Junktown Princes

[potatocubed]

Junktown Princes: In Living Colour

Junktown. A prosaic name for a place so far removed from the everyday world that one can only find it by getting lost. A place that stands an uncertain distance from everywhere. A place populated by cast-offs and leavings and the people no one missed. A place with troubles.

The first is a mystery. In a brownstone apartment a woman lies dead at the centre of a clock face, dial and hands painted in her own blood, twelve spaces neatly picked out in her organs, a four-petalled lotus flower cradled in her hands. What passes for a chancel police force stand around uncertain, knowing this is one to kick upstairs. The macabre timepiece says one o'clock.

The second is direct. A woman in a scarlet gown and a crimson shawl stands by a fountain in bright sunlight, brushing improbable snow from her clothes. The chancelfolk nearby grind to a halt, mouths open and staring. She is phenomenally, impossibly beautiful, all alabaster skin and long auburn hair, but her eyes are nothing but a starry void. Unconcerned, she removes her shawl to better clean it, confident that her simple presence will bring the attention she seeks.

---

OOC: The sudden arrival of the woman in red is obvious - the chancel is quite unhappy about her presence and lets everyone know. News of the murder reaches you through more mundane channels. React as you see fit.

[Maerok]

Cade finds himself behind a large crowd of people who fail to get out his way; pushing through them, he makes his way to see what the matter is. "C'mon people, I'm sure it's nothing you haven't seen before! Now get back to whatever you were doing or I'm going to..."

He breaches the barricade of people around the fountain and approaches what seems to have their attention. "Oh Hell no. What are you doing here, starry eyed one?"

[ArlEammon]

"A murder here, in our own Chancel." He said. Jakob was disturbed. "I had just learned recently I was some kind of wizard or something and now this...."

"Cade, how important exactly is this?"

[Maerok]

(He's at the fountain, not the crime scene unless you've been following him through the crowd.)

[ArlEammon]

(He's at the fountain, not the crime scene unless you've been following him through the crowd.)

(Just imagine that he's heard all the murmering of the crowd behind you and he hasn't seen the actual body.)

[Maerok]

(Ack, I didn't word that right. He's investigating the lady in red at the fountain.)

[rubakhin]

The speakeasy had been beautiful at some point. Still is, really. The frescoes on the ceiling keep on being elegant, even if the plaster is cracked. The art deco railings only wobble if you try to use them. And the lights everywhere are on the fritz - one of these days, God willing, a good electrical engineer'll get lost in a snowstorm or something and fix the infrastructure.

It's just that the place has fallen out of use. Or maybe it hasn't. Hard to tell in Junktown. The city breeds dust. The scent of neglect and age is more natural here than fresh air. One imagines that the building itself pulls the sheets over the tables and the grand piano when no one's around to see. Still, there's something homey about the place, something comforting - it feels preserved rather than decayed. Like the museums kids go on field trips to, or like your grandparents' house every Christmas.

Marek sits at the edge of the stage, feet dangling off the sides. The spotlight - so much dirt on the lens that the stage has freckles - hisses and pops. He shifts his guitar from his lap to his arms. The wooden stage creaks at this slightest of movements.

Twang.

He can't think of much to play these days. He runs his fingers up and down the neck, finding the familiar frets - the regular chord progression for twelve bar blues. Nothing special comes to mind.

I got to keep movin'
I got to keep movin'
Blues fallin' down like hail,
blues fallin' down like hail.

Nobody's ever asked him what a little teenage white boy is doing playing the blues. (And a European at that, although since being Ennobled he speaks English just as well as the rest of the family, and it isn't the chancelfolk's business where he came from.) Marek Pokorny, young and attractive as he is, looks like twenty-five miles of bad road.


And the days keeps on worryin' me
There's a hellhound on my trail
Hellhound on my trail.

Well, if absolutely nothing else good comes out of this Estate business, at least he's nailed Mississippi Delta English.

Footsteps; high heels. Marek's ears prick up.

"Gio! Gio! You best not have brought that boy in here! Ceiling's fixin' to fall on both of your fool heads! Markie honey, where have you gone?"

"No one in here but me, Rosalee." He doesn't look up from his guitar.

The door swings open with a shuddering groan. One of the chancelfolk appears in the threshold. Light streams in from the outside, casting her into silhouette. It suits her, in her shift dress and elegant hat. There's something not quite right about her - a little too slender, a little too tall, like a bad cartoon. A native-born.

"Lord, child, you look a mess. Half the town's out lookin' for you, baby. Something," she said, lowering her voice, "something heavy going down." She pauses for dramatic impact.

Marek squints at her for a moment, then goes back to his guitar.

"Mark!"

"I know," he says, slowly. "There's something, uh ... something not quite right here ... Showed up a few minutes ago." He coughs a little.

Rosalee sighs. "Then why, pray tell, aren't you out there doing something about it?"

Waiting for the cocaine to kick in. Whatever it is, he hadn't wanted to deal with it without a fresh line.

"I thought Cade would take care of it."

Marek isn't a very good liar.

To avoid argument more than anything else, he sets down the guitar, pulls on his beaten-up bomber jacket, and makes for the door, dodging Rosalee's red kiss on his way out. He isn't in the mood for a pecked cheek.

He goes left; she goes right.

"Wait," he says, "It's that way, whatever it is. Yes?"

Rosalee clacks to a halt. "What are you talking about? There was a murder, Markie boy. Down by the brownstones. C'mon."

Fantastic. Two problems.

[pingcode20]

Soon enough, the scene was interrupted by a man dressed in rags and a big beard storming down the street. His trademark bottle of brandy was clutched tight enough that it seemed to be on the verge of shattering, and chancelfolk on the streets wisely took a step back as he passed, dismissing any thoughts of

"Right, everybody move along, nothing to see here." he called, as he forged his way through the crowd. He was close enough to the Chancel to feel the woman's presence immediately, and, being the second most attuned thing to the Chancel (Emishetra was, of course, the most, and had shot him a look from across the Chancel) was as angry as the Chancel was.

When the crowd failed to disperse immediately, Kipple made his annoyance more obvious.

"Everybody move along or I shall make you move along!" he shouted. This time it seemed to have the desired effect, fear quickly dispersing the crowd, knowing the myriad ways in which Emishetra's second could make their life a pain.

The congestion issue having been cleared up, Kipple turned to the woman who had appeared.

"Right, as for you, what business do you have in Junktown?"

[potatocubed]

The woman takes in the Nobles confronting her as the chancelfolk slowly filter away, her spell on them broken by the arrival of their lords and champions. Her expression is impossible to read without the clues her eyes might give away.

"I am here to deliver a warning and to offer my assistance," she says. Her voice is steady despite the obvious danger she is in. "Oreute Bryde has made a Breakthrough. I know because I am part of it, and of her. As I speak, my six sisters busy themselves attacking the fabric of the world. They do not share their plans with me, and I am cut off from most of my power, but with your help I may yet be able to thwart them."

She looks like she is about to continue, but another arrival interrupts her. Lord Richard Bingham, the last Earl of Lucan and the current Erus of Junktown, marches into the square with two of his personal defenders - lumbering machines of cast-off stone and metal, animated by his will and magic.

"What are you doing?" Bingham splutters. "She is the enemy! Destroy her!" The defenders advance, heavy footfalls cracking the cobbles.

[Maerok]

"Hmm, dear Lord Bingham? We are trying to handle this civilly. She doesn't seem to have gutted half the populace just yet, nor does it seem like she intends to in the next ten seconds." He begins to walk towards the machines, intended to intercept them. He turns back to the visitor briefly, "Seven of you, you say? That's quite a few. And from what particular flavor of invader do you all hail?"

[pingcode20]

Kipple holds out a palm to the blustering Bingham, with the simple admonition "Hold."

He turns his gaze back to the excrucian, who had now made no attempt to hide her identity. Every inch of his soul was rebelling against the creature, and while he did not show it, he too wished to take the approach of Lord Bingham.

"So you bring offerings of knowledge and aid to the lost. You speak of thwarting designs, appealing to our duty to battle your masters." repeats Kipple. "Lies before poison." intones the warden slowly and deliberately.

"A shard does not turn easily, and to welcome a shard into the chancel is to invite a dagger to linger near the heart. You may state your case before us, and we shall determine if you may stay."

Though Kipple was younger than some powers to the role, he had adapted quickly and gained an authoritative demeanour to accompany his duty as warden of the chancel. The influence of Emishetra often made her imperators well versed in the codes of this bizarre divine comedy. Still, at this point in time Kipple was called upon in his professional capacity, becoming stern and authoritarian in this careful game between the Excrucian-shard and the Nobilis.

"For the time being, Lord Bingham, you are to observe the excrucian-shard, and watch her carefully for signs of suspicious behaviour. Do not forget the chestnut law."

[Maerok]

"As if appearing in the middle of our domain isn't suspicious enough, esteemed brother?"

[pingcode20]

"No, suspicion alone is not enough. So sayeth the chestnut law."

[Maerok]

"Bah! The Chestnut Law... Well I for one wasn't going to try and beat its brains in like some among our ranks. I agree that we should try and discern any lies it may have brought; this could be a useful ally, if what it says is true."

[potatocubed]

"For the time being, Lord Bingham, you are to observe the excrucian-shard, and watch her carefully for signs of suspicious behaviour. Do not forget the chestnut law."

"The chestnut law applies only to your kind," Bingham says. "I am still human." Nevertheless, the automata stop their advance. Despite his words it would seem Bingham is not completely certain of his interpretation of the Code Fidelitatis.

The corner of the shard's mouth quirks upward in a rapid smile, there and gone in an eyeblink. The irony of her situation does not go unappreciated.

"You are right. A shard does not turn easily. I do not know what devastation damaged Oreute in such a way as to produce me, only that I exist. The eternal flaw in her plans. Her failure and weakness given life. My sole purpose is the ruination of everything she attempts."

She pauses to consider her next words. "Oreute is what you know as a Strategist. She is highly skilled at breaking into this world and whenever she does so she produces seven shards. The Assassin wears violet, and acts with stealth. The Brute wears indigo, and uses violence to achieve her goals. The Knight wears blue and acts with honour. The Judge wears green and prefers to arrange fitting fates. The Thief wears yellow and enacts plans with guile and cleverness. The Diplomat wears orange and manipulates with words and promises. I am the Healer. I wear, as you can see, red. I defend and repair the world as best I can."

"As a separate entity from my sisters I have no privileged access to their plans. I volunteer what little I know as a show of good faith: that the breakthrough occurred in Moscow, and that a corruption of purity was uppermost in Oreute's mind as the breakthrough occurred. I came here looking for the Power of Purity to warn him - with prompt action you might be able to put an end to the breakthrough before any real damage is done."

[ArlEammon]

"This is all very interesting. I just wish that I wasn't necessarily in a world that is not as rationalistic as I thought it was." Jake mumbles to himself. "So, Healer, are you a creature with genuine concern for sentient life? Or do you just try to stop bad things do to your nature?"

[rubakhin]

What bothers Marek about it is the intimacy.

He remembers seeing this before - something like this, anyway. He had had to identify the body. Michal, one of his boys. They had murdered him.

Marek didn't quite know what he meant by "they." Especially since, more likely than not, the murder had been committed by a solitary person. And if anyone ever asked him about it, he probably would have said "Maybe the Germans," or something like it. But a better response would have been "the people who aren't in my circle, the people I can't trust." In other words, the clients.

Marek isn't likely to forget the way Michal looked that night, lying on the autopsy table with his arms curled up like an infant's. There wasn't any blood on them, not even a bruise. White arms, pale arms. He was beautiful even in death, Michal Le Bel, the best-looking boy Marek had probably ever seen on the streets.

"They" had gutted him from the tip of his chin to the bottom of his split navel, peeled back his flesh and removed some of his organs. Someone had been careful with him, had been gentle and delicate. Had made sure he had done it the right way.

The "right" way, Marek had thought, and laughed inwardly, uneasily. To think that there was a margin of error when it came to mutilation! But it was true. There had been meaning there. Some symbolism, maybe, some act of love that nobody but the murderer could hope to understand. It had been a gesture of worship. A work of art.

Looking back on it, Marek realizes that if he had had his powers then as he did now, God forbid, he could have seen it. He would have seen whatever drove that man to do it, what allure there was in Michal that had made killing and cutting him impossible to resist. Did he fight back against this, against these urges that he couldn't control? Or did he want it so much, and never think for a moment that it was wrong? All Marek knows was that in the end, desire won out.

It makes him nervous. He lights a Marlboro, hangs back behind Rosalee. She pushes him towards one of the cops. The feeling of her hand between his shoulderblades is strangely comforting - she's a harlot, sure, but it's a mother's touch, somehow.

"Someone tell me what's going on," he says. Not very authoritatively. He's mumbling, and his face is pointed towards the ground.

[potatocubed]

The woman would seem peacefully at rest if not for the wide gash across her stomach and the odd 'collapsed' appearance she has taken on since having her organs removed. She is naked, her clothes heaped in one distant corner of the room. Her hands are cupped at the base of her breastbone, a four-petalled lotus flower resting between them. The symbol of human potential in the hands of someone who will never be anything again.

It takes a moment for the investigator to notice Marek approach. He glances sidelong at the boy, then performs a surprised double-take.

"My lord," he says, sketching a bow. He is a tall man, grey-haired, with a waxed moustache. Behind wire-framed glasses his left eye resembles molten gold - a legacy of some spirit or other in his family tree. He flips open his notepad.

"She was found maybe an hour ago. Probably wasn't dead much longer than that; the rats haven't touched her yet. Whoever did it knew the human body inside and out. A surgeon." He heaves a deep sigh. "The symbolism makes bad, worse. At best, it'd be a serial kiler, but the lotus... flowers mean Noble trouble. I, uh... I was hoping one of you would show up to take it off my hands."

[Maerok]

"Well I guess that would be a matter of my estate. I am the keeper of Purity, Cade Goodwell. And what are you called? Simply Healer?"

[potatocubed]

"Yes, 'Healer' is my name. Do you feel anything? Any intimation that all is not well with your particular piece of reality?"

"So, Healer, are you a creature with genuine concern for sentient life? Or do you just try to stop bad things do to your nature?"

The woman raises a finger to her lips, brow furrowing ever so slightly in thought. "An interesting question. I believe it is the latter. I find within myself a general desire for the world to persist and a specific interest in defeating my sisters, but little concern for individual lives."

[Maerok]

"Well let me check... I'm not as tuned to my estate as well as some of the others but it'll give us a clue of where to start. I prefer to have a more personal hand in such matters."

He grins before stepping aside and calling up a Lesser Divination of Purity, focusing in on Moscow. "This is if all others here have come to an agreement to pursue this with at least a grain of salt? I for one am rather sold on the idea."

(Lesser Divination; DMP 3 = 2 and one more for long-distance)

[pingcode20]

"Salt is never uncalled for." replies Kipple, with a sideways smile. He turns his attentions back to 'Healer'.

"I'm afraid we'll have to look into this and verify your claims first. Hold on a moment." Kipple looks over at Cade, waiting for his word on the divination, hopefully only a few seconds away.

[potatocubed]

Cade concentrates for a moment. There is little purity in Moscow, everything a tangled mess of greed and duty and hope and filth. The usual glimmers are present, but there... there is something unusual. Khlebnoye Vodka, the sign outside the distillery reads, Purity Like No Other. A company that has cloaked itself, for now, in the mantle of Cade's estate. Not normally a cause for concern - such things happen in the prosaic world all the time - yet something feels faintly wrong, like the sensation of an intruder in one's home. Nothing nameable or placeable, just a sense of unease.

--

OOC: No need to spend miracle points for distance - a divination works at range kind of by definition. Also, apologies in advance to rubakhin, since you're probably going to Russia and my knowledge of Russia is cribbed largely from Wikipedia, Night Watch, and the backs of cereal boxes.

[Maerok]

(Woo Nightwatch, and Daywatch. It wasn't what I expected, but I got the Nobilis vibe I had intended to out of it.)

"Hmm. Well it looks like there's a distillery out there, Khlebnoye Vodka. I can't tell what's up exactly, but I'm getting the feeling that if we don't get going, I'm going to start swearing ad infinitum. And I'm not sure that would be conducive to having company over. Shall we find our honored brothers Marek and Jacob? We'll have to explain this all to them..." He gestures to the Excrucian with a regal flourish.

[pingcode20]

Kipple nods, and turns back to the Excrucian.

"It seems as though your tale checks out." The chancel still didn't like the excrucian, and neither did Kipple. "However, unless Lord Bingham is prepared to mind you, I am afraid we can't allow you to remain in this chancel, until we can investigate further. You will have to come with us, or leave this place until seven days' time, when we have had a chance to look into this matter."

[Maerok]

(Where'd everyone go? )

[pingcode20]

((Oh gods, not again. Please tell me this one will at least get off the ground first...))

[ArlEammon]

(Come looking for me.)

[potatocubed]

OOC: Hey, the game's hardly over yet. Go places, do stuff. Rubakhin's out of touch, sorta kinda, for the time being, so move on and Marek can catch up when he gets back.

--

"She will stay here," announces Bingham. "If I cannot destroy her I can at least keep her on a short lead. You." He points at the Healer. "The chancel borders are closed to you. You will remain within my manor until further notice."

The Healer shrugs and wraps her shawl around her shoulders. "At least you will know where to find me, should it become necessary. I am sure the Earl's hospitality will be more than sufficient." She turns to look at Bingham, who meets her stare without flinching. After a moment, he offers her his arm to escort her away.

[Maerok]

"Alright, I am sure that our trusted Lord Bingham can keep a hold on our guest while we prepare. Shall we go find the others? I heard rumors on my way over here."