Action: Immanuel Jade sits down, staring at the door at the end of the greater door - the door that ostensibly keeps him locked in a room, but instead keeps him inside another door, of course. He occasionally checks the room which is a door for changes, then looks back at the door which is a door into a door to see what it looks with a fresher mind. Repeatedly.
And, so he passes the hours, sitting on the floor and staring at the wall.
Unsurprisingly, not much changes at all.
"...You're sure you don't wanna play a game of cards or something?" Mags says hesitantly, after about an hour or so.
"I might as well hear it."
The sheriff invites you inside to her shabby office, gesturing you for you to sit in a chair aside from her desk-which is cluttered with pounds of Imperial Issued paperwork. With a shove, she slides it all to one side to clear room for a bottle of
Baiju-white liquor-and two glasses. She pours herself a finger, drains it, and begins her story.
"I'll cut to the bone. Osten Laers is dying. Deep black rot in his lungs, probably from those damn Tirkan cigars he liked to smoke. He'll die on his silk sheets with the pretty ladies fanning him, for all his sins, I do not doubt-but, he won't go peacefully or painlessly, and I find this acceptable."She raises her glass, as if in salutation.
"Not a man or woman in the West will mourn the bastards passing, count me among them-but, since I'm the High Sheriff, I've got to worry about what happens after the fireworks have gone off."She pours and takes another drink.
"See, here's the thing. Old Osten was a hound. Enjoyed a yīyèqíng* about every week or so-he had seven wives over his life, sixteen mistresses in between, an untold number of courtesans and half-day girls, and what I have is no doubt a considerable number of rapes." She says gravely.
"I mean to say, he's got a lot of spawn. Most of em' as rotten as he is, and when his black spirit finally goes to the Ten Courts of Hell, the question is going to be asked by all and sundry who sprang from his loins. Where's the money? As you can imagine, he's a spiteful miser who has been stringing many folks along with promises and oaths. No one was quite sure who's going to be first in line to inherit the fortune and the head of the family-since no one is quite sure who his first child is, and he didn't tell anyone until very recently..."Pour, drink. Mechanical efficiency.
"Once he is gone, they will bring a new definition to the term 'family squabble'-many of them are prepared and willing to shed blood to take their small piece of the pie. Thing is, the Laers family is not unlike the black rot killing it's founder-it's so ingrained in the body of Sevenforks that to kill it entirely without restraint and in an orderly fashion, would hurt many people-innocent people, who are guilty of no more crime than working in one of their sweat shops or gambling parlors. There will be war in the west-House Laers fall will be a bloody mess...I aim to stop this madness before it starts, or at least lessen it.
Now, you ask. What does Jun have to do with that? Thing is, Jun stole more than Gold. He might or might not have told you. He kidnapped a young man from that carriage. Ognen Laers. Currently, Osten has declared him inheritor of everything. All the land. All the money. The whole bag of rocks. Probably just for a laugh, knowing him. The boys hardly past his 20th birthday-straight laced Imperial, college educated. Never expected to see or hear word of his blighted family or even step foot in the west, I imagine.
And, now he's gone. Osten's Laers has fallen into what they call a 'comma' (sic)-I've been told that means he's asleep, but not dead, and not likely to wake up ever again-and his heirs been kidnapped in what is either an extreme case of ill fortune or the machinations of one of his many greedy children, or even someone else entirely bent on a different end-maybe the fall of Laers, maybe just general chaos. Maybe someone just hates the Laers enough to decide it's in the greater good...
This note you have. I'm sorry if I played dumb. But, it might be the only clue we have to finding him...assuming he's still alive. If Osten dies and the the heir isn't produced, all Hell is going to break loose. My town is going to get torn apart."She sighs. Rubs her forehead.
"Would you like something to drink? And, tell me your thoughts on all of this."*One night standWell, looks like they were busy staring at the scenery. Ah, well.
She could almost here a bath calling. And something proper to eat.
Perhaps she could eat in the bath?
She span her parasol in her grip as she headed towards where she believed Sevenstrings to be built, her horse clopping along. Maybe she'd get rid of it - she wasn't much of a horse rider. Perhaps it would be easier with a saddle...
Head to the inn
Wen-li made her way to Sevenstrings...in the nicer part of town. There were even electric lights here-which, she reflected, were common in Orinost. Common as fury-treated clean water basins, and wrist worn handymans that could tell the weather. Here, the lamps are only in the richest and most well kept streets.
...
True to it's name, the place had a chaotic air about it-many performers here, many hopeful and not so hopefuls. Some alone, some in pairs, some bands. Not only musicians, but entertainers of every stripe-tumblers, fireblowers, fury dancers, actors and actresses, and of course minstrels and bards. Wen-Li is sad that she doesn't see any other true Orinost Bars, but she does spot not a few obvious (to her) fakes. With their rubber, wood and plaster masks, painted in garish colors, and obnoxious 'devices' which usually imply spinning wheels and colorful smoke-thought some wield actual artifacts, most broken, in poor repair, or being used wrong. Her people have in some ways been reduced to this farce...one of them passes by her as she heads to the back of the stage where the rooms for the performers are-doing a ridiculous tumbling dance. His mask is fake-plaster, peeling paint shaped into a ghoulish grin. He even carries a parody of your own own umbrella, whirling in circles every time he turns a wheel with his dirty white gloves. Wen-li might find this amusing or disgusting-traditionally, only women carried umbrellas in Orinost.
"Lady, oh-that's a nice mask. Where did you find it? Perhaps...in the ruins! Oh, lament! Oh, sadness! Weep for lost Orinost!" He says, sarcastic words biting into you with a sharp edge. Then he turns conversational, perhaps even trying to hit on you.
"Really, though. That is a nice getup. I can barely make out the seams. Must have cost you at least seven talons, right? You make the rest of us look like amateurs. Tell me, who's your supplier? I might be interested in showing you the ropes..." he says, 'charmingly'
"Maybe we could do a duet!"Orinost Bards also always acted alone. That was the burden of singing the praises.
She mentally compares these fakes, with her real people...most of which are playing their instruments for scraps.
Author
Topic: The Far West-Ch.1/Light for Some-others, A Deeper Darkness (Game thread) (Read 21813 times)