Edge Town-City of Light

Annette was slightly relieved that Alexander and the gold-drugs-arms-something illegal dealer had left the room, even if she was still in sight. She was still unsure how to feel about all of this. New vampires that were basically incubi, definitely not legal stuff happening in the next room, baby succubi...speaking of, the only thing that didn't make her nervous was Bethany. Her smile warmed a little at her goodbye, only to crack as she held in a laugh at her follow-up for David.

David's head snapped back to Bethany with a comically blank expression, like he'd forgotten that other people were here for a moment, and almost managed to say something in response before she barrelled out the rest of her goodbyes, leaving him a bit stunned. "I—uh—bwuh?" he swallowed, and looked down at his hands, mumbling into the collar of his shirt, "G'night B-Bethany. Um. S...same."

Annette snickered helpfully. He was so cute when he was embarrassed, even if the other child in question wasn't really human. Or was, but wouldn't be? Vagueness really hadn't helped in that explanation. Then Alexander's sister returned and all thoughts of baby vampires went flying out the window.

Herrgott nochmal! Frau zieh was an und zeig nicht allen deine titten!

With slowly flushing cheeks Annette started hastily gathered up her vials, little purse, and her hopefully unaware son and stood up. "W-w-w-well, it looks like everyone's getting busy—is busy, so, um, I-I'll be going then. I'd hate to bother y-y-you. Thank you for, um, y-your help!"

David blinked as his mother started hoisting him up from the couch by the arm, and his attention went back to Jackie with a bizarre intensity. As soon as he was on his feet, without another word, he shoved himself right into Annette's side, sending her back a few steps and right into Jackie's back with a surprised yelp. Tiny as she was the other woman was holding a rather heavy briefcase. It might not take much to topple both of them.

David, all the while, looked on like this had been an accident.

Jarl

We didn't just get the mad artist, we got the perceptive one too. Jarl sighed internally. This was going to be Hell.

He looked up at the painting. "That's quite the mural. Wartime singer and artist. That's quite the glamorous career." Let's wait a little before asking about the Poisoners. Wouldn't want to cause any suspicion.

Tjalfe noticed that Celes apparently wasn't biting. Alas. Maybe he could be of more help on Leon's impromptu investigation! He got up, wagged his tail, and then sauntered off to join the Warden on his walkabout.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Kids, Criminals and Minor Talents

"I must confess, monsieur Thorne, when our mutual acquaintance first informed me you had need of axes, it did raise somewhat of an eyebrow. However, I have never found a weapon I could not find - or sell - if asked. Besides that, I took the liberty of, shall we say...accessorizing a little."

With a showman's flourish, he opened the heavy suitcase. The first thing that immediately sprung up was a pair of hand axes◊, as well as three short-hafted axes with a strange curved shape.

"Francisca," Roberto said, pointing to the latter. "They are for throwing. Very efficient, if a bit...medieval for my tastes." He shrugged and picked them out of the case, revealing the other weapons below. First, a black combat knife with a slightly serrated edge.◊ "A little more modern. German make, meant for stabbing. Might not be terribly efficient against something with a particularly thick hide, but I trust you won't encounter such problems. Or at least have the presence of mind to bring something a little bigger. My assistant has spare blades of the same type, of course, for the rest of your siblings." He smiled and continued to do inventory, coming up with a little black case.

"Now this, if you ask me, is my collection masterpiece, the piece de la résistance, if you will." He unveiled a silver pistol with a polished wood grip.◊ "Whilst French by choice, I cannot refute my roots in Italy. Beretta Modello 9. Or the PAMAS, if you're more Francophonically inclined. You won't find a finer pistol for spitting lead anywhere on the continent. Or any other, for that matter. Should you require something a little more ''substantial, of course, there's always this one."

Once again, a silver pistol◊, though it was clear that besides that, some serious work had been done to modify it. "Nothing wrong with American classics, of course, provided you take the time to fix it first." He turned up his nose slightly. "In this case, almost everything has been reworked. Lighter trigger pull, reinforced slide, slightly increased magazine capacity, though you will still want to take careful aim. And, of course, some...aesthetic modifications."

"Again, my assistant carries three spare firearms of each type, as well as all the ammunition you should require for your stay. And if you require more, well...you know where to find me. And you know my very reasonable fees."

Thump. The extra weight of the briefcase she was carrying did indeed topple Jackie over. Luckily, everything inside was safe and secure, though she still led off an angry, muffled French tirade.

Then she had one tenth of a second to get a better look at Annette, and almost immediately, a bit of a cold sweat started to form on her brow. She did seem awfully...familiar.

"...Merde."

The entire situation was surprisingly similar to one earlier today. From how Annette was just about to apologize to the woman she'd knocked into to the way she stopped herself in a second. She met her amber colored eyes and found them strikingly familiar. All she had to do was imagine them in the holes of a very out-of-place ski-mask. She was wearing the same beanie, had the same colored hair...

Hell, she even swore the same way she had before.

Annette shoved herself into a kneeling position, pointing at the woman in a mix of shock, confusion, and anger.

"YOU!! You're that th-thief from earlier!!"

David gasped quietly, covering his mouth with his hands.

edited 22nd Mar '17 5:26:29 PM by KeiranGold

"My god, do we have a criminal here?" Terry asked, with an impressively straight face.

Emergency Leon Update

The paintings on the wall carry clear marks of intentional vandalism—as though the one responsible was trying to send a message. Most of the damaged ones bear the same style—broad, color-rich brushstrokes, coupled with surreal, anti-capitalist themes. People with animal heads, tentacled creatures twining through the hearts of cities, smog choking undersea gardens. Even for someone with limited artistic appreciation, they're phenomenal in quality—Leon can feel the mockery and righteous anger washing off of them.

It's more than just good art, though—as he gets closer to the paintings, a prickling travels down the back of his neck, a faint electric charge in the air. Magic. Like static, bleeding from the damaged edges. His temples twinge with pain as he looks closer.

Something else on the wall as well—painted over, definitely not from the ransacking the damaged the paintings. Claw marks—too high up to be from a dog or cat. Old.

There's no signs of a struggle in the house. Whatever happened, either Celes and her girlfriend didn't put up a fight, or weren't home during the break-in.

edited 22nd Mar '17 8:18:03 PM by DrTentacles

Leon twitches at the sudden surge of pain through his head. It wasn't particularly severe, but it certainly did not do wonders for his mood. His first instinct was that the artist was a neuromancer of some sort, using her paintings to manipulate people's emotions to forward her cause. But, before he went full Warden on her, he'd probably want to actually confirm that. He'd get to figuring out the odd claw mark later.

A quick look with the Sight would probably work, but he's been pretty reluctant to make use of that ability for a long time now, even if this felt like a relatively low risk situation. Instead he brushed his hand against the frame of one of the paintings and focused on the spikes and tingles of magic to better assess just what their purpose really was.

Tim continued to write down what was talked about but as he did that he began to slowly open his inner eye to see if he got any more subtle sense of magic in the room.

Wizards Three

Something crossed Celes's face—jealously, perhaps, or guilt, at Jarl's praise of her great grandmother. Softly, as though to herself, she replied.

"She was an impressive women. Bravest I've known. I only knew her in the last years of her life."

Her eyes cleared, and she looked up, a fierce blanket-clad mess.

"The cafe a block down—Le Chat Noir? She sung there. It was a resistance hotbed. The Maltese Falcon, but in Paris, La Marsillene and all. She was the best recruiter out there."

Celes grinned.

"If your great-grandfather knew her, he would have mentioned it."

Tim's magical senses prickled as he reached out. Something was rolling off of Celes. Not talent of her own, but a foreign, strange magical sensation. Wild, euphoric—but faded, ragged at the edges. An echo. The hangover after a black-out drunk party. It couldn't be pleasant for her. The same aura permeated the room, stronger near the wall of art.

The moment Leon's hand brushed against the torn edge of the paper, it went numb, like touching a car battery. Not painful, but certainly unpleasant. As though his hand alone was drunk. Pushing past it, he could feel the magic set into his mind—anger, passion, grand broad strokes leaking from the paint and canvas, a siren song in visual form. Strong. Like a punch to the stomach of burning, rightous anger.

The magic was not constructed, like an alchemy recipe. Nor did it feel human. It was a refinement—taking the natural effects of the art, and amplifying it tenfold. A psychic shove. Harmless to most people. Damaged, however, the magic was unraveling. Violently. A paint-splatter mess of bad mojo.

Tjalfe growled softly, stopping at the base of the stairs and looking up.

Samira returned from the kitchen, serving tea to the wizard on the couch, and send a concerned look at the wolf.

"Is he alright? I'll be right back with the water."

edited 24th Mar '17 12:13:02 AM by DrTentacles

Leon grimaced as he briefly lost feeling in his hand, he grunted softly at the more directed surge of magic from the painting after he opened his senses to it, his face becoming rather cross for a moment, before he schools his expression and pulls away from the painting. Upside, this wasn't warlock shenanigans, downside Miss Celes was working for some sort of supernatural entity.

Though, before he could start investigating the claw marks in further detail Tjalfe apparently found something of interest up the stairs even if the wolf was content to just growl softly from the base of them. For a moment Leon regretted not bringing any of his gear with him besides a single lightning dart in his pocket. But he pushed that aside for the time being, as he looked to Jarl, wondering if he had a better idea of what might be upsetting Tjalfe.

Tim oh so slightly frowned. The feelings were...unfamiliar and yet distinctive. Using one thumb to scratch the beard on his chin, he considered the implications.

This can't be simply some random side effect He posited to himself. After all, if it was simply that, the next shower would have grounded out the magic. Which means it's a continuous effect with regular reinforcement...which is rarely something accidental.

And then there was how Jarl's pet demon lupine acted....

"Excuse me?" Tim asked after a moment of consideration, in french. "Might I be able to use the bathroom?"

Alexander

Alexander's lips curled into a smile, a conscious effort required to keep his excitement from showing further. The weapons were very pretty. Traveling unarmed in a strange city, family by his side, the knowledge that somewhere out there, Loki, Antoinette Collette and Sofia Raith were waiting had been nerve-wracking.

Jesse had chosen well. It was also nice to know that he had further options, if the need arrived,

On reflex—half to keep his hands busy, he lifted the pistols from the case, checking the action and slide. Smooth. Pressure was different from his guns at home, but he could adjust.

He nodded, lifting his cell.

"I'll have Jesse wire you the rest of your payment. I do have some questions about the local people of note, if you'll entertain me a moment."

Before he could get out a question, a commotion came from outside—he turned his head to the door, peering out just in time to see Ms Wagner pointing at the gunrunner's assistant, surprise and accusation in her voice.

Criminal? Our alchemist knows this one too? Empty night. How many underworld figures has this woman run afoul of?

He cleared his throat.

"Is something wrong?"

edited 27th Mar '17 10:05:58 PM by DrTentacles

Vampires, Werewolves and Ten Year Olds, Oh My

Jacqueline panicked slightly and started waving her arms around whilst, paradoxically, trying to whisper to Anne so nobody else heard.

"Ssh, don't draw too much attention! Look, I can explain the whole thing, just...not know. Not while Roberto's watching, okay? I promise, I can make the whole thing make sense."

Roberto kept his hands locked behind his back, looking at Jacqueline with a snooty, dismissive expression worthy of a 19th century aristocrat. If only he had a monocle to adjust, the likeness would be perfect.

"Just my assistant causing a fuss. As usual." He turned his head to Alex, his expression becoming much friendlier. "And naturalement. With the money you've invested in my business, I would be more than happy to answer a few questions about the locals." _______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Jarl

Jarl hadn't had Tjalfe for very long. The lupine hadn't decided to tag along on his misadventures until a ways into his career, and as intelligent as it was, it was still an animal, and animals didn't always act rationally.

He had, however, learned to trust its instincts. And when it started barking, he knew something was up. For now, he decided to keep a brave face and let his friends find out what was up. This way, he had Celes in his field of view and could react quickly, too.

"I never knew him myself." He shrugged. "He passed away before I was born. That's why I'm trying to dig through his journals, find out what -and who- he knew. Keep telling their stories."

This woman was insane.

No, rather, she was absolutely ridiculous. Annette gave her an incredulous glare as she tried to explain away her earlier actions. Hell, it was her attempted robbing that had landed her in that White Court nest in the first place! Most likely a coincident—maybe?—but it was enough to make her angry.

"Sense?! You stole m-my wallet right out of my pocket and started running, how are y-you going to explain that?!" she spoke quieter, but still enough that the room could hear her just fine, "That seems pretty da—dang c-cut and dry to me!"

Terrance Talbot was a restrained and prudent person. He would never dream of blindly butting into a dispute between two near-strangers to fan the flames of their conflict. Certainly not without better cause than simple amusement. So he kept silent and awaited clarification, telling himself that it wouldn't really be all that funny to suggest that Jackie had run off with Annette's wallet so she could go put more money in it before she gave it back.

Wizards Three

Celes narrows her eyes, then leans in. The annoyance has left her eyes, replaced by sympathy. She reached out, wrapping her hands around the cup on the table, pensive.

"It sounds as though he left a pretty big shadow."

She pauses for a second, reaching back somewhere, past the thorns, and finding tact.

"Maybe I was a bit rude. A lot of people think they have the right to my personal life. But this isn't about me. This is about your history, Danish. I'll give you what I can—Elvira left a lot of letters and photographs, though. You can look through them as well."

She sipped the tea, Samira giving her an approving smile. Celes responded with a disgusted snort.

"The cafe they worked at was part of an underground network, decided to smuggling undesirables, political dissidents, and malcontents out of the city. My great-grandmother's concerts helped her advertise. I heard things got pretty rough. In a lot of her writings, she talks about a man named..."

She frowns.

"Heinz? Hartz? Hartmann? A commander in the occupying forces. He was in charge of hunting people like her group. She lost of a lot of friends to him. Tell me if this rings any bells. She also helped preserving history—making sure local art wasn't looted or vandalized. Again, all out of the Chat Noir."

Samira waved for Tim to follow her, satisfied that Celes isn't going to tear back into Jarl any time soon. As the artist continues to tell stories of her great-grandmother, she moves to Tim's side. waving him to the stairs.

"Thank your friend—or student—for distracting my love."

The dark-skinned woman lets out a deep sigh.

"I've seen you looking around. I—there's little point avoiding it. We were robbed less than a week ago, and Celes hasn't left the house since. It's been hard. The bathroom is the door straight across from you when you get upstairs."

____________________________________________________________________________

Alexander

Alexander didn't like being left out of arguments. Call him naturally confrontational. It certainly didn't do him any favors around wizards. With the nerves Ms Wagner had displayed, and the clear fear in the gunrunner's assistant's eyes, his best chance of sating his curiosity was to listen, however.

Ah, nothing like watching two attractive women fight. Not that this was going to go anywhere fun.

Probably.

He leaned back against the door, gently tapping Roberto's bicep, and flashing the gunrunner an easy smile. Wouldn't do to have him interfering either. Clearing his throat, he spoke in a conspiratorial whisper.

"The trials of being a successful independent. Give my friend Mr Talbot a chance to defuse this before we step in. So—my questions. First and foremost, tell me about the state of the local right people. Who can offer me what? And who is to be avoided?"

edited 31st Mar '17 9:00:40 PM by DrTentacles

Tim gave a slight smile back. "We're engaged in a cooperative scholarly research project, but once you get him talking on his pet interests...."

He paused and gave a slight shrug. "And I can understand her being...wary. Her private space has been invaded and this can cause a certain awareness of one's vulnerabilities. I am certain it'll flag down with time."

Well, time for me to invade some private spaces. he then conceded and took the steps upwards, opening his wizard senses to feel forward.

Leon trusted Tim was able to handle himself, so as Tim went to go investigate the upstairs, Leon put his attention back to the claw mark he found. Which was quite a bit older then the now confirmed break in. Probably wasn't a pet, unless they had something rather exotic. Perhaps a supernatural entity of somesort. Possibly whatever was laying the magic on the paintings. Did they bind something and it got loose once? Probably something nasty given their luck. He made sure to keep an ear open in case Tim called for help.

Hartmann. There was that name again.

"He did." Jarl shrugged his shoulders and rubbed the back of his neck. "As his father did before him. Military service sort of runs in the family. I'm the first to buck the trend in a while. And thank you, both for taking the time and letting us look at the photographs."

"Hartmann, you say?" He raised an eyebrow. "Rings a bell. She was an art preserver then, too? i can appreciate that - making sure a sense of history and context isn't lost."

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Jackie flailed around some more as Anne started speaking up, desperately trying to keep her own voice quiet.

"And I'm sorry for doing that, but listen, you're in danger! I'm in danger! Please understand that and keep your voice down. I'm trying to save both our hides here!"

"Look at it this way," she pointed a finger at Anne. "This is a city full of expert pickpockets. Would I really just run up, try and grab your wallet and buzz off in full daylight if I actually expected to make any money off of it?"

Roberto flashed a smile and twirled his ridiculous moustache. "They can offer you just about anything you would expect in a civilized city. Most of the Maghrebi -Moroccans and Algerians - traffic in narcotics, mostly, though there is one who is starting to, shall we say, 'branch out' to our little circle." He gestured to Alex. "Drug trafficking and 'recruitment' of people who need protection. He puts you under his aegis - whether you want it or not - and all you have to do is give him a favor or two. If you need some hired help with more...unique talents, I can give you a means to contact him."

"Stay clear of the Corsicans, though. They don't travel this far north often, but the ones who do are crazy. Like the Italian mob, but French. Far more brutal. They don't advertise as loudly as the Maghrebi either."

edited 4th Apr '17 2:33:34 PM by math792d

"So...what, you intended to g-get clothes-lined?" Annette grew quieter, but her tone became harsher and colder. If this was going where she thought it was then there was more coming to this woman than a police report. Could she even get a police report on a failed attempted robbery? Probably? "Because that man who stopped you g-got me here. Was that part of you h-helping me?"

Wizards Three

The upstairs of the apartment was tiny—two doors, both open. Through one was a small bathroom. Tub, shower, toilet, sink—the usual works. No sign of damage. Through the second, located just above the living room and kitchen, looked like a master bedroom. It was, much like the downstairs, a mess. Clothes on the floor, hampers of dirty laundry, and cups on one of the nightstands. Unlike the downstairs, however, it looks like work had been done to clean it up.

A quick visual scan revealed that it had also been ransacked, and covered up. One of the nightstands was missing, and deep imprints in the carpet showed where it had been. On a magical level, it was like walking into the afterwash of a storm—deep puddles of the same wild, unchecked emotion that clung to the paintings and to Celes below, stronger around the missing nightstand.

___

Leon's inspection of the claw marks revealed one interesting thing of note—paint, dug deep into the scratches. A coat that didn't match the walls. It had been painted over since, but red, concealed droplets still clung deep in the cracks and clawmarks.

____________________________________________________________________________

Alexander

Alexander smirked at the mention of Corsicans. He'd been in the neighborhood before. It was almost Italy, after all. That someone in the local underworld was reaching into the supernatural was interesting. If anyone was likely to be contact with the Poisoners, it was likely to be him.

"A meeting would be useful. I think I and your merchant of unique talents might have much to offer to each other."

"If y'all are gonna keep doing this angry whispering thing, you wanna move to another room or something?" Terry asked in the general direction of Anne and Jackie. He should still be able to hear them, because "earshot" gets a lot bigger when you become a werewolf, but hopefully feeling more secure would make Jackie give more information. She'd been awfully cryptic so far, no consideration for eavesdroppers at all.

Tim slowly stepped forward, careful to not make any unnecessary sound. Edging closer to the nightstand, the feeling of magic 'noise' got stronger and stronger until he was sure that his more passive senses were not enough to gain a sound judgment within a timeframe where his absence was...noted.

And putting up a magic circle for some proper thaumaturgic analysis seems like rude guest behavior.

Which leaves

He sighed...At this rate I need to stop at a Pharmacy and get some...a lot more Ibuprofen.

Pulling off his glasses, he rubbed the bridge of his Nose...and opened his Sight.

Tim

Tim's vision dissolves into a Jackson Pollock spray of paint-splatter magic, the bedroom awash in light and color and sound and noise. A sharp pain spikes through his head, the eye-watering sensation of starting directly into a lightbulb, mingled with the residue of reading the necromancer's book.

After a moment, the intensity fades, and it's bearable to look around the room. It's simply put, beautiful—every surface, every wall and window transformed to look like a stylized painting, seeded with the sensation of joy and comfort.

There is one difference from the room he saw. The pool of magic around the nightstand has collected into a phantom, the after-image of a paintbrush resting in the air. The brush looks old, almost like a Chinese calligraphy tool. The handle is made of either carved ivory or bone, made in the shape of a small, ugly, smiling man. It is—or was—the source of the magic that permeates the apartment.

The residual magic from it is still unfamiliar, but almost certainly that of some powerful Nevernever creature—possibly imprisoned within the brush itself, or having blessed it. Without the brush at hand, it's hard to tell its full power, but he can tell, even at a glance at the afterimage, that it's closely linked the emotions of the painter. Not inherently malevolent, but wild, uncontrolled, and addictive.

It is also now missing, almost certainly stolen in the recent home invasion.

Tim groaned and closed his third eye again. The pounding behind his forehead had started again, and brought some friends this time.

Some sort of artifact. But what sort is the question. I mean who'd be crazy enough to create a magic paintbrush.

Tim suddenly remembered parties he attended at the University thrown by the Arts department. Well, what little he actually remembered from those.

Yeah, that was a stupid question.

Now he only had to figure out a way to bring 'Did you know your paintbrush was magic' in the conversation?

Leon stares at the slipshod cover up of the clawmarks. You'd think a painter would be better at that sort of thing. Though given it still being wet and how distraught the painter was, maybe it had been the girlfriend instead. Either way no real useable info to be had from the claw mark. And it had been long enough that it was unlikely there were enough traces for his Sight to pick up either.

He shrugged to himself as he glanced up the stairs, curious how Tim was doing. He hadn't heard any loud noises, so presumably nothing dangerous was happening. Maybe he had better luck finding info then Leon had. Shrugging to himself he went back to wandering the flat looking at the various artworks, having nothing better to really do at the moment since Jarl was handling the talking. Maybe he'd luck out and find another clue.