Kiyoka

[Viking-Sensei]

Lucas held the pistols out in front of Jamie, who was inspecting them with keen interest. "These came from a client I picked up in the field a few years back. The guy wanted my help looking for his sister... I must've wandered around bloody Farrel for three months doing circles before he eventually gave up. Then he told me he didn't have any money and offered me a set of these as payment. Of course, they're of excellent craftsmanship. I mean, look at how straight- "

Suddenly, two armed men exploded into the shop, right into Lucas' line of fire. As Tovio shrunk away and Jamie suddenly tensed, Lucas just kept his pistols calmly trained on the other two figures.

"Friends of yours?" Lucas said drily. "Look, I know when I'm being used as cover for a stealthy escape. You're not the first ones to get this bright idea. But, if I am being used as such, please at least have the decency to all show up at roughly the same time. Now, stop waving those weapons before someone actually gets hurt with real actual bullets. Bob, emergency protocol 17."

The small grey kitten hovered over to the bookcase and inserted his tail in a small hole in the wall next to it. The case slid back halfway, revealing a tunnel going down.

"Mostly, I use this for golem storage, however the convenient upshot is that there's another set of stairs that comes up in the basement of the Veracian mission across the plaza. Now, let's go peoples, we can fill the paperwork out on your friends once we're clear of the people trying to kill you all."

[Sareth]

My eyes roved from the marvelous pair of pistols, to the new opening in the wall, to the two men that had barrelled into the room, and back. The guns were nice, the tunnel was excellent, but I had no idea who these two new arrivals were. Which certainly didn't mean they were friends.

I shrugged. "Sure, I'm eager to get out of town. But if these are the people I'm trying to get away from, I'd probably be safer staying in town. Clumsy, clumsy, clumsy..." I turned to evaluate the two men, running my eyes up and down them. I gave a snort of dismissal. These two looked like they'd have trouble subduing a sickly orphan. No threat.

I turned and began walking down the passage.

[Graybeard]

He couldn't see as much of the plaza from his new position as before, but that wasn't the important thing; at least he still had the high ground, and he'd found a place on the roof that seemed to bear his weight. Besides, if he couldn't see people on the plaza (not that there were any at the moment), people on the plaza couldn't see him, which might be advantageous for a few minutes. He was sure the people who interested him were around here somewhere, even if he couldn't see them, and they'd give plenty of indications of their intention when they moved, so ...

When trouble came, it was from the opposite direction, as usual.

He first smelled, then heard, then saw the three ragtag men running up the alley, all with Thundering Metal Things held at their side. He wasn't intimidated; experience had shown that these weapons didn't have much effect on his kind unless someone scored a very lucky hit on a vulnerable bit like the eyes or nose. He could take them all together, he calculated, although there'd be some risk. The question was: should he? From the looks of it, these Small Ones were hunting the ones he was looking for, and that made them his enemies until he sorted out the relationships -- and a troll only knows one way to deal with an enemy. On the other hand, the Many Fathers Wisdom was teaching him restraint when around the Small Ones, particularly in their towns and villages. Nature struggled with experience, and unusually enough for a troll, experience won, at least for the moment.

The three Small Ones advanced to the outlet of the alley, keeping to the shadows. The middle-sized one, who seemed to be the leader, motioned the others back a step and growled, "So where'd the bastards go?" Nothing but grunts and shrugs answered him, so he continued. "Okay, Reconnaissance Drill Three in effect. Split up and keep out of sight" -- as if that would protect them from an enemy that hunts by smell, the troll thought -- "and when you find them, two dog barks. Then we re-form and take 'em out. George, you're around the left. Curley, you're right. I've got the view of the plaza."

"Uhhh, Lennie, are yuh sure dis is a good idea?" the largest Small One (and he was quite large indeed, for a Small One) asked. The middle-sized man glared at him. "George, you big dumb ox, you are not paid to think; I am. You are paid to follow orders and kill people when I say they need killing. So do it, dammit." George shrugged and he and Curley moved off.

Exitalis above, the troll swore to himself, unaware of the irony of using a traditional oath that involved an elven anti-god. Were these Small Ones really that stupid?

Troll nature seized the opening that Many Fathers Wisdom offered it, and took control of the situation. He laid down his bow and gripped his sword.

[DarkIntruder]

Roger breathed an almost visible sigh of relief when the dark grey-haired man lowered the guns and went off on a subdued rant about being used for stealthy escapes, and how most people had the decency to at least show up on time. He then spoke to a small kitten floating over a bookcase, which then in turn used it's tail to open a passageway behind the shelves.

Roger glanced across at Zeeve, who was stepping forward to confront the man. "Now hold on just a min..urk!" Roger quickly clapped one hand across the short man's mouth. "Yup, yup, we're all here now." Roger said, perhaps a bit too quickly. "Sorry we're late, but we... ran into some old friends, so if we could get a move on, I think it'd be best for everyone."

Keeping one hand across the mans mouth, and putting the other on his shoulder, he directed Zeeve into the tunnel, winking at the grey-haired man (who was obviously the guide and shop owner) and the other blonde-haired man. "We can exchange introductions later." Roger said.

Entering the tunnel, he guided Zeeve along, following the heavily clothed individual ( he couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman) who had entered it before them.

[Weirdonian]

"Yeah, yeah." Toivo whispered as he quickly got his gear together and safely his stone in its burlap sack. He grabbed his walking stick, turned 'round and joined the growing group now entering the escape tunnel. This whole affair was quickly growing more complicated than he imagined. 'You'd be perfect for this mission, they said. It'll be smooth sailing, they said. Suuuure.' he thought to himself as he rolled his eyes and continued on with everyone into the tunnel. After he rolled his eyes, he became aware of thier dank, dark surroundings. He coud feel the old beams and the dirt and stones and mortar around them and felt relieved that this passage seemed stable enough, though he wasn't about to put those feelings to the test.

(OOC: Sorry I haven't posted much lately. I'll be posting regularly again now, though.)

[Graybeard]

As stealthily as is possible for 500 pounds of death, the troll known as Grope moved into position.

He saw that the Small One Lennie was crouched behind what looked like a beer barrel, watching the plaza. Not too bad, he thought; he'd have to jump carefully, to avoid landing on the barrel rather than the man, but on the other hand, the barrel would prevent the Small One's escape, and maybe provide some useful cover in the bargain. He'd undertaken far less auspicious ambushes than this one, under conditions where an error would have much more serious consequences. Well, he thought, let's do it. Making a conscious effort to suppress his war cry, he jumped.

The man never saw him coming, yet in the last moments of his life, Lennie may have had some vague hint that something terminally bad was about to happen; he started to straighten, raised the Thundering Metal Thing, maybe even formed the beginnings of a yell. But it was too late. If biology permitted, he would have died three times in the space of about two seconds: the first, from having a quarter ton of sinew and muscle land on him, splattering vital organs like overripe fruit; the second, from a neck broken like a dry stick as a clawed hand whipped his head around; the third, more conventionally, as a crude but lethal sword cut his throat messily. In the event, of course, once was enough.

Contrary to popular myth, trolls do not eat human flesh, at least not under normal conditions. However, the forms must be observed, and after all, part of the point of the exercise was to obtain some of the late Small One's Wisdom, to help him figure out just what was going on. He moved quickly through the rituals, smearing a bit of gore on the Robe, taking a swatch of hair for later use, and even enjoying the rare luxury of licking bloody fingers to get some Wisdom directly into his body. Even without the full ritual (which would require the participation of his mate ... always his mate ...), he thought he could feel the man's Wisdom starting to add to his own. Mercenaries, he realized; the concept was foreign to his people, but he'd traveled in Farrel long enough to get the idea. And in time, he would figure out just what they had to do with the Small Ones who interested him.

But not now. He didn't want to be detected, and the risk of exposure at street level was too great. Leaving the body behind -- and not noticing the splatter of blood and tissue staining the beer barrel -- he leaped up to the building's roof and concealed his bulk as best he could. And not a moment too soon, for what seemed like mere seconds later, there were footfalls in the alley. He couldn't see exactly what was going on, but a voice that he'd heard previously rose in a hoarse scream.

"GAAAAAA! Springheel Jack! He was here!"

WTF?

[Graybeard]

[OOC: Might I suggest using "subject" lines that identify the character doing the "talking"? It'll simplify keeping track of the action. Yeah, the same information is available, in principle, by seeing what user handle is associated with the contribution, but that takes an extra step, to remember who's "playing" what character. Anyway:]

Trolls are not, in general, the most intelligent of races, even the ones old enough to have absorbed much Many Fathers Wisdom. Grope was brighter than most, but it still took a moment for the scene below to register. Springheel Jack here? What did this scene have to do with ... Oh. The Small One -- George, was it? -- just meant that someone had been killed by a mysterious assailant who seemingly vanished into thin air. Well, that was good, he realized; that meant that he'd escaped unobserved. He relaxed just slightly, but not for long, as there were more running footfalls in the alley.

"George? What happened?" It sounded like Curley, the third Small One, the one with a bald head. Before George could answer, Curley gasped, started to scream "Oh my g__," and lost the rest of his sentence in a retching, puking sound. Damn, the troll swore (well, not exactly; trolls have no concept in their religion equivalent to damnation, but close enough). That would jam his sense of smell for a while, so he'd have to rely on sound and sight; not a big problem yet, but dark was coming, and who knows where he might have to go next. He listened carefully to the exchange, continuing to hide as best he could atop the roof.

"Springheel Jack, Curley! He kilt Lennie! Yuh kin see the blood!"

A spitting noise, then, "Hmf. Probably had it coming." Curley was getting his self-control back remarkably quickly -- the troll nodded, approving his professionalism -- and Lennie wasn't well liked, apparently. "Did you see it happen?"

"No, I just come around the corner and there he wuz, lyin' here dead. Dammitall, now whadda we do?"

"Lemme think ... Any sign of the cops?" Grope hoped the answer was no, and so it was, apparently; the streets and alleys had been empty when he struck, and even now, there were only a few passersby at the opposite end of the plaza, studiously ignoring the alley. George must have made some silent sign that the troll couldn't see, because Curley continued, "OK, then. Mr. Gabriel still wants this guy dead, so we do it ourselves, and now we just have to split the fee two ways instead of three. Let's stay together and do a quick recon, see what we're up against, then go kill the bugger. I think I know where he is."

"But ain't we gonna bury Lennie?" Not the sharpest tool in the shed, this George...

"No, we ain't gonna bury him. That's what the cops are for, and the wharf rats will take care of him if the cops don't. But let's make sure he wasn't carrying any ID, and take his gun -- looks like we're gonna have use for it."

"But Springheel Jack..."

"Shaddup. He's prolly miles from here already. Help me with this." Hm; maybe George wasn't the dumb one after all. Had this guy already forgotten about the "quick recon" he wanted to do? Grope hoped so.

The troll crept to the edge of the roof and carefully looked down to see what was going on. The two men were going through the corpse's clothes, pausing for a guffaw and a couple of obscenities when they found a picture of an improbably well-endowed female Small One in the man's pants pocket -- in more ways than one. He debated with himself for a moment over whether it was necessary to kill these two as well, decided that it was (they were still enemies, after all), and moved quietly into position for a killing leap.

And that was when he heard the door to the mission, directly below him and unobservable, open with a click.

[Graybeard]

[OOC: Hey, come on, folks -- I really don't want to do three postings in a row here!...]

The two thugs heard the door, too, and sprinted for the opposite end of the alley, although not before lifting both the late Lennie's weapons and his more than vaguely pornographic picture. The troll watched silently as two women, dressed in vestments of the Veracian Church, emerged cautiously from the building, saw the splattered corpse, and gasped.

"Good Lord, what is that?", the younger woman stammered, then: "Forgive me, Sister Margaret."

Sister Margaret peered through thick glasses at the scene, getting her own composure back. "Your -- appeal -- to Our Lord Luminosita appears justified, Eva. It looks like we have discovered the victim of that gunshot. Let's see what we can do for the poor wretch." She knelt over the body and began to mutter a chant.

Panicked, Grope withdrew a fraction. He had little fear of Small Ones weapons, but their magic was a different story. Were the two women trying to absorb the Many Fathers Wisdom of the dead man? Would they learn what had happened to him, and launch a hunt for his killer? Or were they even now getting a spell ready to hurl destruction at him? He made himself small (relatively speaking) and quiet (absolutely) and hoped that the women wouldn't notice him on the rooftop.

None of the above. The older woman shook her head sadly and said, "He is gone, Sister Eva. His wounds are too severe; my healing spell had no effect. We can do nothing for him." The two nuns made the Sign of Luminosita in the air, shuddered, and mumbled what sounded like a brief prayer. Then Eva spoke again.

"Sister, we can do nothing for his body, but we must purify his soul. To enter into the presence of Our Lord Luminosita in such conditions -- unthinkable." And she shuddered for a second time.

The older woman shook her head. "Eva, I don't think this man is in Luminosita's Presence right now. He looks like one of those mercenaries who've been poking around here, in which case I doubt if Our Lord Luminosita wants this soul anywhere near Him. You'd have to agree, this was probably a pretty putrid soul, wouldn't you?"

Eva considered. "Well, yes, but ... aren't we supposed to be in this country to bring Luminosita's divine words and save souls, no matter how ... disagreeable ... they are?"

"Child, some souls are more worth saving than others. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is. We will notify the authorities, but otherwise we must wash our hands of this matter and turn our attention to the living." Margaret started to straighten, then frowned, said "That's odd...," and knelt to the body again.

"What?"

"Look at this man's injuries. He has suffered a fatal crushing -- by whom or what, I do not know. His neck is broken. And his throat is cut. But there is no bullet wound. How can that be, if he was killed by that shot we heard? He is unarmed, so he didn't fire the shot."

"I follow you, Sister Margaret."

"I now think you are right. Before we call the Kiyokans, we must speak to Father Egbert. Possibly he, with his stronger magic, can learn something here that we are missing. Come." She straightened and started to turn back to the mission.

And that was the moment when tragedy turned to farce, as a flying cat came streaking through the still-open door, pursued by what looked like a large bat, and crashed into the side of her head.

[Sareth]

I pressed on down the passageway, walking past a series of golems. Most of them were just sitting there, eyes gleaming in the torchlight illuminating the passage, though there was a peculiarly stringy and whispy one over in a corner muttering to itself about fish and rings. No threat, it seemed, though one had to question what all these golems were for. Not that I'd be asking. I wasn't so sure I really wanted to know.

Behind me I could hear footsteps. The wet noodles, at the very least, seemed to be following me. I glanced over my shoulder, then shook my head. They appeared to be rather chummy, one having an arm around the other. The hand over the mouth was a bit odd. But then, I already had the sense that this bunch were all rather odd. Thank goodness there was nothing abnormal about me. After only a very short walk (enough to cross a street, and then a little to get from under one building and under another) I came to a set of steps and began climbing them.

"So," I called back over my shoulder to the 'guide,' "How's the Veracian Mission going to take us popping up in their basement?"

[Graybeard]

Contrary to popular belief (as in so many things about their kind), trolls do have a sense of humor. Grope suppressed a chuckle at the slapstick comedy unfolding below him, as Sister Margaret and the flying cat went down in a heap. The Small One was more surprised than damaged and got back on her feet in a moment, swearing in a most un-nun-like manner, and the cat let out a loud "MEAOWRRR" and flew off. But then some things happened that caused him to definitely swallow the chuckle and pay attention. The bat landed next to Margaret, and as space blurred for a moment, transformed into a short, squat man wearing priest's robes.

"Father Egbert!" Eva exclaimed. "We were just ... talking about you."

"Hmph," the male Small One sniffed. "I bet you were." He dusted road grit off his robe. "Damnable bat-cats! Ever since that Tsuirakuan familiar got loose in town and found females in heat, they've been an absolute plague. Somehow you'd think that all those big-brains up there would have figured out that, if they were going to make flying-cat familiars, they should at least make them sterile. But no."

Stunned, Grope continued to half-listen as the Small One described how he'd heard a noise in the wine cellar, gone down to investigate, and found the wild cat tampering with a bottle. His interest wasn't really in the monologue, however, but in the man. Since when did the Veracian Church employ priests who knew shape-shifting magic? He'd interacted -- that was the polite word -- with Veracians for decades and had never seen anything like this. Even his mate couldn't shape-shift for more than seconds at a time, and she ... don't go there, he cautioned himself. His attention returned to the scene on the street, where the man was now examining the body.