• Closed • Down in the Hole (Graded)

[Oberan]

The 1st of Vhalar 720

Ever since the Beginning of the Fall of Etzos, Oberan had started to frequent a certain tavern. A grimy place, even by the low, low standards of the Perimeter. Still, despite the thick cloud of tobacco smoke that threatened to suffocate any and all patrons within the building, despite the stench of stale beer that somehow managed to overpower the aforementioned smoke, and despite the floor being so full of filth one might as well be trudging through a pigsty rather than a pub, the place was popular. Why? Well, because the drink was strong and the price was good. Most Oh’pee folk didn’t need any more incentive.

The Mortalborn did not come here for the drinks –although this was one of the few places that served his beloved Darington Whiskey, a nice bonus for sure. Rather, the barkeep had a reputation of being discreet, and was more than willing to pass along messages… for a price.

Oberan slipped through the space between two patrons at the bar, gesturing for the bartender’s attention. The man glanced up from the dull metal mug he was cleaning with a dirty-looking rag. “Kennai getcha sumfin’?”

It had taken many repeated visits to get used to the barkeep’s thick accent. Now it only took Oberan but a moment or two to decipher it. The first couple times he’d had to ask the man to repeat the question again and again, causing the frustrated bartender to speak slowly with exaggerated articulation. As if he was speaking to a baby. Naturally, Oberan had answered back in similar fashion.

“I’d like an ale,” the Mortalborn responded.

“No Darington t’day?”

“No Darington today,” he confirmed. “Variety is the spice of life, as they say.”

The ‘tender grunted something guttural. Agreement, perhaps, or some form of complaint about idioms that obviously originated from Comm’see merchants trying to sell more goods.

“Anyfin’ else?” There was a form of half-hearted expectation within the question, but Oberan shook his head. He did not always come here to leave messages. In fact, most of the time he came here as camouflage. To drink a few beverages, then leave. Not asking about any letters left for him, nor wanting to send any. The barkeep shrugged, poured ale from the barrel behind the bar, and retreated into the back room anyway. He emerged a bit later, delivering the foaming pint of ale alongside a letter of sorts. The paper was stained with dirty fingerprints, black contrast to the yellowish-white.

“Ya got mail.”

Oberan studied the letter and the barkeep both, eyes flicking to the man’s face while he turned the paper in his hands, inspecting it. From the looks of it, the inside had remained untouched, though whether or not any peeping had been attempted could not be known. The Mortalborn shot the barkeep a skeptical glance. No doubt he wouldn’t dare to cross Kasoria –the Raggedy Man was not someone you crossed expecting to be alive afterwards—but that did not mean the ‘tender could be trusted. Many people in the Perimeter operated under the principle of serving the highest bidder. Loyalty was bought with gold. Sintra knew that. Her Spinners likely knew it too. Buying rumors and secretive messages was an easy way to gather intelligence.

He continued his inspection of the letter, keeping the barkeep waiting expectantly. Then, when he was finally satisfied, he slid a couple gold pieces into the rugged man’s hands. One more than the bartender was expecting. “A bonus for your continued reliability,” the Mortalborn clarified. Not that he needed to, the barkeep had pocketed the coins the moment they left Oberan’s hand.

“Plesha’ doin’ business wif ya.” The words left through a toothy smile. Missing and crooked teeth made it a whole lot less trustworthy than was intended. Oberan returned pleasant smile of his own, which did not reach his eyes.

“Let’s keep it that way, yes?” A dismissive gesture from the thief marked the end of the conversation. He took a swig of the ale, letting the drink slowly drain into his throat. Bland, with an unfortunate aftertaste. Maybe next time he’d stick with Darington after all. Putting the mug back down, Oberan wiped the foam from his mouth, and studied the seal on Kasoria’s message once again. Like before, he found no signs of forgery. This was the original. He nodded to himself.

Though the bartender could not be trusted to deliver a letter only to its intended receiver, that did not mean people didn’t use his services. Instead of foregoing it, they left their messages on paper, sealed, so the recipient would know if it’d been read before. So they could spot evidence of interception. One step further was to leave it in code, so that even if the contents of the message were somehow spilt without leaving evidence of the act, the message itself would not be comprehended. Lastly, to be absolutely certain that correspondence had reached its intended target, a reply containing a specific phrase or code word could be sent.

As Oberan’s distrust of Sintra bordered on paranoia, he and Kasoria used all of the methods listed, combining them to hopefully prevent any sort of leaks. It wasn’t one-hundred percent foolproof, of course, but it hadn’t failed them yet. As far as they knew, anyway.

He broke the seal on the letter, flipping the paper open. A second round of inspections, carefully examining how the wax had come apart. It didn’t seem like they had carefully pried the seal from one side of the paper, allowing them to open and read the letter without damaging it. There also wasn’t any other wax between the seal and the paper. Not resealed then. Good. Oberan scanned through the written contents briefly, needing only a little time. Kasoria was as cautious as ever, a good sign of the letter’s authenticity. Not only was the script encoded, but the message read as a riddle. Vague and not very informative. To anyone but Oberan, the target. ’Meet me at the beginning…’ Good grief, Kas, do you expect me to remember how to I got there the first time? There was a date too. One that was nearly upon them. Five more days. Depending on how fast I can find it, I’ll be cutting it close.

Eh, it’d be fine. Maybe. After the Cube Incident last season Oberan wasn’t too excited to go back into the Underground. Then again, he’d purposefully been keeping out and laying low in hopes that the target Sintra had painted on his back would fade a little. Fat chance, surely the moment he showed his face he’d be running from a horde of spiders again. Which meant he’d have to be extra careful. Nothing new there.

Oberan crumpled the note, and vanished it into the Vault. Simultaneously he retrieved a fresh sheet and writing utensils. He didn’t leave an extensive message. Just a confirmation that Kas’ had been received and understood. A bit of wax from a nearby candle functioned as a seal on the folded note, and a small trinket was used to add the stamp into it. With a coin he attracted the bartender once more, and that was that.

***

The 5th of Vhalar 720

Oberan was the first to arrive, not spotting a trace of the assassin he was supposed to meet today. After a preliminary scan of the area, the killer still hadn’t shown up, so the thief entered the small room to check the privacy it afforded. As well as to sniff out any hiding spots for potential eavesdroppers --though with the scent of stale air, dust, rat droppings and decomposing vermin, he best not sniff too much. Not that he needed to, there was not much left for any sort of Sintra spy to work with.

In the light of the Daylight Stone was revealed that Hallon’s office, if it could still be called such, had been cleaned out. The furniture had been removed entirely, leaving only marks in the dust as proof that they’d once been there. In the Underground, abandoned furniture did not stick around. If found, everything still in decent condition was… repurposed elsewhere. That said, a lot of garbage was laying around even several years after Oberan had last been here. Inkstains on the floor, papers with footprints on them, and lots of shards of glass and wood chips. No trinkets remained; they too had been scavenged. While they likely hadn’t fetched a high price, for those starving people who called the Underground home, a few coins could mean the difference between death or survival.

Though the lack of furnishing made the room less than welcoming, and less suited for spending a longer amount of time in, it did have its upsides. For one, there were less hiding places for spiders. Of course the dark corners and cracked walls still provided some cover for the critters, but the amount of them able to reside within the tiny room was significantly lessened. Which made it a lot easier for Oberan to get rid of Sintra's little spies. After all, even if the Webmistress wasn't actively listening in, her brood could still inform her of information. Hence, they needed to be disposed of. And the Mortalborn had just the thing for that.

Circling around the room slowly, he unleashed one of his Mortalborn abilities. There were no targets he could see, but that didn't matter. Without having to fear he'd drain something he didn't want to, Oberan leeched Thrill from every creature that entered his range. Small beings were faster and easier to syphon, and their tiny supply of Thrill barely added anything to his own. A drop in a bucket. Yet, as many as there were, he could feel the adrenalin rush through him all the same. It would cause some discomfort when it ran out.

A small price for security.

Many critters lost consciousness as he toured the room, collapsing on the floor, tumbling out of their hiding spaces. Spiders, roaches, rats and other vermin. Insects and rodents got their sapped Thrill back, but the arachnids... They were squashed without mercy. He repeated the process three times, just to be absolutely sure.

Whatever it was Kas wanted to discuss, neither the thief or the killer would want Sintra or her minions to overhear. He wouldn't have called Oberan to talk about something trivial.

[Kasoria]

He showed up early, of course. As in, the previous night. He may have been getting old, as all mortal men were doomed for, but he'd not yet lost his edge. That wasn't just skill with blade and fists, either. Nor his newer abilities with magic, not so old to have grown corroded or bloated with complacent familiarity. No. It was keenness of mind. Cunning and experience matched to logic and caution.

Fine. Paranoia, then.

Considering where you are and what you do and who you count as enemies...

Kasoria frowned over the blank scrap of paper. Quill growing dry again in his hand. He'd have to wet it again soon... for maybe the fourth time. How to send a message? A simple enough question. But how to send one, without anyone knowing what it means, when you only have the one language to write in? That was more troubling, and vexing. Frenlip cast a quick glance at the man across the bar, isolated and avoided at the end of the tavern. It was a slow night but even a slow night at Slim Jim's could mean a bustling crowd. There was a reason he'd driven his grieving children (and himself) to re-establish their old business when they returned to the city.

"No-one's gonna be thinking to make a watering hole yet," he'd told them, impressing on their watery eyes with stoic determination. "We can be in on the ground floor, y'understand? Get back what... get a business we never had before?"

The little man remembered how his tongue had stumbled over "what we lost" before speaking the lie. No. They could never get that back. Not all they'd lost. Children. Wife. Lover. Friends. But at least he'd have his business again; a firm footing for him and the children he had left. His glance became a trifle nervous as he looked over to Kasoria a second time. Bent over his parchment and still frowning, glaring as if the flimsy scrap had done him an injury. Frenlip knew that Vri followed Kasoria. Wherever he went. Hosting such a man was bad enough; helping him? That could be... unwise.

But he fights for the Old Days, Frenlip reminded himself, patriotism flaring briefly in his cynical breast, before being replaced by a blacker, deeper emotion. And no-one's been able to kill the bastard yet. Unless She comes out to do it herself... don't reckon anyone will. So play along. Stick it to the Morties, keep him on side... for now.

Kasoria was unaware of the internal monologue of his bartender slash contact. Not only because he didn't care, but because he had better things to turn his mind to. He wrote little. Each sentence seemed unbearably sparse to him, but details, facts, dates, names... he couldn't afford to reveal any. All was allusion and implication; he'd have to rely on Oberan's intelligence to decipher it. Especially when it came to the last part.

Meet me at the beginning. Fifth of Vhalar.

The Raggedy Man moved his quill away and allowed himself a slight smile. He was rather proud of that touch. Beginning? Of what? Of the siege? The city? The struggle? He doubted that few if any but them two would understand the significance of the statement. Their beginning, their epoch, was in a cruddy little catacomb buried under the city. Forgotten by most and used solely by those seeking to lose themselves. Kasoria had been about his usual bloody work, Oberan had been... getting in the way. As was his want and function, apparently. But the bastard had saved him, that was for sure. He'd have been lunch for a Naerrik otherwise.

He still knew the way. He'd come so close to Vri that day, he'd likely never forget the route. He hoped Oberan would remember, too.

++++++++++

Not much had changed. Almost nothing, in fact. Such was the way of things, this far down in the Underground.

You either stay to be covered in dust and oblivion, or you vanish without a trace.

Anything that could have been sold, bartered, or used for firewood was gone, of course. That was only natural. The thriving sub-civilization of the Underground had shrunken substantially during the Siege, but it was still there, hanging on gamely in grim reflection of the world above, and its people needed fuel and food like everyone else. Kasoria remembered desks and chairs and parchment. Precious little of that was left. Just wisps, scraps, torn screeds of parchment among the... stains.

The Raggedy Man crouched down, lit by the Brilliance he conjured from one raised hand. His fingers grazed the choppy smears in the ground. Gone from dull crimson to black over the arcs. Two of them. He shook his head. He remembered it still so clearly, when the blood under his fingertips had been spewing out of him and arcing across the room. Charonne had been toying with him, for most of the fight. Using the darkness and her Gift against him. Even when the latter proved useless, the former gave her the edge. Only his blades and the stubbornness hate gave him saw him live... that and he'd caused enough damage to her that she had to retreat.

I bet she still remembers. If she's still alive.

Kasoria stood and looked around the empty, moldy room. Sniffing the air, as if he could sense the perfume and old blood on that bitch's blades. No... no, not that day. He thought her still alive, but mainly because he had to. Someone so accomplished, so deadly, to be upstarted by one such as him? She'd never let that go. The Etzori chuckled softly, beard rustling.

Because you wouldn't. Once upon a time.

He checked the exits to the room. One led out into a broader tunnel, with alcoves carved into it here and there. Kasoria took advantage of his slight size and squeezed into one opposite the doorway. From there, in the shadows, he could see most of the room, and half the other entrance. Even without clear sight, he could hear well enough. The din and crash and unending roar of Etzos was lost above the now, just a dull groaning that trembled scores of feet of dirt and stone. Kasoria nestled deep into the shadows, scouring them first with his blazing hand. Nothing too hungry or suspicious there. Once he'd shooed away that which was with his boots, he turned and squatted.

And waited. And waited... until he felt it.

Well, he'd heard the footsteps, first. Faint at first them growing closer. The long, measured, confident stride of a young man, by the sound of it. Not carrying too much weight... and not burdened by much possession, given by the lack of clinks and clanks behind the footfalls. Kasoria blinked a few times and shook his head, left and right, just the once. Time to slough off the hours and focus. The sound grew closer. A shadow flashed across the wall and into the room-

Shadow. Shadow with claws and fangs and-

No. It's not her. You wouldn't hear her, and why would she come back?

Fear. It was rare for him, but not unknown. He beat it down with a whispered snarl and kept his vigil. Peering out from the shadows with eyes blacker than them, seeing the familiar shock of messy hair on a straight back, posture firm... and then he felt it.

What... the fuck...

It was all the breaks of weariness and tedium dragged from him at once. Exhaustion and resignation both, forced on his body and mind. Kasoria swayed back and was struck by the sudden, desperate urge to just relax. It was all so tiring. So vexing. Better to sleep. Just close your eyes and...

His eyes slid to the side, as he heard the pitter-patter of tiny bodies crashing into the ground. He saw a rain of them, a deluge of hapless, tiny-minded beasts suddenly lose their wits without so much as a moment of warning. Thrice it happened. Twitching and uncertain, they seemed to get back up three times... and then another wave struck them. Them and Kasoria, both. By the third, the Raggedy Man was getting to his feet, rational mind forcing him to ignore this magic.

That's what it has to be. No bloody idea what kind, but...

"Nice trick."

Oberan would turn and see the shadowy alcove in the tunnel beyond the room birth a short, bearded figure. One he knew well. Not as "raggedy" as his name suggested, but still possessing those black lizard eyes that had haunted the Mortalborn's nights more than once. Kasoria was never happy to see him. Always he seemed to want something from the Etzori, but this time, he had initiated contact. He even favored him with a rare semi-smile.

"Figured yeh'd work out me message. Always wuz a smart cunt."

[Oberan]

Oberan gave only the slightest acknowledgement of the assassin at first, a slight turning of his head in the direction of the killer’s echoing voice. His back wide open and unprotected while Kasoria stepped out of the shadows that’d hidden him from view. Oberan continued his extermination of the spiders, most of his focus on the little eight-legged creatures.

“Oh, Kas, figured it was you in there. Feedback was a little too large for it to be vermin.” Despite that not really telling Oberan anything about the position of a target, it hadn’t been too difficult to deduce. He wondered why the assassin had waited until Oberan was done with his rounds before coming out though; he’d returned the man’s thrill the moment it’d flooded into the Mortalborn. A person worth of thrill was just about his maximum capacity, after all.

“Can you help out for a moment or two? There’s an awful lot of spiders in here, and I’d rather not have them scurry off.” He crushed several under his boots in quick succession, grinding his soles against the rough flooring. “Make sure to destroy the head, she can still spy through dead ones.” Well, only if she was aware of this interaction happening, which was unlikely. He hadn’t yet noticed any arachnids with glowing eyes either. Still, the thief wanted to be doubly sure she did not eavesdrop.

Oberan stomped several more into goop and broken legs, and put extra effort into flattening a particularly large specimen. He could hear the shell crack and pop under his foot, the noise sending shivers down his spine. However, it was oddly satisfying in a morbid sort of way. “Good thing you didn’t make it any harder though. Took me a couple rereads to get the idea.”

He made the mistake to glance in the killer’s direction, catching the tail end of a flash of pearly teeth, contrasting eerily with the pitch-black of the man’s eyes. It wasn’t the first time that the thief was reminded of Kasoria’s rebirth as a mage. As if he wasn’t scary enough before.

The acquisition of magic had given the Raggedy Man an appreciation for grooming and non-tattered outfits though, looking very much less the part of his moniker than he used to. Trimmed beard, tamed hair. Skin not covered in six layers of dirt and grime and shit. And, of course, clothes that were still in one piece. Not too fancy, but a far cry from the threadbare fabrics his beggar persona used to cloak himself in. Didn’t stink nearly as much as before either. A welcome change, all things considered.

One that probably did not impede his ability to outright pulverize just about any foe in combat. True, he looked not nearly as much as a decrepit ghoul exhumed to murder some poor sod from beyond the grave, which did diminish the fear factor exponentially. For anyone who did not recognize Kasoria, that is.

Oberan finished smearing the spiders at the far wall across the floor, pleased to hear the squeaking of some bold rats feasting on the pulp he’d left behind. He pushed a lot of his excess thrill onto them, and left them to it, happy to provide more. The rats were actually making the workload lighter, starting to nibble on the unconscious arachnids he hadn’t yet gotten to. Oberan had to scare them off to crush the spiders that weren’t yet dead. When he moved away, the rodents returned to their meal.

Eventually they were finished, and the Mortlaborn apologized for the holdup. He pulled a bottle of wine from his cloak, along a simple cup and a suspicious vial. No attempts to hide his actions were made as Oberan added a few drops of liquid into the wine. He plugged the bottle’s neck and shook it for a few moments, then poured a drink. In a single swig the Mortalborn downed most of the cup’s contents. After wiping his mouth, he filled it again, offering it to the assassin before him.

“Precaution,” he said, “don’t worry, it’s not poison. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

While Kasoria scrutinized the beverage, Oberan pulled a stool out of nowhere, and sat down with a sigh, waiting patiently for the Raggedy Man to drink. Not a chemist or alchemist, he did not know how fast the antitoxin worked, or how much there needed to be added for it to be effective. The Resistance members who’d cooked it up had talked about ‘moles’ and dilutions and a whole bunch of maths. Information that did not stick. But Oberan knew how much he had added to the barrels in the reservoir, and a bottle of wine didn’t hold nearly as much inside. A few drops should be plenty.

And the important bit was that Kas wouldn’t be completely under the influence of Sintra’s chemicals anymore, if indeed he had been. Or would be. Hopefully. The last person Oberan wanted to become brainwashed by Sintra's recreation of the Rhakros Formula was the Raggedy Man. With some of the antidote in his body, that could be prevented, so the thief hoped.

“So, what did you call me here for, Kas? Want me to bring you up to speed on how the city’s been doing while you were frolicking someplace else?”

[Kasoria]

He knew. Of course. Why would that be surprising?

Fates, but this man made him weary.

But he was also enlightening, and Kasoria remembered that when he went about what the Mortalborn had asked him. For a moment he wondered why bother, then the man mentioned "here" and "spy" and well, didn't need much else to work it out. Of course the Queen of Spiders would be able to utilize the freakish little creatures. Whatever wyrd the conman had, it was useful in clearing out however many of them might be in the room. So Kasoria aped the other man and stamped, stomped, crushed, and bludgeoned everything until there were more rats on the ground than arachnids and he had to take a few steps back.

“Good thing you didn’t make it any harder though. Took me a couple rereads to get the idea.”

The Raggedy Man just cocked a satirical eyebrow in reply to that. As if he was the one being obstinate and foolish, here. Coming from Oberan, that was doubly amusing. Still he did not speak, until something useful came to his mind. Already he'd learned more than he knew a few bits beforehand: that Oberan's weird could sap the strength from a man, and Sintra truly could use all the spiders of Etzos as her spies. If Oberan was that useful just by being observed, imagine how much he could reveal when questioned?

Then he sniffed at the drink he'd just been offered, and those doubts came whispering back.

“Precaution. Don’t worry, it’s not poison. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

Kasoria kept sniffing, anyway. Even after Oberan knocked back a measure. He could already have the antidote in him, for all he knew. Could be seeking to lull him, trap him, kill him. He'd ran into more than one friend so far who'd turned on him since Sintra's slow, shadowy rise. If that was his night to finally die, he'd rather it being fighting, not coughing up blood with his enemy monologuing smugly a few feet away.

He would, too.

But it was clear the mage had no interest in speaking until he'd drank. Kasoria weighed his options and braced himself. He had to know. What he'd found so far had been snippets and threads, but not the whole picture. If Oberan had been here as long as he guessed, he'd have that. Finally he took in a deep break... and put the cup down.

"First uv'all, tell me why an' what that shite is. Second... aye, yeh got me pegged. Been over the ocean fer well over an arc-" he waved a hand impatiently as Oberan's eyes bulged for a moment "-nah, nah, nah, dun' bother askin'. Dun' matter. Point is, m'back now, an' shite's even worse than when I left, jus' after Webb died."

Kasoria chose not to mention that he'd been the one to kill him. The dandy opposite him knowing that anyway, well, that would tell him a lot. But there was so much more to know. Who was still living, hiding, betraying, fighting... was there an underground, a resistance... and was there a plan? Was there some means to fight this threat off or expose her, kill her reputation among the citizens she'd duped and then slay her once she was weak enough. He studied the brownish liquid in there.

"Ain' sayin' I dun' trust yeh, mate. Sayin' I dun trust anyone, y'ken? Last season an' a bit, ain't exactly improved me mood. But I need t'know, an' youse're a smarter man' than me." He smiled thinly at the beat of surprise on Oberan's face. "Oh, I dun' 'ave a problem admittin' that, lad. Jus' like I can say that Zarik's far beyond me in the Ether an' it won't hurt me fuckin' feelings. I need answers. An' youse can help me out."

[Oberan]

Wary and suspicious, as a man of the underbelly learned to be, Kasoria was unwilling to drink, despite Oberan having done the same. At least that hadn’t changed. The assassin might have uncharacteristically summoned Oberan, but there was no sudden trust borne between them. Good. Made it less likely that this was an imposter –an idea given rise to by the clean appearance of the little man. Still, it was a little frustrating that Kasoria didn’t drink. The idea’d been for the assassin to take in the antidote more or less unawares, so it could undo the effect of the Sintra toxins potentially circulating within his system. Now he had to explain the whole thing, and possibly cause him to take in more poison to keep the zeal going.

Plan B, then. Knock Kasoria out it he so much as drank anything else but the cup –or refused to drink outright after the explanation—and pour more antidote into his mouth while unconscious. Defeating the Raggedy man one on one was a daunting task for most people, and Oberan too felt no small amount of unease at the thought. In hand to hand combat, the Mortalborn would certainly lose. Even when gorged on Thrill, it would be a difficult victory to secure. But that was when they did fight, and Oberan had no need to do such a thing.

“After Webb died… by your hand, you mean?” the thief remarked, pouring himself more wine. “Don’t worry, I’m not exactly the trusting type myself. More than you, perhaps, but the current situation does not really allow for it.” He shrugged and took a sip. For a few moments he sat nodding to himself, mulling over Kasoria’s words. “I can give some answers, yes. However, I would have you drink first before I do.”

A pause ensued, followed by a sigh when it became clear that Kasoria was not in the mood to comply. Imbibing dubious drinks with even more dubious liquids mixed in, handed to you by a dubious character? Purely based on his years and years of experience, the assassin would be right in being suspicious. “Fine. This is a ten year old Venoran Red pilfered from the cellar of some merchant. It’s got a rich aroma with a hint of strawberry. The flavor is slightly sour, but with a fruity aftertaste. It’s pretty good and I highly recommend it. As for the antidote I mixed in; you got any inexplicable headaches lately? When did you get back anyway? I’d have kept track, but I’ve been a little busy evading Sintra and her goons while also mounting attempts to foil her plans.” The mortalborn swirled the ruby beverage around in the pewter mug, not quite striking the refine image he might be hoping for. “Anyway, the antidote. It should counteract the effect of the chemicals found in Rhakros.”

He gave the assassin a wry smile, though did not explain any further. Kasoria surely was bright enough to figure the rest out on his own. “Look Kas, I’m not saying that I don’t trust you, but I really don’t trust you. At this moment, you are as much of an unknown as anyone else. While I have no trouble believing that you would not work for or with Sintra in a million years, that’s only if you are in your right mind. And, frankly, you can stand there and tell me all about how you don’t want to tell me about your suspicious adventures across the sea, to cover up for the fact that you spent about a year in Sintra’s basement being molded into the perfect tool to eliminate her opposition. So drink the wine, prove me wrong.”

Oberan leaned back a bit on his stool, way more on edge than he pretended to be. Though his face was kept straight, his muscles were tensed. Ready for action, if need be. Seasoned as he was, Kasoria might very well have picked up on it, realizing the Mortalborn in front of him was not planning to run away.

[Kasoria]

Decades of giving up nothing to authorities questioning him had left Kasoria with an admirable poker face. Nothing twitched, nothing dilated or distended, he just stared back at Oberan with that stoic, vaguely-annoyed expression the Mortalborn had come to "love". It wasn't in his nature to admit to murders; call it a force of habit. Even those done for the service of a good cause, well...

Try explaining that to people. Idiots.

Or traitors.

Oberan kept talking, of course. Kasoria kept listening, because what else was there to do. But as he did, he let his ether start to seep into the wall he was leaning against. His hand glowed softly with the effort, largely obscured by his palm pressed to stone... but his Spark was very much alive. Greedily investigating and cataloguing yet another material for what sufficed as a "memory". Kasoria felt a twinge of what was unmistakably boredom when it realized there was nothing new. Just the same boring old stone it had tasted before, down here in the Underground.

Bored, but not disobedient. Kasoria swilled the drink around as Oberan told him exactly what it was. Then he frowned as the tricky bugger told him about his headaches. Yet even as he pondered, he kept that connection open. Should something unpleasant happen to him, he was more than willing to return the favor to Oberan. Only his reaction would sprout from the very wall to-

Wait a bit. Rhakros?

It seemed even Oberan wearied of his own voice (Fates be praised). Kasoria couldn't help but hear the tinge of annoyance in the man's voice as he laid it out for him. Yes, he understood his reticence. Yes, he knew these were trying times and even friends could be turned to enemies when the fucking Morties were abroad. Yes, he knew exactly whom he was talking to... but they didn't have the luxury of sitting across from each other all night in a smelly old oubliette. Kasoria bared his teeth for a bit a moment when Oberan suggested he might be a tool for... for... Her.

He reined it in. Just before his muscles bunched noticeably, like a catamount about to go for something soft and essential.

This is the time you live in. That all of Etzos does.

"I'd forgotten how much youse fuckin' irk me, boy."

Not the reaction Oberan had been expecting, one would easily argue. But it was immediately followed by Kasoria necking the cup until it was dry, so there was a bright side. He savored it as best he could, and verily, whatever the "antidote" (he still felt the quotation was deserved, for now) tasted of was nicely smothered by quite a fine parcel of mutilated grapes. He smacked his lips and placed the cup on the table, upside down, as Etzos tradition intended. A drink savored and appreciated, but not to be repeated. He hoped the man opposite him understood the significance.

Fun's over. To business.

"When I left, I thought Webb'd be the end of it. That once he was dead, that was... cuttin' the head of the snake. That what power the cunt had would fall apart, an' she'd fuck off back 'ome." A flash of clear, visceral self-loathing uglied Kasoria's face up even more for a second, before he clenched his jaw. "I was a bloody idiot. I come back an' she's got her own fuckin' militia on the streets. Puttin' her minions into dead fuckin' men an' orderin' them about like an army. She's got voices on the Council. She's got people whisperin' good an' noble words about the fucking Immortals. In Etzos!"

The last words were loud enough to rattle off the walls like blades on the stone. Anger, thick and almost rancid, coated them now. Rage and hate old and blackened with much visitation over the arcs, but now that part of it directed inwards was clearer to Oberan than it had been before. This wasn't just a man who despised the Immortals and their influence over his people; this was a man who felt he could have done more, and failed. Who was not there to help, when he should have been. Who had been a-

"Blunt tool. S'what I said I was, back when last we spoke." Finally, the Raggedy Man sat down. Took his hand from the wall. Sent one Spark to rest and raised the older one, letting Abrogation ether thrum under his skin, ready to be unleashed should have have a reason. There were, after all, the times he lived in. But for now... he just talked. To a man who knew things. "But the headaches? The poisons? That bug y'showed me? Yer a man who knows things. Yer the hand that grasps the tool an' makes somethin' out of it."

Kasoria let the full weight of those words settle on Oberan for a while. Let him understand just what he was putting into the (apparently) younger man. Because while Kasoria was a terrible human being, he was also very much aware of his limitations.

"So tell me what yeh know... an' how we fix this shite."

[Oberan]

Finally the unmistakable sign of Kasoria being the same old Kasoria presented itself. Not the drink, though that was a vital component of counteracting any toxins that might already be present –but not necessarily influential—within the assassin. Yes, refusal to drink would be a clear confession to the brainwashing, as no-one possessed by the abnormal zeal would even consider taking antivenom to make it stop. However, what put Oberan at ease for real was Kasoria’s reaction to his accusations.

Like many Etzori, the killer was not that great at hiding his distaste for Immortals. Blatantly accuse someone of loving an Immortal, and you had a brawl on your hands. Kasoria’s reaction was a little more subtle than instantly throwing hands, but it was equally telling. Righteous anger and indignation burned in his pitch-black eyes, teeth bared in a rage-filled grimace. Surely someone utterly devoted to Sintra would not react in that way. And even if they did, Oberan very much doubted the assassin’s acting chops. He could not pull something like that off without it feeling unnatural and forced.

"I'd forgotten how much youse fuckin' irk me, boy," Kasoria said, pouring drink down his gullet in its entirety.

Oberan smiled at the words, leaning back on his stool still, though now without all the tension bouncing around his body. A sigh of relief escaped, and he brought his cup back to his lips, surprised to find his hands shaking. “Good to see I still got it. I was starting to think I’d lost my edge.” His voice echoed metallic from inside the cup, then swallowed a big gulp of wine himself.

Kasoria made it clear he wouldn’t be drinking more than that, which was fair. The Mortalborn really should do the same after finishing his own cup. This wasn’t the time nor place to get blackout drunk.

While Oberan nursed his drink, the assassin talked. There was regret within his words, obvious to any who listened. A sense of failure, of powerlessness. All the legends and hushed whispers made it easy to forget that the Raggedy Man was but human. A damn good assassin, yes, but Sintra wasn’t a foe you could best by killing off a couple of her pawns. Chop off one head, and she’d put two more in its place. And those heads truly were everywhere. Some hidden, some in the open. In the council, yes, but also among the former underground population, among the merchants of the Circle, among the rabble of the Perimeter. Like weeds, they popped up everywhere. Like weeds, you could get rid of those you saw for a few months, but then they just regrew. As long as the root wasn’t completely removed, they just came back.

“We all make mistakes, Kas. In the end, we’re but Mortal men.” A strange confession from a creature who considered himself to be more than Mortal. Or rather, more than just Mortal. Oberan was extraordinary, a union of man and Immortal. He was more than either, yet also less. He was granted the strengths from each, but also the flaws.

“You thought it would be as simple as removing Webb from the equation. I thought I could dump my knowledge onto someone else and be done with this.” He chuckled at the naivete of the both of them. “Honestly, if things had gone a little different, I wouldn’t be sitting here right now. The moment I learned of Sintra’s arrival –before the siege on Rhakros—I was going to skip town. The only reason I didn’t—well, that doesn’t matter. Anyway, how to fix this? I’m not sure. The situation is dire, Kas.”

Oberan emptied his cup, then made both his own and Kasoria’s vanish into the Vault. Enough alcohol for today. “Thing is, I do know a fair bit about what’s going on. That’s true. But, like I’ve said last time, I’m not much of a schemer.” A sigh. “Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? Here’s what you need to know: Sintra has taken control of the water supply. Sintra also had spies planted in Lisirra’s secret laboratories beneath Rhakros. Coincidentally, in those laboratories, the concoction that inspires that unshakable zeal in the Rhakrosians was manufactured. Do I have to elaborate?”

From within his cloak, Oberan produced a small vial with an eyedropper attached to the lid. It was placed on the table, right in front of the assassin. “By our estimation, the formula was completed sometime around the end of last Saun. That’s about the same time most of the population started to experience headaches.” Reaching out, the Mortalborn tapped the small bottle a couple times. “Now, this here should counteract whatever Sintra’s cooked up. Take a few drips of this every day, and even if you drink anything tainted, you should be safe. It’ll eliminate the headache as well.”

Giving a vial of his own stash to Kasoria diminished the amount he could take himself, but Oberan didn’t really worry. Connected to the Resistance as he was, he could easily request more. They wouldn’t like it, of course. The stuff was rationed to prevent running out, and most of it went into the water supply. The rest was divvied up among the members, to prevent Sintra’s brainwashing to grow as a cancer within the ranks. A precaution none had deemed excessive. It meant that there wasn’t a whole lot to go around though, and Oberan –despite having made quite a name for himself within the organization—was not exempt from reprimand and scorn. Although, if he told them the reason he needed more antidote was to supply the Raggedy Man with it, they surely wouldn’t complain. No member of the Resistance would prefer Kasoria of all people to fall under Sintra’s spell.

[Kasoria]

We tried to do it our way. Our separate ways. That was the problem.

Kasoria's jaw twitched in sympathetic amusement and Oberan confessed his own failure. The Raggedy Man had thought he could slash and slaughter his way to victory; the Con Man thought he could simply whisper in the right ears and the problem would be solved for him. They were both wrong. Blood alone nor cunning alone would fix a problem like Sintra. She was too strong, too sharp, too entrenched. They would have to work together, find a way to meld their natural abilities and strike from more than one angle.

That's what we've been doing wrong the whole time. Coming at her one way, when she's already prepared for it.

Then Kasoria found out why he'd been having headaches. His eyes widened a fraction, but that was all the reaction Oberan would have found. Such was not the case inside the man. Everything from horror and fear to rage and disgust rippled through him in waves. Ruven came back to his mind: a hapless, tortured puppet of a soul, trapped inside his own body and unable to control it. Tricked and deceived by Sintra into playing host to another, loyal spirit. This was, in some ways, even worse. A slow, insidious... repurposing of a mortal's mind. Chipping away at who they are until they're nothing but pawns, mindless and fanatical, like those frothing bastards he killed in Etzos.

That could have been you, he thought, barely suppressing a shudder. If he hadn't given you the antidote.

"Nam. m'gettin' the idea."

He listened. He drank it in, mentally gulping down all this precious intelligence. He didn't know just how little he knew until he found out... well, that. Sintra wasn't just planning on converting or corrupting or eliminating a few key figures in high office. Well, she was doing that, but that was only one front of her assault. The other was her going after the whole of Etzos, from the beggars to the Council. Twisting every mortal mind into abject worship of her. Making Etzos just another bastion of the Immortals.

Kasoria frowned, swallowing down the bile that thought drew up from him. Disgust, rage, hate, anger, yes, blah-blah-blah, but now you can do something about it. So he was still and quiet for a long moment after Oberan had finished speaking. Gathering his own thoughts, putting together what he knew and what he'd learned before speaking again.

"Our?" He let the word hang there for a moment. Oberan was smart enough to know what the follow up would be. "There's more of yeh, then?" Once Oberan confirmed that, Kasoria nodded, as if satisfied. "Aye... have t'be more'n just one or two. Bitch's gettin' an army under her. Ned somethin' like that t'fight her back wiv', even if it's inna shadows..."

He itched to fight. To war. To reave. To cut down and slaughter everything bearing the mark or word of Sintra. But he'd tried that before, and where had it got him? Far from home and ignorant while his city needed him. But now he had at least something he could point himself at... and not only that, something else to contribute.

"F'yer lot're puttin' stuff inna' water to... counteract, what she's doing," Kasoria mulled the right word over while he reached into his cloak, hunting for something. He almost smirked when Oberan's eyebrow quirked. Not a word one expected from an Oh'Pee scrote. "Dat means she's gotta be puttin' her shite in it from somewhere, ken? F'I were her, wouldn't be jus' one place. Be a few places, quiet, outside a' town. But still... f'yeh find out, lemme know. I'll do what I'm best at."

Kasoria looked the man in the eye. No bravado or even eagerness was in his tone. He was too old and jaded a soul for that; too much blood staining his hands and then washed off enough times to make the stink seem more of an annoyance than a sin. He was a man that simply stated facts: this was what he was made for, gifted at, with magic or blade or arrow or bare fucking hands or whatever he could grasp in them. If Oberan had need for such a man, all he'd have to do was give him a location.

After that, naught but ashes and corpses would remain.

"... an' yer people might 'ave use fer this."

He handed the Mortalborn a simple piece of folded paper, opened and closed so often the creases were nearly cutting it in half. There were maybe a score of names there. Some had lines through them; almost half, in fact. Oberan could note easily that the ink was very fresh on a few of those lines. Kasoria didn't feel the need to elaborate on those particular names; just what the rest of them were.

"S'a list of a buncha' Sintra-lovers, all across the city. Not jus' the bottom-feeders, neither. Got men a' wealth an' quality there," he said, lips sneering around the words even as he spoke them. "Kinda cunts that'd be useful in, say, helpin' some Morty bitch take over a city. Make a copy. Take it wiv' yeh. See if youse can make summin' of it."

He was quiet again, letting Oberan do just that. It seemed his headache was clearing up, and the ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. Oh, he was thinking clearly again, that was for sure. Seeing the bigger picture will do that. So will taking steps to smash that picture to fragments.

"Llyr? Zarik? Whatever y'know him as... y'seen him? Be a useful man t'have fer this fight." Kasoria frowned as a thought occurred to him. "Speakin' a which... why'd you give so much of a toss 'bout this, anyway? Ain't yer city, ain't yer people. Why stick around an' risk the Spider Bitch puttin' yeh on her own list?"

[Oberan]

“Our?” the assassin questioned. Though he hadn’t exactly been trying to hide it, Oberan was surprised at his slip of the tongue. Kasoria was pretty damn sharp to pick up on it. Good thing it wasn’t exactly a secret.

“Well, yes. I’m sure you’ve heard rumors speak of the Resistance?” Under Sintra’s rule or not, gossip still flowed freely within Etzos. Some spoke of the fabled and mysterious Resistance agents as if they were brave heroes fighting for the soul of the city. Others huffed and sneered about the organization, regarding them as pests, a force bent on dividing Etzos rather than striving to unite it. “I’m not exactly a member myself, but I am well connected. They scratch my back, I scratch theirs. It’s a mutually beneficial partnership.”

A list was transfered between killer and thief, the latter taking a little time to scan the paper. Names, most of them unfamiliar. Some were crossed out, the strikethrough lines varied in both ink and age. A couple were very recently crossed out, it seemed. These were Sintra collaborators, Kasoria stated, which made it obvious what kind of list it was. Several names rung a bell, having appeared in some of the documents pilfered from the Cauldron. Most were unfamiliar though.

“This will be very helpful,” Oberan nodded, producing a sheet of paper, ink and quill from his cloak. No time was wasted in making a quick copy of the document. “I’m not sure how many of these people already are on the Resistance’s watchlist, but I’m certain there’s a couple on there they didn’t have anything concrete on.”

He worked in a semblance of silence for a little while, with only the scratching of the quill on paper and the occasional tapping of the utensil on the inkwell echoing through the chamber. There was a certain haste turning the writing into chicken scratch. Although they were alone for the moment, there was no telling when new spiders would flood in. Oberan wanted this conversation to be over before Sintra had a chance to listen in.

“Llyr? Oh, the Magpie? Tall, blonde, Biqaj –most of the time? Condescending smartarse? I’ve tried gauging his alliance a couple times. Last time he expressed the desire to remain neutral in all this.” Oberan sighed, looking up from the near-finished copy. “Nothing wrong with that, though it seems Sintra’s definitely not thinking of him as neutral.” He shrugged, then began to jot down the last two names, double checking his work. The original list was carefully shoved back to Kasoria.

“Me? It’s complicated. I don’t have any attachments to the city—well, I mean, in the sense that it’s not something like home, you know? But… Hm. I suppose you could say that I admire the Etzori spirit. No need for Immortals and their boons, no playing their little games. Remain independent and don’t take shit from them. Rely on your own power to protect the city and its people. Etzos holds true to its own ideals and beliefs. I think that’s--” Endearing, Oberan thought, though he did not say it. “—worthy of respect. I am a fan of that mentality. Even if the whole of Idalos succumbs to the whims of the Immortals, Etzos will not. Or so I thought.”

A sigh. “Admittedly, Sintra’s fighting dirty, but the disappointment I felt at her bombardment to unofficial protector of the city… Bah. The people who were all to willing to accept this?” The Mortalborn frowned, looking conflicted. “To be honest, I agreed with Magpie when we last spoke. Maybe Etzos deserves to fall. If its convictions are so weak that one beneficial act by the Immortal of Manipulation is enough to convert half of the city… But, that does not mean that I want that to happen. In fact, I’d prefer for the city to redeem itself. Brought to its lowest point, now is the time for Etzos to prove its worth. And if it does fall, at least I’ve done what I could.”

The Mortalborn grinned then, one hand stroking his goatee. “And, I’m already neck deep into this shit anyway. Might as well see it through. Sintra wants my head on a platter, and I’m not planning to just give it to her. Every tiny bit of resistance creates hairline fractures in her façade, every hitch in her plans frustrates her a little more. I happen to very much enjoy that.”

Not to mention the sheer thrill of the situation. It was do or die. For the entirety of the year or so Sintra’d been in town executing her nefarious plan, Oberan’d experienced nary a dull moment. There always was something exciting going on. For better or worse, if he’d left, he’d had to miss all of it. Even if Audrae’s opinion did not change, even if Oberan failed and the city fell to pieces, he’d have a crazy year behind him. One full of twists and turns and ecstasy. It mixed with every other reason Oberan had listed, creating a complicated blend that made it difficult to assess which the Mortalborn prioritized. He didn’t even know himself.

“Speaking of, remember I said I dumped my gathered evidence on someone else? I think I mentioned it last time too. Well, I did get some of it back.” Rummaging through the pockets of his cloak, Oberan produced the Cube. Not the real deal, of course --that one remained safely within the Vault—but the fake Magpie had crafted. Nevertheless, the Mortalborn did not place it on the table, holding on to it himself. “I would like to claim I snuck into Sintra’s lair and stole it back right from under her nose, but I’d be lying. It’s mostly by coincidence, but boy, she was absolutely livid.” Oberan’s grin widened at the thought. “She was almost begging for me to hand it over, which would have been comical if not for the swarm of spiders around me. So, naturally, I duped her, and got the hell out of dodge. Her rage-filled screams were absolutely divine.”

Oberan basked in the memory for a few moments, then got his thought back in order. “Anyway, this Cube is absolutely vital to her plans, it seems, so under no circumstances should it make its way back to her.” To stress his words, the Cube vanished back into the Vault. “It was used to extend the ether storms in the area, and might also play a role in either the creation of the toxin and or the revival of ghosts.” The Mortalborn couldn’t be sure about those though, as he’d refused to take the Cube out of the Vault ever since acquiring it. Not for study, not for anything else. As long as it remained in the Vault, Sintra couldn’t get it back. “This is the most damning piece of evidence we have, but there’s one problem. Evidence means nothing. We can’t prove anything. Even if we pile up all we’ve gathered and inform the people, it won’t make a difference. Sintra is keeping up her façade, and as long as part of the city supports her, Etzos will fall. Either through her plans, or through civil war.”

“So, my original idea was to rally the people behind Pahrn. He’s charismatic, he’s a Pahrn. If there’s anyone capable of opposing Sintra AND get the support of the Etzori, it’s him. However, I don’t think that’ll suffice. Pahrn needs to be the face of Etzos, yes, but to rally people, what we need is not the gathered evidence. I think what we need is to show all of Etzos Sintra’s true face. In other words, we need to make her slip up in public, in a way that she can’t talk herself out of it. The problem is that she’s shrewd and way to clever. However, Immortals are many things, but they are not infallible.”

He paused for a moment, eyebrow raised, waiting for Kasoria to speak his mind. This was something he hadn’t run by the Resistance yet –for all they knew, Oberan was going to approach Pahrn with some of the evidence, which he still was going to do. But it wasn’t the end goal anymore. Showing the city in no uncertain terms what Sintra was planning –preferably have her do it herself—was the new objective. The only problem was that Oberan did not know how or where to start. Or if it was plan people could get behind.

“Anyway, you wanted me to point you in some directions? I’ve been careful to stay out of sight for the most part, so most of what I know pertains to the city itself. The Resistance doesn’t tell me everything either, so I only know about the poisonings in the reservoir. But, you’re probably right, it makes sense for them to spread out. My guess would be the river itself, might be worth checking out?” He pondered for a few seconds. “Actually, I have a better idea. You have some Blackjack contacts, right? And your actions in Rhakros have given you some influence? As far as I know, the Blackjacks are mostly on our side, or at least opposed to the Web Guard. It might be a good idea to gauge how many of them we could count on, if need be.”

“Oh, and I’m planning to pay Pahrn a visit sometime in the future. See where he stands in all this, if he has any ideas how to deal with Sintra. Unity is important if we want to drive her out, I think, so it might be worth the risk. I’d go alone, but a bit of insurance wouldn’t be a bad idea, right? Last time I tried to convince a member of the Tower, they tried to have me arrested for trespassing instead of listening.”

[Kasoria]

For the first time, he was starting to feel the ground under him. Mentally, anyway. He was so overwhelmed by the scale and cunning of this plot that no matter how he looked at it, there seemed naught but chaos and madness. He didn't know where to begin or where he stood (other than relying on old hatreds for that part), and thus he felt... useless. Like a dog barking at shadows but never the shapes that cast them.

Now, though... now Kasoria was seeing the light melt the darkness away. Felt the raw data and gossip and rumors and plots and intel and all of it, any of it, fill in all the gaps and enlighten him.

He almost didn't mind it was fucking Oberan doing it.

Almost.

He frowned a little at the mention of Llyr. Didn't seem too out of sorts, though. The Quacian had helped him out of personal affection, not loyalty to a cause or hate for an enemy. Kasoria had cashed in his chips there and Fates... it wasn't like he had too much goodwill to draw on. Not after what he'd done right after Webb had shuffled off into the next life. But Sintra still saw him as an enemy? That was... interesting.

Potentially useful, he thought darkly, ill-used and manipulative part of his mind dusting itself off.

But where was Oberan in all this? Out for himself, apparently, and Kasoria was utterly unsurprised. He should have guessed it, really. The man always followed his own muse and his own motivations. This time, they happened to coincide with the liberation of Etzos. Kasoria wondered briefly that if Oberan had been born a different man, enamored with the lure of the Immortals and the trappings of power, he could just as easily have been on the other side of this war. But no, not this time. Craven and self-obsessed creature that he was, he was in their corner, and unlikely to sway from it.

Once Sintra has you on her list, you don't get off it. Well... aside from the obvious way.

"She came t'us when we were near death," Kasoria growled, idle thoughts suddenly shattered and replaced by icy intent when he heard Oberan wondering even mildly about the city deserving to fall. "All of us. The whole fuckin' city an' all around it that wasn't already fuckin' dead. Eight outta ten. That's how many we lost. Not just the city. Not just the towns, the villages, the hamlets, the ports. Everyone. Line up ten folk from two arcs ago, two of 'em would be left. We couldn't find back, couldn't negotiate, couldn't even flee. That's when she came to us."

The assassin leaned forward, eyes shadowed anew by his hood, black masking black so he could barely see his eyes now. When he did, they seemed like jagged, angry black stones shoved into his head... or just black holes, leading to death and darkness.

"Anyone would have taken 'er offer. Anyone. But we didn't say she could come in 'ere an' poison our people an' scratch out those that argue an' become a fuckin Queen." Memories of Frenlip's tavern and the men he'd butchered there made his blood hot and his voice even more savage. Memories of what that last, sputtering, mutilated sellsword had uttered even more so. "She came t'us like a some cheap fuckin' trickster to a man already broken by alla' the Fates. An' even then, she had t'trick an' lie an' scheme t'really get her foot inna' door. An' if she'd jus' stuck to her deal, helped us an' accepted our thanks, mayhap even bastards like me'd let her be. But not now. Now I see. Now I understand..."

Oberan redeemed himself by wisely talking about how enraged and frustrated Oberan's schemes had made the Spider Queen. Oh, yes. Quite the witty rejoinders. Kasoria even grunted in amusement when the Mortalborn told him how she'd howled and raged when he'd duped her. Hard not to respect that, after all. He frowned at the Cube Oberan held, glowing and runic and inscrutable to him. He breathed in deeply and held back the questions buzzing in his head. He had absorbed enough for now. Learning everything, knowing everything... no, it couldn't be done. Someone with Oberan's corkscrew mind might be able to handle the madness of a thousand thoughts and schemes whispering in his mind, but Kasoria was a simpler man-

No. You can't afford to be that anymore. This isn't a simple problem.

"Pahrn?" He snorted and shrugged his shoulders. "Wanker's a politician, innee? Blows wherever the coin an' the gossip goes. But... of them all, I think yer right. The others might've already been swayed, but him? Son a' the founder? Blood of a god-killer still in him? Aye... I don't see him turning easy. But I ain't got no access to..." Kasoria paused. Oh, but he did. He knew ways that few men did, collected and hoarded by his old master. Ways into the Citadel through tunnels and passages even the Blackjack were ignorant of. "... then again... maybe I could help yeh get inside. No promises on that. Have t'look inta it first."

At the mention of his old "friends" with the Black Guard, Kasoria grimaced. He had well and truly burned that bridge a long time ago... but there was one name left. One name that hated him more than the others, but hated the Immortals just as much as he. Who despised how his city had weakened and been taken in by a sneering, prattling mutant. Yusef was hardly a friend, and far more than an enemy... but that really depended on the contest, and when it was Sintra sitting on the other side, one never knew who you might suddenly call comrade.

"... I've got a couple a' names I can hunt down. Ask around. An' I'll keep an eye on the river. See if there's anywhere suddenly pumpin' more shite into it than yuh'd expect."

Kasoria breathed in sharply and got to his feet. There had been much said, much imparted, and he felt almost swelled by the knowledge he'd been given. His mind crackled with ideas. Possibilities. Yusef. Pahrn. The river. The Cube. The antidote. The Resistance. So much he didn't know before, and in this crumbling room he'd been put back on the right track. Even a man like him knew that was worthy of-

"I thank yeh," he said eventually, half-smiling at the shocked look on Oberan's face. "Ah, fuck aw wi' dat face. I ain't incapable a' fuckin' gratitude. But now, 'ow're we keepin' in touch? Frenlip's solid, but y'got any better ways?"

Kasoria didn't know any off the top of his head, but a man walking around with a magic bloody vault he could carry around in his pocket, surely had some asset he wasn't thinking of yet.