The gleaming towers where the affluent and well-born sit idle, sipping brand and the finest hard liquors from across the Five Nations while gossiping about the intrigue and rumors of the starlets and showmen from the performing houses. The women are beautiful, if vain, and the men are powerful, but proud. Warforged, goliaths, and many other oppressed classes of folks scurry about trying to make a living and keep their smiles (such as they are) seeming genuine and their presence as fleeting as possible to avoid the most powerful scorn the wealthy can inflict on the poor - faux sympathy and bad tips.
Sharn:
The upper city, where commerce and government go hand in hand (and coin in hand often enough), the one place in the entire, inhabited, over-glorified pit of spikes that seems to be at least superficially aware of the problems. Politicians and pundits speak and bluster - at length - about the problems plaguing 'our fair city' and pretend to give a damn about the pockets they pinch to afford nothing but the finest cloth and silk to line their beds, the best artificed plumbing and heating systems a magewright could have wrought and boast the luxuries and refinements of the City. They espouse the virtues of the Watch and point out the power of the Free Press as an expression of the common folk while dumping cartloads of gold into the advertising revenues and keep the most prominent members of the Watch as far from the real danger and police work as they can. It's a constant bid to recruit the real gears that drive the city: trade, and, by extension, greed.
Sharn:
The middle city, where folk of all sorts focus on getting by. Small-time merchants, old crime families, and all those oppressed folk who scrape by a job in the upper city and the skyway? They slug it down home, two hundred feet or more, to simple townhomes and apartments that cram in along the canyon-steep walls of sharn. Parks and playgrounds still float about here, and the prevailing theory is that the upper-middle folks can find a safe enough place to raise their kids here. Safe-enough for Sharn, anyway. But poverty's a pyramid scheme. Upper-middle is good enough to work in Upper-upper and Upper, but too good to work for other upper-middle, so even more folks just trying to get by - often fresh-faced and rosy-cheeked off the trains and boats that seem to vomit naïve idealists and dreamers into the bowels of Sharn every hour - scrape by on working as maids, rubbish haulers, and assistants to mage wrights and smiths that should have never made it past journeymen status. Middle City still enjoys enough of the perks of Sharn's "Enlightened State" to be lit by the cool glow of everburners at night, and about a third of the families even own arcanamobiles. Some of the more affluent have sky carts, and plenty of the lower-ranked members of the Dragonmarked Houses are quartered here. Plus, the University does its best to safeguard both local and immigrant students from the realities of Sharn. If you have to get stuck in Sharn, you could do worse than middle.
Sharn:
The lower city. The beating heart of despair, depression, oppression, repression, and, worst of all, reality that dominates the vast majority of Sharn's population. The shadows cast by the Upper and Middle City go deep here, and crime isn't a problem, it's the norm. The Watch, if you can call it at that this low on the towers, is crawling with incompetents, rejects, and thieves. Those left over are dead-enders, blacklisted by one powerful autocrat or another and doomed to doing the hard stuff for as long as their careers will carry. No one in the lower city expects to be happy. They expect to survive long enough to either get out of Sharn, or get out of the Lower City. The former notion is one held for those who've only been in the City for a minority of their lives. Spend a lifetime or two stuck in the gutter - as one elf put it - and you forget that anything exists past the next rainstorm and the promise of the shingles. Oh, the shingles. If I could just make it to the shingles.
Sharn. The Middle City. Day One.
The detective turns the corner on the skybridge and instinctually cups a hand to his hat as the wind-tunnel effect of the long road to 1209B Trembuld Boulevard, his home away from home, blows through him the way it does every morning. Horns blare and elemental engines screech as arcanamobile drivers curse skycart cabbies and jockey for position, constantly trying to lure the business of the simple shoppers and tourists who frequented the Trembuld Strip. The Detective stuffs his hands deep into his coat and lowers his head, navigating the street on instinct. He deftly dodges Hogart's meat stand as the dwarf bellows his trawl about the freshest cuts and the smell of rancid fat seems to accompany every word. The detective makes note of the sharpened nature of the Butcher's knives without meaning to and refocuses on the path ahead. Another fifteen feet and he can see the gleam of Remmington Halloway's Exotic Jewelry stand and knows that it's little more than fine-cut glass with a bit of dazzle purchased off an apothecary. Rem's gum rubbing, though disguised by the appearance of stroking a mustache, is quite pronounced: he fell off the wagon. Ribald powder is a dangerous addiction, and Halflings and small folk in general seemed prone to it. The detective makes a note to ask questions about it the next time he was...visited...by the Watch. He also quietly wonders if body chemistry or size had more to do with the nature of addiction. Feeling the weight of the simple tin flask against his chest and the promise of the cool, comforting scotch within, he shrugs the thought away: people pick their poisons in Sharn. Wasn't his business.
But there, up ahead: that's his business. 1209 B Trembuld Boulevard. He darts across an intersection, dodges a vendor he doesn't recognize, and storms through the door into his office building. Boxes and movers on the first floor - Accer'maelir Actors Clinic didn't make rent this month. That would be the fifth new tenant in eight months that he'd have to contend with...or not, unless he manages a paying gig soon. He pounds up the stairs to the second story office, a much smaller affair consisting of just three rooms and one main door with fogged glass. Stenciled cleanly across the door:
Chaeryl gasps and whips around as the door bursts in and Dwight makes his typical morning entrance. Checking her watch, she's stunned: only quarter past ninth bell. He's practically early today. She nods amicably to the strange being that had captured her attention up to that point and turns to catch Dwight's eye, silently wondering if he'd comment on her hair, also whether or not the comment would be anything other than "It's red now."
"Mr. Hartigan? Detective? You have a -"
He moves silently past her and straight into his office, kicking the door open and removing his well-concealed rapier to hang it on the coat rack. Doffing his hat, she can see his eyes are still closed and wonders why he does that. "Mr. Hartigan? Detective? There's a...well, a..."
He turns deeper into his office and drops into his overstuffed chair and, like a switch, his eyes open and his roguish smile reveals the deep charm and intelligence that makes her wonder where he retreats to when he disappears into his own head. "Chaeryl. Please. It's Dwight. Also, where is my scotch? It's, what, almost tenth bell? I need my scotch."
"It's not even quarter past nine yet, Mr. Hartigan. There's a-"
"Quarter-past? Not even? God damn it." He reaches into his desk and pulls out a large file folder dropping it heavily atop the wobbling, deeply pitted and scratched rosewood and searching absentmindedly for a pen as he flips through the pages. "Case file, Chaeryl. Opening a new case file. We do about an hour's work on this, I get my scotch, and I can actually start my day with a small enough headache to not retire before noon. You reading Tsarpsil's column like I said?"
"Normally, I would, but, well, this, um...gentleman came in today and I-"
"Chaeryl, you've got to read the column. Tsarpsil's a decent sort for a Sharn Inquisitive ink-pusher. He writes about what really goes on down here and up there. Some kid got tossed from an airship or skycart. Splat. Boom, that's all she wrote. Watch is saying Abberants, but I think different. See, guy landed on my cab night before last - big mess -"
"Sovereign Host, why the hell didn't you call me? Are you all right? Was someone trying to-"
"Chaeryl, come on. Nobody's trying to bump me, and there's a hundred better ways to do it than throw a dead guy on my cab. I wasn't even in it yet. Might not have been dead when they threw him, of course, but that's what I'm wondering. Happened right out front, anyway. Now, the guy had a you-know-what Mark, and I'm pretty sure it was Baldrin Remstrin."
Chaeryl's eyes suddenly focus and she forgets the strange being in the lobby. A dozen questions race through her mind, not the least of which is What was he doing here over the weekend? but she opts for the more obvious: "The activist?" she asks, leaning forward with sudden interest.
Dwight nods sagely. "I want to look into it, but with as little from the Watch as possible. I'm not supposed to go mucking about with investigations if no one's paying me. Adrik made that clear last time," Dwight says, rubbing his jaw with a wry grin. "All that means is that I'll I need a crew. I need you to get Sterling on the line, and as many of the usual suspects as you can. It's this mark that interests me and - Yeow! What the-!"
Dwight leaps to his feat and is halfway to his rapier before Chaeryl can intercept him. Catching his attention is the being Chaeryl had forgotten but was trying to introduce the entire time the detective was formulating his plans. About average height for a humanoid, the creature looks like it's made of living, moving dragonshard, and its eyes burn with a deep intelligence. It wears a simple sash and loin cloth bearing markings from a distant land in Argonnessen. It also doesn't have a mouth. This last part seems to unnerve Chaeryl as well. Still clutching the rapier protectively to her chest with a hand firmly against her boss, Chaeryl nods her head toward the stranger.
"This is Mr. Mos Nasam. He's actually here because his...um...owners apparently sent him to off you a job and to - what was it?"
A sound like a voice rings through both of their minds and Chaeryl yelps audibly. Liaise. The voice says.
"Right. Liaise with you on that job. He's telepathic." She says, grinning to hide an obviously shaken mind. Seeing that her boss needs a moment, she takes the sword over to her small desk in the lobby and ushers Mos Nasam into the office proper. "A crew for this other job, though. Okay. And...Sterling. Are you sure? Sterling?"
Hartigan's gaze snaps away from the crystal creature for a heartbeat so he can fix his assistant with a hard glare. "Sterling. I'll need her."
Chaeryl sighs heavily - her face clearly saying she's not thrilled about having to track down the strange human woman at all, with a possible hint of jealousy playing across her normally very composed features as she pulls the elementagraph out of the bottom drawer and begins the brief sequence of powering it up while looking through the contacts listed in Dwight's file folders. With a clear task, she dives into her work.
As Hartigan goes to shut the door to his office to confer with the crystal being, he pokes his head out and motions for his sword. Chaeryl's steely gaze makes it clear that the weapon is not to be used - Mr. Mos Nasam is a paying customer after all - and she tosses it to him.
As he catches the hilt and props it against his coat rack, he tosses a saccharine grin back toward his assistant. "I like the hair, by the way," he says and slams the door, quickly drawing the blinds.
Players, Please Read:
Next up: RP between Mos Nasam and Dwight. Sorry if I played Dwight wrong, here, Crimson. Feel free to send me a PM with notes and fixes. Everyone else, feel free to post with simple direction: think of how Chaeryl would probably get a hold of you, and go for it. If not directly from Chaeryl, maybe you're brought in by someone else on the team who can vouch for your skill. You can coordinate between you if you like. Either way, everyone will collect at Dwight Hartigan's office by 1pm in the game time. Once introductions have been made, throw up something like Ready in your post. You can also ask me whatever questions you want about what you see in Dwight's Office and what seems to be around 1209 B Trembuld Boulevard, but I may ask you to perform checks related to that. I know this is a lot to set up a hook, but I'd like to have a logical progression from "everyone off faffing about doing their own thing" to "ok, if you're here, you're hired. Normal take: even split minus operating costs for the agency."
Setting his rapier down coat rack Dwight takes a minute to look over the odd crystal being that's sitting in his office. His hand reflexively moves towards the small scotch bottle in his coat before realizing that it probably wouldn't be best to start drinking in front of this...thing.
Well this is certainly a new one
The thought floats across his brain and manages an awkward smile, as opposed to the open mouth stare that he wanted to do.
"So I heard you wanted to offer, well liaise a job for me...I just gotta ask," Dwight leans in to look for a mouth, "how did you speak earlier?"
Trying not to be rude he doesn't really know what to say to this crystal being.
If she hurried, Chaeryl could probably catch Clank hurling the last of the previous night's revelers out into the street. Daytime doesn't offer much work at the Broken Rose, so he'd likely not be too hard to convince to show up at Hartigan's.
While normally easy to reach through her kitschy fortune telling emporium under the name "Madam Eva", Rievakari has already consulted her cards this morning and left, closing up the Emporium behind her. She will arrive on her own at the detective's office around noon after taking care of various last-minute errands, but could very well encounter any of the others on the way to the office. Anyone up for setting that scene? I can also make a complete post of my own this evening after work.
Mos Nasam eyes gleam and it sends a wash of mild bemusement.
Hartigan feels the words... "If it were less polite and quite a bit meaner it would tell tale of skittering bugs that crawled in ears when distracted as a means of conveyance of our thoughts --- but... we... we are new to this city and everybody seems to find no... humor in my thoughts. It merely broadcasts our message directly to those we wish to receive. No fears, it is not harmful. No bugs. It wishes it could take back telling that clerk that.
Yes, we get ahead of ourselves. It must be polite.
Masalanu Alkaram, Mr. Hartigan. A message of wishes for good tidings upon you.
We trust you have read the one article by Mr. Tsarpsil? My possessor's wish the 'aberrant mark' as you Occidentals call it to be investigated. You are an investigator we believe?"
Hartigan smiles, "Well no bugs is always a good thing. But yes, I have read the paper and I did in fact read that article. And also yes, I am an investigator...but those in my trade tend to prefer, the term detective."
Glancing at the clock he desperatly wishes time would speed up, this day definatly is calling for a glass of scotch. Leaning back in his chair, god Hartigan loves this chair, probably the best purchase he ever made, he kicks his feet up on the desk and rests his hands behind his head,
"Please go on, is there anything more specific your possessor wants me to find out about the mark?"
Mos Nasam looks slightly embarrassed, "It wishes it knew. My handler merely told it to find where the mark came from. It does not know why it would want to find the mark, but it will carry out its task. We did not know where to begin, but when asking on the street it ran into your vassal, Chaeryl. It was most fortunate, and so we came here... if this is resolved the Argonnessen expedition to these lands will pay handsomely. It knows this at least."
Sterling is probably the easiest to get a hold of - a quick message sent down the line would get her attention and then she would simply be there at the appropriate time, no questions asked. She's impeccably punctual.
A grin split across Dwight's face, Maybe I won't have to move after all, dropping his feet to the floor Dwight leans across the desk, "You wouldn't happen to know how much handsomely means, now would ya?"
It reaches into its satchel slung under its cloth shrouds and pulls out a small book.
"It says here that handsome means 'having an attractive, well-proportioned, and imposing appearance suggestive of health and strength; good-looking'...
We begin to think we used the wrong word?
Oh! Here... 'considerable, ample, or liberal in amount'. Does that satisfy?"
"Well I normally like to have an actual figure to work with, but since this case has already piqued my interest I think we can figure out something later..."
As Dwight's grin gets even bigger he softly asks, "You wouldn't happen to drink now would you?"
Without waiting for a response he yells out, "Chaeryl! Two clean glasses and a bottle if you please!", sticking his hand out at Mos to seal the deal, "Looks like you've got yourself a detective!"
"Drink? We do not drink any liquids. Or eat. It merely draws sustenance from your thoughts."
"You should be happy to know that they are delicious."
Mos Nasam radiates seriousness, but Mos Nasam can't keep it going and facade cracks and pulses with what could only be laughter. It holds its hand out, having remembered it's protocol training for the diplomatic mission.
"We joke, Mr. Hartigan."
--
This would probably be a good time for everyone else to come in, yes?
"Well then...Chaeryl! Only one glass! Our crystal friend here doesn't drink, but according to him I'm delicious!" Hartigan winks as Mos to let him know he's only joking.
"And where in the hell is Sterling? And where the hell is my crew? And... never mind I forgot what I was gonna yell about next!"
With a full on smile Hartigan leans back into his chair, Best...chair...ever, looking up he nods to Mos, "We'll be getting ready to leave shortly, once we get a few more people in here to join us"
A rythmic whirring of gears and the thumpthump of iron-shod feet announce Clank's arrival several seconds before he actually enters the office. As he steps into the room, his visorlight flashes a momentary yellow-orange as he regards Mos Nasam. Just as quickly, the familiar blue glow returns, and he nods at the unknown figure before turning smoothly towards the Detective.
"Hartigan.", he says, moving towards the far corner of the room. His words are smooth and measured, their oddly natural sound marred only by the background resonance the speaker around his neck adds, "Chaeryl came by the Rose, said you've got work?"
Standing up Hartigan moves towards the warforged, stepping between Mos and Clank, Hartigan begins the introductions, "Clank, this is Mos. Mos, this is Clank. Mos reads minds and doesn't speak like you and I, so don't worry when you hear him inside your head. There's more to this story, but it's gonna have to wait until the rest of the crew arrives. I don't feel like repeating myself a dozen damn times."
"Makes sense" he says, settling into the corner of Hartigan's office, nodding slightly at towards Mos as he does so. The whirring sounds that accompanied his movements lessen; his stillness gives the distinct impression of an arcanamobile ticking over, idle.
"Sterling, you're late." Chaeryl's voice was scornful and her words were stern, chiding. The swordmage turned her head to face the other woman, making her namesake apparent; there was a cold, unnerving intensity in her bright silvery eyes, instantly disarming Chaeryl's hostility.*
Sterling slid one hand into a pouch on her belt and extracted a gold filigree'd pocketwatch. "Your message said to be here by one in the afternoon," she said, flipping open the device. "It is twelve fifty-eight." A pause, then a callous smile. "I am early." Chaeryl scowled and turned back to the filing cabinet.
Stepping through the threshold into the Detective's office, she silently makes her way past Mos and Clank, leaning back against the walk behind the Detective's desk. "Good afternoon, Mr. Hartigan." Sterling smiles, almost imperceptibly. "Clank," she says, nodding towards him in a half-hearted greeting. "Who is our other guest?"
Vered gives a rhetorical knock on the door of to 1209 B Trembuld Boulevard after peeking his head around it. He tips his fedora at the detective's assistant as she regards him.
"I'm just stopping by to drop off the stuff he wanted me to kit-out. Any idea where he'd like it unloaded at?"
'The stuff' being, of course, boxed-up enchanted / modified armor & weaponry. If anyone wants to say that their initial adventuring gear has come from Mr. Kaboom, that'd be cool.
"Vered! Get in here, I might need someone who actually knows something about magical gizmos! Put the box in the corner there, we should be having more people stop by shortly. Oh, and don't set it on the warforged, he might get angry."
When Vered steps into the room Dwight makes the customary introductions again. "Mos, this is Vered. Vered, this is Mos. Clank, Vered. Vered, Clank", Hartigan makes the appropriate gestures when the names are called.
Clank nods to Sterling and Vered as they enter the office, shifting slightly to let Vered set the box down.
"Vered and I are acquainted" he says, coming as close to warmth as he's likely to manage "The replacement elbow joint he provided continues to function serviceably."
"Sterling this is Mos. Mos this is Sterling. Something I forgot to mention to Vered, and you need to know this too Sterling...Mos doesn't have a mouth. So when he speaks don't be surprised when you hear him inside your head. It's weird, and I don't know if you'll get used to it. But that's the way he communicates. I hope I don't have to do the usual introductions between Sterling and everybody else."
Turning to look at his assistant Chaeryl, "Aren't we expecting someone else? Any clue on when they are gonna get here?"
A minute or so after the circle of introductions was begun, in just precisely enough time for the first few seconds of an awkward pause, the door to 1209 B Trembuld swung open once again. Chaeryl looked up in surprise and stammered a greeting to the arrival. "O-oh there you are, we couldn't reach you, I guess you must have gotten my message..?"
"No."
The new arrival swept past the baffled Chaeryl and into the room, bringing with her a strong scent of fresh-burnt Sandalwood incense. The woman stood composedly in the doorway and brandished the elegantly-patterned backs of a pair of well worn divination cards at the people gathered in Dwight's office.
"Detective Hartigan, there has been brought to my attention a Six of Stars and an inverted Hidden Truth. It is doubtful that I need to inform you of just what that means. I apologize for having to clear some errands this morning, it is good to see that you wasted no time gathering some old allies. And one new one, as I had hoped. With my arrival we may begin now begin discussing the particulars of your new case, yes?"
The woman gave an exaggerated motion of her head as if to shake aside the flowing black hair that perpetually obscured one of her eyes, but instead it seemed to be a mild double-take at her second glance of Mos Nasam.
"I had hoped to steady myself for your physical presence, but it appears my preparations were in vain.... You truly do cut through the boundaries of the dreamworld as a figure apart, Wyrm-gem. It is no small honor." She inclined her head in a careful bow.
Rievakari is currently in the Phase of the Moon, which among other things grants her a +2 bonus to Insight (now +13) and Perception (now +6, +11 vs. a creature's Stealth check).
"Ok, I assume you all heard about the kid who got tossed and landed on a cab? It happened a couple nights ago, yea that was my damn cab. Turns out that, Mos here" Hartigan makes a motion towards him, "is under the ownership of an individual who is interested the mark the kid had. I am interested in what happened because people don't just fall out of the damn sky. You are all here because each of you has a special talent that may be of some use in this investigation."
Dwight leaned back on Chaeryl's desk and thought about going to his office to grab a sip of scotch.
Maybe later he thought to himself as he looked at the strange group of people that are now crammed into his office.
"Everybody get's the same cut of anything we find. I take a the same amount as everybody else, and Chaeryl will tack on a small fee to keep the business running and a roof over her head, and mine. As for how much the job itself pays, well...it's complicated, but I'm told that it is a handsome reward."
"The material reward is at any rate meaningless by comparison to..."
The fortune-teller in the doorway realized that she had earned a sea of raised eyebrows from nearly all gathered at that remark. By way of explanation, she nodded at Mos.
"... But don't take my words for it. The Dragon-gem Emissary's presence here should be enough to convince any of you. Not that the death-merchant has much use for the elegance of their Prophecy, I am sure."
She raised an eyebrow slyly at Vered, clearly hoping for an amusing reaction.
"No, you're absolutely right. This 'death merchant' doesn't have much use for some quack's flim-flam. Definitely not as much use as I've got for some coin, anyway."
"Well all that I know is the material reward will defiantly be happily received by this party, and you lot will get to keep doing exciting work on the side of your actual jobs!"
Clank leaned back, flexing his talon-like digits. Hartigan's assignments had usually paid well enough for several weeks away from the Smiler's employ, and despite the presence of the crystalline being, and woman brandishing the cards, he saw no reason to think this would prove otherwise.
"The split will be acceptable. Where do we begin? Has the body been removed yet?"
"Well, now that everyone is here I suggest you gather anything you might need from Vered, and no I will not refer to you as 'Mr. Kaboom'...ever. Say hello to the people you don't know, and then we will get out of here."
With a high-pitched whirr, Clank's hands spin at the wrists, briefly and quickly, nearly blurring, and just as quickly stopping; the Warforged devotes no more attention to this than others would cracking their knuckles.
Mos Nasam has nodded in greeting to each comer, but has peered intently at Clank ever since he arrived.
"Masalanu Alkaram. It is pleased to make your aquaintances."
The crystal turns toward Clank, "It is a great honor to meet one a fellow living artifact. The Shard have been most curious about our Occidental brethren."
Mos Nasam turns then to the fortune teller with a flickering aura of mirth.
"It supposes that it is in fact an emissary, but is emissively remorseful and positively uneasy to impress upon you that it is not the Emissary but merely an emissary of the aide to the Emissary of the Argonnessiary. We must be pleasantly proper and not support imprecise supposition!"
He fingers the well worn dictionary still in his hands with some fondness and has the grace to look slightly embarrassed.
"It... had some time on its way to Khorvaire. It leaves it up to Mr. Hartigan to proceed."
The fortune-teller's mild humor rapidly faded at the Deva arms dealer's reply, until all she managed to muster was a weak smile. The eccentric woman offered a brief quip, though her heart was less in it this time.
"Charming as always, Vered. Seeing one of the majestic Starborn continue to cling to such a noble occupation never ceases to warm this old quack's heart."
When the creature of Shard offered his full title she gave a much warmer smile and offered her own greeting with a twinkle in her eye.
"A delightfully humble introduction for one such as yourself. Please call me Madam Eva. As you are nothing more than an emissary of the aide to the Emissary of Argo-neccesary, allow me to protest that I am nothing more then a fumbling Facilitator to the speaking Stars, emissaries in their own way to great forces. Through me they talk in mad and confused ramblings, matters of Fate and Fortune that are of little interest to those in respectable professions.... (I mean no offense, Detective).
In this respect, please allow me to feel a touch of undeserving kinship, Masalanu."
Smoothly producing from behind one hand a spread deck of divination cards, she slid the two held in her other hand back into the deck and engaged in a fancy shuffling pattern. Finally the deck yielded to her sleight of hand one single card, apparently chosen randomly. Madam Eva looked at the face of the card and chuckled.
"Ah, The Midwife! Her skill brings about creation and life, even in the midst of trials and pain. But will the new arrival choose to be a force for good or ill? I am afraid that even she cannot say.
...Nonetheless, I believe that I am prepared for our trials."
Posts
The gleaming towers where the affluent and well-born sit idle, sipping brand and the finest hard liquors from across the Five Nations while gossiping about the intrigue and rumors of the starlets and showmen from the performing houses. The women are beautiful, if vain, and the men are powerful, but proud. Warforged, goliaths, and many other oppressed classes of folks scurry about trying to make a living and keep their smiles (such as they are) seeming genuine and their presence as fleeting as possible to avoid the most powerful scorn the wealthy can inflict on the poor - faux sympathy and bad tips.
Sharn:
The upper city, where commerce and government go hand in hand (and coin in hand often enough), the one place in the entire, inhabited, over-glorified pit of spikes that seems to be at least superficially aware of the problems. Politicians and pundits speak and bluster - at length - about the problems plaguing 'our fair city' and pretend to give a damn about the pockets they pinch to afford nothing but the finest cloth and silk to line their beds, the best artificed plumbing and heating systems a magewright could have wrought and boast the luxuries and refinements of the City. They espouse the virtues of the Watch and point out the power of the Free Press as an expression of the common folk while dumping cartloads of gold into the advertising revenues and keep the most prominent members of the Watch as far from the real danger and police work as they can. It's a constant bid to recruit the real gears that drive the city: trade, and, by extension, greed.
Sharn:
The middle city, where folk of all sorts focus on getting by. Small-time merchants, old crime families, and all those oppressed folk who scrape by a job in the upper city and the skyway? They slug it down home, two hundred feet or more, to simple townhomes and apartments that cram in along the canyon-steep walls of sharn. Parks and playgrounds still float about here, and the prevailing theory is that the upper-middle folks can find a safe enough place to raise their kids here. Safe-enough for Sharn, anyway. But poverty's a pyramid scheme. Upper-middle is good enough to work in Upper-upper and Upper, but too good to work for other upper-middle, so even more folks just trying to get by - often fresh-faced and rosy-cheeked off the trains and boats that seem to vomit naïve idealists and dreamers into the bowels of Sharn every hour - scrape by on working as maids, rubbish haulers, and assistants to mage wrights and smiths that should have never made it past journeymen status. Middle City still enjoys enough of the perks of Sharn's "Enlightened State" to be lit by the cool glow of everburners at night, and about a third of the families even own arcanamobiles. Some of the more affluent have sky carts, and plenty of the lower-ranked members of the Dragonmarked Houses are quartered here. Plus, the University does its best to safeguard both local and immigrant students from the realities of Sharn. If you have to get stuck in Sharn, you could do worse than middle.
Sharn:
The lower city. The beating heart of despair, depression, oppression, repression, and, worst of all, reality that dominates the vast majority of Sharn's population. The shadows cast by the Upper and Middle City go deep here, and crime isn't a problem, it's the norm. The Watch, if you can call it at that this low on the towers, is crawling with incompetents, rejects, and thieves. Those left over are dead-enders, blacklisted by one powerful autocrat or another and doomed to doing the hard stuff for as long as their careers will carry. No one in the lower city expects to be happy. They expect to survive long enough to either get out of Sharn, or get out of the Lower City. The former notion is one held for those who've only been in the City for a minority of their lives. Spend a lifetime or two stuck in the gutter - as one elf put it - and you forget that anything exists past the next rainstorm and the promise of the shingles. Oh, the shingles. If I could just make it to the shingles.
Sharn. The Middle City. Day One.
The detective turns the corner on the skybridge and instinctually cups a hand to his hat as the wind-tunnel effect of the long road to 1209B Trembuld Boulevard, his home away from home, blows through him the way it does every morning. Horns blare and elemental engines screech as arcanamobile drivers curse skycart cabbies and jockey for position, constantly trying to lure the business of the simple shoppers and tourists who frequented the Trembuld Strip. The Detective stuffs his hands deep into his coat and lowers his head, navigating the street on instinct. He deftly dodges Hogart's meat stand as the dwarf bellows his trawl about the freshest cuts and the smell of rancid fat seems to accompany every word. The detective makes note of the sharpened nature of the Butcher's knives without meaning to and refocuses on the path ahead. Another fifteen feet and he can see the gleam of Remmington Halloway's Exotic Jewelry stand and knows that it's little more than fine-cut glass with a bit of dazzle purchased off an apothecary. Rem's gum rubbing, though disguised by the appearance of stroking a mustache, is quite pronounced: he fell off the wagon. Ribald powder is a dangerous addiction, and Halflings and small folk in general seemed prone to it. The detective makes a note to ask questions about it the next time he was...visited...by the Watch. He also quietly wonders if body chemistry or size had more to do with the nature of addiction. Feeling the weight of the simple tin flask against his chest and the promise of the cool, comforting scotch within, he shrugs the thought away: people pick their poisons in Sharn. Wasn't his business.
But there, up ahead: that's his business. 1209 B Trembuld Boulevard. He darts across an intersection, dodges a vendor he doesn't recognize, and storms through the door into his office building. Boxes and movers on the first floor - Accer'maelir Actors Clinic didn't make rent this month. That would be the fifth new tenant in eight months that he'd have to contend with...or not, unless he manages a paying gig soon. He pounds up the stairs to the second story office, a much smaller affair consisting of just three rooms and one main door with fogged glass. Stenciled cleanly across the door:
***
Chaeryl gasps and whips around as the door bursts in and Dwight makes his typical morning entrance. Checking her watch, she's stunned: only quarter past ninth bell. He's practically early today. She nods amicably to the strange being that had captured her attention up to that point and turns to catch Dwight's eye, silently wondering if he'd comment on her hair, also whether or not the comment would be anything other than "It's red now."
"Mr. Hartigan? Detective? You have a -"
He moves silently past her and straight into his office, kicking the door open and removing his well-concealed rapier to hang it on the coat rack. Doffing his hat, she can see his eyes are still closed and wonders why he does that. "Mr. Hartigan? Detective? There's a...well, a..."
He turns deeper into his office and drops into his overstuffed chair and, like a switch, his eyes open and his roguish smile reveals the deep charm and intelligence that makes her wonder where he retreats to when he disappears into his own head. "Chaeryl. Please. It's Dwight. Also, where is my scotch? It's, what, almost tenth bell? I need my scotch."
"It's not even quarter past nine yet, Mr. Hartigan. There's a-"
"Quarter-past? Not even? God damn it." He reaches into his desk and pulls out a large file folder dropping it heavily atop the wobbling, deeply pitted and scratched rosewood and searching absentmindedly for a pen as he flips through the pages. "Case file, Chaeryl. Opening a new case file. We do about an hour's work on this, I get my scotch, and I can actually start my day with a small enough headache to not retire before noon. You reading Tsarpsil's column like I said?"
"Normally, I would, but, well, this, um...gentleman came in today and I-"
"Chaeryl, you've got to read the column. Tsarpsil's a decent sort for a Sharn Inquisitive ink-pusher. He writes about what really goes on down here and up there. Some kid got tossed from an airship or skycart. Splat. Boom, that's all she wrote. Watch is saying Abberants, but I think different. See, guy landed on my cab night before last - big mess -"
"Sovereign Host, why the hell didn't you call me? Are you all right? Was someone trying to-"
"Chaeryl, come on. Nobody's trying to bump me, and there's a hundred better ways to do it than throw a dead guy on my cab. I wasn't even in it yet. Might not have been dead when they threw him, of course, but that's what I'm wondering. Happened right out front, anyway. Now, the guy had a you-know-what Mark, and I'm pretty sure it was Baldrin Remstrin."
Chaeryl's eyes suddenly focus and she forgets the strange being in the lobby. A dozen questions race through her mind, not the least of which is What was he doing here over the weekend? but she opts for the more obvious: "The activist?" she asks, leaning forward with sudden interest.
Dwight nods sagely. "I want to look into it, but with as little from the Watch as possible. I'm not supposed to go mucking about with investigations if no one's paying me. Adrik made that clear last time," Dwight says, rubbing his jaw with a wry grin. "All that means is that I'll I need a crew. I need you to get Sterling on the line, and as many of the usual suspects as you can. It's this mark that interests me and - Yeow! What the-!"
Dwight leaps to his feat and is halfway to his rapier before Chaeryl can intercept him. Catching his attention is the being Chaeryl had forgotten but was trying to introduce the entire time the detective was formulating his plans. About average height for a humanoid, the creature looks like it's made of living, moving dragonshard, and its eyes burn with a deep intelligence. It wears a simple sash and loin cloth bearing markings from a distant land in Argonnessen. It also doesn't have a mouth. This last part seems to unnerve Chaeryl as well. Still clutching the rapier protectively to her chest with a hand firmly against her boss, Chaeryl nods her head toward the stranger.
"This is Mr. Mos Nasam. He's actually here because his...um...owners apparently sent him to off you a job and to - what was it?"
A sound like a voice rings through both of their minds and Chaeryl yelps audibly. Liaise. The voice says.
"Right. Liaise with you on that job. He's telepathic." She says, grinning to hide an obviously shaken mind. Seeing that her boss needs a moment, she takes the sword over to her small desk in the lobby and ushers Mos Nasam into the office proper. "A crew for this other job, though. Okay. And...Sterling. Are you sure? Sterling?"
Hartigan's gaze snaps away from the crystal creature for a heartbeat so he can fix his assistant with a hard glare. "Sterling. I'll need her."
Chaeryl sighs heavily - her face clearly saying she's not thrilled about having to track down the strange human woman at all, with a possible hint of jealousy playing across her normally very composed features as she pulls the elementagraph out of the bottom drawer and begins the brief sequence of powering it up while looking through the contacts listed in Dwight's file folders. With a clear task, she dives into her work.
As Hartigan goes to shut the door to his office to confer with the crystal being, he pokes his head out and motions for his sword. Chaeryl's steely gaze makes it clear that the weapon is not to be used - Mr. Mos Nasam is a paying customer after all - and she tosses it to him.
As he catches the hilt and props it against his coat rack, he tosses a saccharine grin back toward his assistant. "I like the hair, by the way," he says and slams the door, quickly drawing the blinds.
Players, Please Read:
Well this is certainly a new one
The thought floats across his brain and manages an awkward smile, as opposed to the open mouth stare that he wanted to do.
"So I heard you wanted to offer, well liaise a job for me...I just gotta ask," Dwight leans in to look for a mouth, "how did you speak earlier?"
Trying not to be rude he doesn't really know what to say to this crystal being.
Hartigan feels the words...
"If it were less polite and quite a bit meaner it would tell tale of skittering bugs that crawled in ears when distracted as a means of conveyance of our thoughts --- but... we... we are new to this city and everybody seems to find no... humor in my thoughts. It merely broadcasts our message directly to those we wish to receive. No fears, it is not harmful. No bugs. It wishes it could take back telling that clerk that.
Yes, we get ahead of ourselves. It must be polite.
Masalanu Alkaram, Mr. Hartigan. A message of wishes for good tidings upon you.
We trust you have read the one article by Mr. Tsarpsil? My possessor's wish the 'aberrant mark' as you Occidentals call it to be investigated. You are an investigator we believe?"
Glancing at the clock he desperatly wishes time would speed up, this day definatly is calling for a glass of scotch. Leaning back in his chair, god Hartigan loves this chair, probably the best purchase he ever made, he kicks his feet up on the desk and rests his hands behind his head,
"Please go on, is there anything more specific your possessor wants me to find out about the mark?"
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"It says here that handsome means 'having an attractive, well-proportioned, and imposing appearance suggestive of health and strength; good-looking'...
We begin to think we used the wrong word?
Oh! Here... 'considerable, ample, or liberal in amount'. Does that satisfy?"
As Dwight's grin gets even bigger he softly asks, "You wouldn't happen to drink now would you?"
Without waiting for a response he yells out, "Chaeryl! Two clean glasses and a bottle if you please!", sticking his hand out at Mos to seal the deal, "Looks like you've got yourself a detective!"
"You should be happy to know that they are delicious."
Mos Nasam radiates seriousness, but Mos Nasam can't keep it going and facade cracks and pulses with what could only be laughter. It holds its hand out, having remembered it's protocol training for the diplomatic mission.
"We joke, Mr. Hartigan."
--
This would probably be a good time for everyone else to come in, yes?
"And where in the hell is Sterling? And where the hell is my crew? And... never mind I forgot what I was gonna yell about next!"
With a full on smile Hartigan leans back into his chair, Best...chair...ever, looking up he nods to Mos, "We'll be getting ready to leave shortly, once we get a few more people in here to join us"
"Hartigan.", he says, moving towards the far corner of the room. His words are smooth and measured, their oddly natural sound marred only by the background resonance the speaker around his neck adds, "Chaeryl came by the Rose, said you've got work?"
Sterling slid one hand into a pouch on her belt and extracted a gold filigree'd pocketwatch. "Your message said to be here by one in the afternoon," she said, flipping open the device. "It is twelve fifty-eight." A pause, then a callous smile. "I am early." Chaeryl scowled and turned back to the filing cabinet.
Stepping through the threshold into the Detective's office, she silently makes her way past Mos and Clank, leaning back against the walk behind the Detective's desk. "Good afternoon, Mr. Hartigan." Sterling smiles, almost imperceptibly. "Clank," she says, nodding towards him in a half-hearted greeting. "Who is our other guest?"
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Vered gives a rhetorical knock on the door of to 1209 B Trembuld Boulevard after peeking his head around it. He tips his fedora at the detective's assistant as she regards him.
"I'm just stopping by to drop off the stuff he wanted me to kit-out. Any idea where he'd like it unloaded at?"
When Vered steps into the room Dwight makes the customary introductions again. "Mos, this is Vered. Vered, this is Mos. Clank, Vered. Vered, Clank", Hartigan makes the appropriate gestures when the names are called.
"Vered and I are acquainted" he says, coming as close to warmth as he's likely to manage "The replacement elbow joint he provided continues to function serviceably."
Turning to look at his assistant Chaeryl, "Aren't we expecting someone else? Any clue on when they are gonna get here?"
"No."
The new arrival swept past the baffled Chaeryl and into the room, bringing with her a strong scent of fresh-burnt Sandalwood incense. The woman stood composedly in the doorway and brandished the elegantly-patterned backs of a pair of well worn divination cards at the people gathered in Dwight's office.
"Detective Hartigan, there has been brought to my attention a Six of Stars and an inverted Hidden Truth. It is doubtful that I need to inform you of just what that means. I apologize for having to clear some errands this morning, it is good to see that you wasted no time gathering some old allies. And one new one, as I had hoped. With my arrival we may begin now begin discussing the particulars of your new case, yes?"
The woman gave an exaggerated motion of her head as if to shake aside the flowing black hair that perpetually obscured one of her eyes, but instead it seemed to be a mild double-take at her second glance of Mos Nasam.
"I had hoped to steady myself for your physical presence, but it appears my preparations were in vain.... You truly do cut through the boundaries of the dreamworld as a figure apart, Wyrm-gem. It is no small honor." She inclined her head in a careful bow.
Vered hauls the box over to the corner, nodding at the warforged as he passes the construct.
"Glad to hear your purchase is working out for you so far."
The artificer quirks an eyebrow at the fortune teller after she bursts into the room.
"...What sort of mess have you got your nose buried in this time, Hartigan?"
Dwight leaned back on Chaeryl's desk and thought about going to his office to grab a sip of scotch.
Maybe later he thought to himself as he looked at the strange group of people that are now crammed into his office.
Vered just shrugs & grins.
"Well, things are slow on my end anyway, so why not. What sort of leads you got so far?"
The fortune-teller in the doorway realized that she had earned a sea of raised eyebrows from nearly all gathered at that remark. By way of explanation, she nodded at Mos.
"... But don't take my words for it. The Dragon-gem Emissary's presence here should be enough to convince any of you. Not that the death-merchant has much use for the elegance of their Prophecy, I am sure."
She raised an eyebrow slyly at Vered, clearly hoping for an amusing reaction.
"No, you're absolutely right. This 'death merchant' doesn't have much use for some quack's flim-flam. Definitely not as much use as I've got for some coin, anyway."
"The split will be acceptable. Where do we begin? Has the body been removed yet?"
ready
Vered pats the right side of his trenchcoat.
"I've got my typewriter with me. Should be all I'll need."
Ready
"Where shall we begin?"
Ready
"Masalanu Alkaram. It is pleased to make your aquaintances."
The crystal turns toward Clank, "It is a great honor to meet one a fellow living artifact. The Shard have been most curious about our Occidental brethren."
Mos Nasam turns then to the fortune teller with a flickering aura of mirth.
"It supposes that it is in fact an emissary, but is emissively remorseful and positively uneasy to impress upon you that it is not the Emissary but merely an emissary of the aide to the Emissary of the Argonnessiary. We must be pleasantly proper and not support imprecise supposition!"
He fingers the well worn dictionary still in his hands with some fondness and has the grace to look slightly embarrassed.
"It... had some time on its way to Khorvaire. It leaves it up to Mr. Hartigan to proceed."
Ready!
"Can't say I'm familiar with....your kind. But thank you."
"Charming as always, Vered. Seeing one of the majestic Starborn continue to cling to such a noble occupation never ceases to warm this old quack's heart."
When the creature of Shard offered his full title she gave a much warmer smile and offered her own greeting with a twinkle in her eye.
"A delightfully humble introduction for one such as yourself. Please call me Madam Eva. As you are nothing more than an emissary of the aide to the Emissary of Argo-neccesary, allow me to protest that I am nothing more then a fumbling Facilitator to the speaking Stars, emissaries in their own way to great forces. Through me they talk in mad and confused ramblings, matters of Fate and Fortune that are of little interest to those in respectable professions.... (I mean no offense, Detective).
In this respect, please allow me to feel a touch of undeserving kinship, Masalanu."
Smoothly producing from behind one hand a spread deck of divination cards, she slid the two held in her other hand back into the deck and engaged in a fancy shuffling pattern. Finally the deck yielded to her sleight of hand one single card, apparently chosen randomly. Madam Eva looked at the face of the card and chuckled.
"Ah, The Midwife! Her skill brings about creation and life, even in the midst of trials and pain. But will the new arrival choose to be a force for good or ill? I am afraid that even she cannot say.
...Nonetheless, I believe that I am prepared for our trials."
Shuffled!