Open Chronicles Iniquitous Inquiries

[Cosimo Imiliane]

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Cosimo wandered the back alley's cobblestones. Bodies jammed the main thoroughfares, he could hear the thronging mass. Feast days in Alliria did that, everyone standing on tiptoes to see the parade and the carnies. Blessed Pagiano's Day, though he couldn't for the life of him recall what Pagiano had done to earn a holiday. Probably donated enough money to some public infrastructure.

The dilettante snickered to himself, hands in his pockets, paired rapier and dagger rocking at his hip withe very step.

He meandered his way to his favorite gambling house, or at least his favorite among those that had not permanently banned him. The tables of Blind Luck were packed with people of every sort from sailors and Allirian rangers to the City elites and some of the more unsavory denizens of the world's greatest trade center. This was not the grandest gambling house in Alliria, but the marble pillars, satin drapes, and fine furniture could have fooled a non-native.

"Ah, Master Cosimo, your usual?" greeted one of the waiter staff, a bulky gnome.

"If you would, Jacomo."

Moments later, Cosimo stood at a dice table, a glass of fine cognac in one hand, dice rattling in the other, and one of the house's many courtesans at his shoulder. Azimisia, an absurdly gorgeous Sidereal elf, blew the customary kiss across his dice before he sent them rolling across the table.

An empty smile plastered itself across Cosimo's angled features, head swimming with too much liquor and hashish to care about the mundanity of existence.

​

 

[Dominic Valentino]

Ah, there was nothing like a festival day to refill the coffers as it were. The boys, or at least the more grown members of the Jungle were busy with fruitful contracts to protect vendors and some had even got jobs building floats or stands for the events.

That was all fine and good, but the real money came from the kids Dmitri, or as the other kids liked to call him Scales, had put together. The little band of pickpockets made absolute killings on days like this, and they would keep thirty percent, no small amount while the rest would go to the Jungle's funds.

Of course, Dominic would not be sitting on his hands all day. The old adage remained true, one had to spend money to make money. The towering figure hunched through the doorway of Blind Luck, quickly being met by one of the staff.

Ignoring any sort of pleasantries, his deep baritone voice growled out, "Whisky, neat." The waiter already knew that, but Dom always made it a point to be clear on what he wanted.

Without a further exchange, Dominic lumbered over to the tables, many other patrons moving out of the way of the Otternali.

 

[Kalherron Vex]

Kalherron stood to one side of the door talking quietly with the dark skinned lady in her dusty whites, faded yellows. She nodded her head to the crowd, the pageant of tables and backs, pints and plates. But she clearly meant the big form of Boss Valentino, all shoulders and smoke, dark as a crow’s quill.

Kalherron, a young man, barely above an urchin’s age, decked in his dark coat and white shirt laced loose and low, thanked her with a smile. Their hands touched briefly, fingers acquainted as she breathed in. Then he moved into the crowd, one more fowl in the flock.

Navigating the tables and elbows, side-wise and soft-stepping, he kept a hand near the shoulder bag, drooping by his waist. A shoddy leather pouch, stitched with gut; a fisherman’s bag.

Arriving to Valentino’s table, he offered a small bow, the dark waves of his hair framing and re-framing his pale face.

“Greetings, I am Kalherron Vex. Might I request an audience with the Jungle King, Master of the White Eye?”

 

[Natasha]

Allirian streets reeked of festival cheer, a cacophony of voices and footfalls rising in waves over the heart of the city. Overpowering perfumed oils burned at the alters of Blessed Pagiano, mingling with the sickening scent of spiced meats and that ever-present and ever-infuriating stench of too many bodies pressed too closely. Natasha weaved through the revelers, cloak slithering behind her, warding away those foolish enough to brush against her in the crowd.

She preferred the parades to the masses- the way costumed dancer moved like whirling magic, careful illusions of fire and shadow cast by guild magicians. There was a discipline to it, an artistry. Unlike slurred laughter of the ale-soaked, frantic, sweaty cretins that gorged themselves on roasted venison and dried fruits. But the carnies? She had learned to keep a healthy distance after the previous Pagiano Day. A moment of careless siphoning, letting herself indulge a little too much with a street performer- whose blood promised nothing but amusement.

She thought him extraordinary, had felt the hum of his magic with every tossed blade, and convinced herself that he was something greater than he was. And when she was finished with him, all she had taken was his absurd trick. She wanted his illusions, but took the ability to juggle swords. It was a fantastic lesson in temperance.

A lesson she loved to test in the Blind Luck.

Inside, smoke from pipes was suffocating, curling like ghosts around tables. In here, patrons were a different breed with wealth, and dreams of wealth, clinging to them. "Chernova reserve." She told the barkeep as she scanned the crowd. Merchants' sons spent freely and foolishly. Thieves played better, and if they couldn't, they'd still leave, pockets heavy with stolen silvers. Occasionally guards joined in. Rarely, someone worth her time would enter.

 

[Meliant]

His ringed eye ached. It usually did, as a matter of course. It was a near-constant discomfort he had learned to accept. Everything had a price, as the old laws dictated, and in the grand scheme he was quite pleased with the exchange. But all that was years ago. This was the present: a wondrous and transient thing, filled with possibilities.

Meliant followed after Natasha like an old, slovenly hound. The light plates of his armor clanked and clinked. It would have been quite the spectacle if it could have been heard over the din of the crowd. Meliant could not say with any certainty why he had been retained. Then again, nothing generated so much interest as a beautiful woman under guard.

He stood around and did his best to look attentive and tried not to speculate on the fate of that unfortunate jongler. That was in the past now, you see, and this was the present.