of other wonders.

[Eonas]

Carticle

I smile thin-lipped and wave a shiny gold coin inches in front of the shopkeeper's face, like a girl playing with a cat. "Madam would prefer to know if you've seen a half-elf. Yea tall, hair like straw, name of Alexander. Madam would also like to know where his lab is."

[Plerumque]

The shopkeep draws himself up indignantly, although his eyes follow the coin. "Madam, if I were disposed towards revealing my customers' personal information, exactly how long do you think I would stay in business, in this part of town? Exactly. I am no more likely to say where the young sir's lab is- even if I knew- than I would be to comment on his choice of whores. My lips are sealed, madam, and no doubt you would appreciate the custom if it were you who had the location of your own sanctum being bought."

Spoiler: Sense Motive DC 16

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He is, in fact, lying about not knowing where Alexander's lab is. Surprise!

[Eonas]

For a moment I fight irritation. Stay in character, Carticle. Dominate the berk and you can be on your somber way again.

I lean forward towards the shopkeeper, so close he can smell my prestidigitated perfume again, and look him straight in the eyes. "Madam would really like to know where Alexander's lab is. Wouldn't you like to tell her?" I whisper.

Spoiler

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Dominate, DC 22. The guy'd better fail the throw.

[Plerumque]

"Of course," says the shopkeeper, suddenly smiling brightly, a bit too wide and shiny. "Third Manticore Street, it's in a basement under an abandoned alchemist's laboratory. Now you'd like to buy something, wouldn't you?" Even hypnotized, his base nature seems to reassert itself under the enchantment.

[Eonas]

"Maybe later." I toss the coin at the man and spin on my glamered heels towards the exit. "Mention this meeting to nobody, or Madam will get cross." I say, dress flapping in the doorway like a dirty red curtain.

Third Manticore Street, under the alchemist's lab. I love eye contact.

Spoiler: OOC

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Going to look for the alchemist's lab, taking a moment to renew my disguise along the way.

[Plerumque]

The old lab is falling apart, but that's hardly unusual for a building on its street. As opposed to the teeming mass of people in their squalor that seems to usually fill the slums, Manticore Street is almost entirely abandoned. Perhaps that's why Alexander chose it. The laboratory specifically has boards nailed up on its windows and door, but that valiant effort would do little good to keep even a casual trespasser out. It seems like one good push might knock the whole thing down, like a fragile house of cards. Through the dusty windows, lab equipment in various stages of disuse and disrepair lie- broken glassware, twisted metal, alchemical stains over everything. The way to whatever might be sequestered under it is not evident.

[Eonas]

I fall apart into less than myself, flesh and blood giving way to spirit. I'm nothing but the voices in my head, with slow urgency drifting into the lab.

Then I come back together, myself again. What is 'Myself'? A corpse grieving a dead love? An actor playing a role for an audience that never existed? No - I'm nothing but a vampire, and the world's going to bleed for me.

Solid feet now touching solid ground, eyes bent towards the unknown, I search for the lab. I'm coming for you, Alexander.

Spoiler: OOC

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Trying something different here with the narration, something more like surreal prose-poetry than private-eye monologue. I haven't really been taking advantage of the roleplay opportunities offered by my character (being focused more on film-noir atmosphere than the fact that my guy's an artsy-fartsy angsty lonely lunatic) and want to start now.

Looking for an entrance to the lab, probably under the floorboards or concealed in some piece of furniture. Taking 20 on Search, for a result of 23.

[Plerumque]

Alexander hasn't gone to any pains to conceal the entrance- in some kind of twisted way, perhaps he wants people to find him out, beat him at whatever game he's playing. Or perhaps he likes visitors in a different way; wouldn't be entirely unexpected given his reputation. Whatever the reason, you find a metal, hatch-like trapdoor set into the floor, new and promising the gleam of ill-gotten wealth. There's not even a lock, which promises one of three things. One, the boy's crazy, not that that's a surprise. Two, he's overconfident in the placement of his secret laboratory. Or three, as you might guess already, there's an altogether more sinister reason for him to be so confident.

Spoiler

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Also trying something new, through narrating in second person. Still working on how to make it feel gritty, though.

[Eonas]

What secrets do you hide so plainly, Alexander? I'll uncover them, lay them bare before me, subjugate them to my will, and with them you. The voices in my head agree.

I dissolve again and float through the door, nothingness the perfect key to any lock.

Spoiler: OOC

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I like second-person, and don't sweat the whole gritty thing. I like the game as it is.

[Plerumque]

The laboratory below is as dirty as everything else on these streets. Some of the instruments are red with rust, others with dried blood. The only thing in the room not covered by the thin layer of grime is a row of knives carefully laid out, which gleam. Dusty bones and preserved organs are arranged on the shelves in a carefully-labeled display, but a few are also put to other uses: shelves of tomes with skulls as bookends, a light-globe fastened to an upright femur. It's almost as if he's putting on a show for someone. An operating table dominates the room, thankfully empty at present. Alexander himself, of course, is gone.

[Eonas]

Spoiler: OOC

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Hey, well, I dunno if you're interested in picking this puppy back up again, but I'm game if you are.

I converge into myself again, vapor transmuting into substance, and search the room. What diaries do you keep, Alexander, what items are nearest to your soul? Unfold your mysteries, or I'll pry them open like clams, grasp the pearls within, and crush them in my palm.

Spoiler: OOC

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This, I fully realize, is the kind of prose at which I'll look back in a few month's time and cringe. Oh well. Right now it's sort of fun to write.
Anyway, taking 20 on search for a 23.