ꙮ Although, not Downbelow, just yet. In the barracks, still. Each room’s got a grilled window that looks out onto the outer walls, and the Moon; they’re fairly spartan all things considered, but they’re comfortable enough.
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#awoken
#saint
, of course, never does particularly well when given her own room, alone. Though she’s not ready to sleep yet. She slips through the barracks, and finds where they’ve installed her bluejay fairly easily.
looks over to Salme, and his figure bears a new costume. He’s found a brown trenchcoat from somewhere in the barracks, double breasted with a wide belt clasped in front of him, the coat buttoned, collar up. A dark fedora rests angled on his head, and with the framing of his hair, only one eye is visible. Hands in pockets, the rumpled coat obscures his figure, making him seem slightly bulkier than his actual size.
takes him in. “Well. You’re up to something, aren’t you?” She’d been worried but seeing him like this makes her a little less worried.
knows the bird that came swooping into his quarters, her song a mix of light and warmth that threatens the dark of Valais. A sparrow by sigil, and a fearsome, unrelenting woman by life. There’s two things that one should have in the Downbelow, Awoken has learned- a steeled will, and cold steel at the hip. Salme has both.
: “Up is a dangerous way to glance when venturing Downbelow.”
: “And that’s where we’re going,” I state. “Into a songless dark.”
: “Is it?” she says, leaning against the doorframe. “I fear I’m not dressed for such things.”
The fear is a grace granted to the downtrodden, my eye tracing along her extremely revealing garb. A thief in plain view, she’d steal hearts without even a thought.
: “We can procure more once we’re with the locals. But for now, we hide our brilliance best we can.” He pats a pile of clothes on the cot next to him- a dark blazer, a blouse of shimmering crushed velvet, and a pencil skirt that writes a story with how it’d stick to her figure.
grins at him, a little sharply, and shimmies out of her current clothes and into the outfit he’s indicated. She braids her hair up into a quick, unassuming bun and slips on the same heels she wore on their long-ago date on the Beast.
: “Better?” she asks.
: “Dressed to thrill, darling.” I take her by the waist, pulling her close for a kiss, tipping his hat up before his final approach.
lets him, will always let him. She wraps her arms around his neck and allows him to dip her into the kiss.
dips, the two striking a cast of shadows over the nearby cot, the darkened figures lying across it. A shot that would be absolute cinema if this were a visual medium. But alas.
ꙮ Alas.
pulls the both of them to their feet. “Something to eat, drink, and to witness whether the people sell what the song claims they do.”
: “Plus, also listening out for anything interesting, and on Valais, that seems to be about everything. Wonder if anything else will sound really familiar.”
: “Has something already sounded familiar?” She asks, reaching up to cup his face.
smirks at her touch. Her curiosity and concern moves her before anything else, enough to move any man’s heart.
: “Sure has. Want to know what it is?”
: “Of course,” she says. Her eyes are heavily lidded, and it almost seems like the room should be filled with arcing, curling smoke. There’s a sense of veiled intimacy here, a banked flame in her eyes whenever she looks at him. “I always want to know.”
: “Let’s see… how did it go…” He rubs his chin, thinking. “Downbelow, the night lit city…” He clears his throat.
: “Down… be-low, the… night, lit, ci-ty…” he hums.
low high high low, low high high...low
’s humming is a flash of realization. He’d known the melody, all along.
looks at him and some of the artifice falls away. “Oh, Sinitöyhtönärhi,” she says. “You know him. The Shadow. At the very least you know him.”
: “In a past life, maybe. Maybe two past lives.”
: “But now?” He shakes his head. “If the song compels me, it’s only because it’s one I know, played by a different band.”
: “Well then,” she says, reaching down and twining her hand with his, “lead us Downbelow into the nightlit city, and let’s see what the merchants are selling, my love.”
spins her about gracefully, and leads the way from the barracks, down, down, downbelow.
ꙮ Taking the elevator, I assume? There are stairs, and going down all of them might not be so terrible if you’re in good company. But you’ll probably want the elevator back up; even just the way from the barracks to the Downbelow is quite the distance.
is taking the elevator, a metal coffin depositing their riders to the ‘ground floor,’ and they have intentions to dig.
is following wherever he goes. She still hasn’t let go of his hand.
ꙮ A few floors on the way down and the elevator comes to a stop, and a young attendant in a cleanly-pressed, militantly if not militarily dapper uniform, steps onto the elevator with a polite nod to the two of them, and tugs hard on the braided metal to get the elevator going again. (That seems to be the polite thing to do, if you’d been the one to call for a stop.) The ride’s uninterrupted, the rest of the way down.
allows their passenger the grace of leaving first, looking to blend with the crowd fairly quickly. Of course, he isn’t quite sure if what he picked out is really suitable for blending… but they’ve got moxie. They’ll survive.
watches the people around them, trying to adjust her body language to blend in, even if her outfit doesn’t. She also makes sure that she’s aware of all times at the Mask stashed under her outfit, close against her ribs, and her obols stashed in an inner pocket as well.
ꙮ The attendant exits out, and then you follow. This close to the citadel, there’re what look to be old, built-up marketplaces with housing stacked much less precariously atop them. It’s busy - there are attendants swarming the Downbelow, right now, frantically gathering materials and ingredients for their High Houses; you hear the clink of obols into metal bowls like music from all around you. You don’t /fit in/, precisely - but you by no means stand out, either.
: “Did you know,” she whispers, voice low, “That our good Guard-Captain doesn’t know where food comes from here? It’s simply purchased, at market. He didn’t know where the merchants got their food either.”
glances at Salme curiously. “Not a head for supply lines, the captain?”
: “I think it’s more a world-level issue, but it’s something to look out for.”
ꙮ Someone, nearby, hollering something about jars of fresh cream and butter; someone else, sacks of grain; someone else, supple soft leather, the finest, suitable for High House work. What are you here looking for?
is looking for what the common people eat, drink. Any food stalls?
ꙮ Food stalls many and varied! Working the Downbelow, as a merchant or an attendant or just a normal citizen buying what you need for the day or for tomorrow too, it’s hungry and thirsty work. Everyone seems to eat together, down here – you see a table with a scruffy-looking guard, a well-coiffed House attendant, and a couple younger people who look like they might be Downbelow scamps running messages and couriering for the spare obol every now and then.
attemps to overhear their bartering, judging the prices of goods.
ꙮ A surprisingly little amount of haggling, going on, although - what you do notice is a trade in goods as well as obols. Someone will try to buy, for example, a bolt of silk, with fewer obols than the listed price BUT they also have a letter of recommendation from House Shagreen itself, or they have a sealed pot of honey, or a small sheaf of nice vellum– will these, and the obols, satisfy?– and so on, and so on.
: “(Have any trinkets on us? With only so much obol, we’ve got only so much buying power.)”
ꙮ Well, it’s not like you’ve got a terrifically expansive (or expensive!) shopping list, either.
has her irrica bracelet, but that’s not negotiable. “(We can always come back. I have plenty of textiles to trade if there’s something we really need. Too bad we didn’t bring Mr. Pocket Dimension.)”
’s outfit doesn’t really leave a lot of room for carrying extra cargo.
nods. “(Let’s see if we can haggle a snack and drink for two with an obol and see how it goes. Make small talk, let’s see if we can figure out suppliers.)”
finds someone selling what he believes to be a meat dish, and freshly squeezed fruit (or otherwise) drinks.
ꙮ ”Meat pies! Meeaaaaaat piiiiiiies! Piping hot and tasty meat pi– oh, hello!” –and then you’re off to the races. It turns out that the obols you have are of fairly high… denomination? Quality? It’s not entirely clear, but the meat-pie-vendor’s eyes brighten when he sees your coin, and you get two piping hot and tasty meat pies AND a small pitcher of smooth, refreshing fruit juice, and a handful of older, smaller, dingier-looking obols in change.
notes the exchange, and takes a bite of the pie. “Mmm! Love the flavoring. I’m all thumbs at a stove.”
ꙮ The vendor beams. “My family’s own recipe from yesterday! My grandmother’s grandfather worked for House Ormolu, that he did, that’s spices suitable for a High House feast in your hands right now!”
: “Oh yeah? Same supplier, or have to trade around a bit?”
ꙮ Blithely: “Oh, well, of course I’ve had to make some substitutions here and there. But the recipe’s every bit as good as I remember it yesterday!”
takes a careful bite of her pie as well. “It tastes amazing,” she says.
ꙮ It is pretty darn good. Some spices you don’t even recognise, either. Pungent, but not overwhelming!
: “I hear they’re having some kind of ball up on high sometime soon. We’re not ones to be able to sully their carpets with our boots, but we’re thinking of celebrating somewhere… more down to our level.”
: “Hear about anything good going on?”
: “And please, tell me you’re catering for them.”
ꙮ He laughs, brightly. “Well, the Downbelow’s always busy, and I dare say I’d be tan left feet at a High House soirée, so this all suits me just fine. You’ll always find -something- going on here, in the alleys or in a public house. ‘less there’s an Apparition on, of course.” Another laugh, but this one a little bit edged.
: “Oh yeah, staying well away from the walls best we can when that happens.”
: “Keep your nose dry, pal.” He takes a drink of the fruit juice, maneuvering them further into the crowd.
ꙮ The vendor, briefly, attempts to get a good glance at their own nose to ascertain whether or not its wetness might be a going concern, but doesn’t really think much more of it. “Good fortune!” He waves, and then you’re in the crowd–
ꙮ And a few moments into being in the crowd, three things happen almost instantaneously. First of all, Salme notices someone unsubtly sneaking a hand where her obol-pouch MIGHT have been, if she were not, herself, a few steps ahead of the game. Second, you hear a woman’s voice call out, “Oi, you thief, t’ the moon’s crack with ye-“, and someone with a guard’s demeanour and generally burly aspect but wearing High House livery is suddenly There, the faint brimmings of a Rite rising up and then, as quickly, fading; thirdly and last, the trace of a figure scampering into the crowd, Salme’s would-be thief.
frowns a bit. “Can you just … run away from a Rite?”
: “If the stakes aren’t high and you can manage the drawback. I guess they’ve got a mind for such.”
: “Want to follow him?”
ꙮ The burly guardswoman shakes her head. “Won’t be worth your time, I promise it. Blasted sneak-thieves know how t’ melt into the Downbelow. All your obols where you left ‘em?”
: “Of course,” she says. “Do we really seem like that easy of targets?”
ꙮ She gives Salme and the Awoken an appraising- then an admiring glance, and shakes her head. “No’m, but thieves are fools that can do but the yan thing right.”
: “And even at that, they failed today. My thanks, savior.” I bow, knowing that their standoff was far, far gentler than ours would have been.
ꙮ ”Tcheh,” She grins at both of them, and gestures at Salme. “I saw her eyes and her eyes saw the thief, I saved nought at all. Won’t say no to a chance to bark at a thief like yesterday, is all.” A brief pause. “Are you tan new to the Downbelow, then?” Something about Salme’s question, about their language, gnawing at the back of her.
: “This district isn’t our usual haunt, but we’re feeling daring.”
ꙮ ”Well, if I can point you in a direction? Methi’spaul Awl Orsolya of House Tombac,” –and she says it with a particular, almost stubborn pride, like she’s always expecting to have to trudge through mud about it, but is happy to do so anyway.
glances to Salme. The act he’s putting on is beginning to break, and she can see the almost-boyish look in his eye as he wants to so badly blurt out, ‘that’s a mouthful! what the heck is all that??’ But the joy hasn’t left the dirt and shadow he’s cloaked himself within, not yet. However, Salme is better at handling subtle social interaction.
: “Oh?” She says, draping herself over Awa a little dramatically. “And what might we find in that particular direction?”
ꙮ This response perplexes her. You can see her, trying very hard to discern– and then something shifts in her demeanor, and she straightens herself up. “Pardon me, sir, ma’am. I meant no disrespect.” What a noble lady of a House she can’t immediately identify– not terribly surprising, it’s not her strong suit– is doing larking around in the Downbelow for the first time, yet also being able to catch a thief– she considers, for a moment, that they’re accomplished spelunkers of the Downbelow she’s just never seen, that’s not impossible either, certainly– in any event!!– “I only meant, if there’s an amusement or a refreshment you or your House is seeking, Methi’spaul Awl of Tombac would be honored to help you find it.”
catches on to what’s happened nearly immediately, and she doesn’t know how much this does or doesn’t derail Awa’s plans, so instead she drapes herself even further over him, and runs her finger down the only bit of Awa’s throat accessible to her. “Oh, I’ve no idea what my sweet bluejay has in mind, really,” she purrs. “I’m just here to help to tag along on his journey. I think what we most want is something authentic, real. Is that what we might find with Methi’spaul Awl of Tombac?”
ꙮ She suddenly, briefly, has the expression of someone who’s been cornered in a dark alley by two people who saw her across the bar and liked her vibe; others, more comfortable with the ways and machinations of the Houses than she, would not have let it show on their face, perhaps. She does not let it show for long. “Well. Have you done business yet with a proper Merchant? Not one of these bright-eyed folk as set up shop close to the Citadel. One who brings goods in.”
: “Oh,” she breathes, “That sounds fantastically novel. What do you say, dear wingéd one?” Is laying it on a bit thick at this point, but, in her defense, she mostly learned how rich people act from Jon Bond pulp novels from the Beast.
: “Novel is our nom-de-plume.” he says, as Awoken snakes a hand around Salme’s waist, pulling her closer. “Let’s see what the trawler’s dragged in, after they’ve cleaned their feet.”
with a low, throaty laugh, she lets her Awoken Prince guide her off in the direction they’ve been given.
ꙮ She does, in fact, provide a direction, accompanying the two of them along the way at enough of a distance to give them their space but enough of a proximity to make sure no thieves get any Funny Ideas, and that anyone watching might notice that House Tombac is doing its duty by these mysterious, anonymous House scions. After a moment, and some distance from the Citadel: ⁂
ꙮ There’s a canvas-walled tent, stocked high and heaping with bright, colorful gourds, with sausages and braids of garlic hanging from a beam, with bundles of dried herbs hanging from another. Standing - if standing is the correct word - in the tent is someone who appears, to the eye, to be in multiple positions at once - a colorful and dramatic pose gesturing at their wares, then you blink, something shifts, and they’re leaning forward eagerly, and at the same time like they’ve been caught mid-dance. They’re dressed in a riot of colorful scarves and cloth-wraps and a cream turban with a bright red jewel in it that obscures their face, their eyes - you find your own eyes drawn to the jewel instead. In an eyeblink the Merchant is also bowing to you, wordlessly.
isn’t in the habit of not looking where she’d like. She tries to keep her focus off the jewel.
ꙮ Well, in that if you try to make ‘eye contact’, that’s where your eyes contact, that’s all.
gives the merchant a bow himself. “Songless tidings, my dear peddler. To whom do I owe the pleasure?”
ꙮ A quick, fleeting pass through a number of poses and gestures. Methi’spaul Awl chips in: “They’re not much for conversation. Which is part of why haggling and bartering’s more of a close-to-the-Citadel thing. Prices on everything ought to be labeled, though…” And she’s right, they are.
: “What does your heart desire, my bluejay?” And then she laughs again and nuzzles her forehead into his neck. “Well. I know the answer to that is ‘nearly everything.’ What does your heart desire right this moment, beloved?” Her eyes track over the food, though, curious.
: “For the palate, a spice, rare and from afar. I would have us experience the worlds that only exist in dreams. And, for the eyes…” He glances about the stall, looking for something more material. “The eyes desire something that would hide all but themselves. Masks.”
ꙮ A brief flicker of the Merchant with their head tilted all the way to one side, and then they’re in three or four places in the tent, at once, and then – there’s a little pot of some sort of spice on the table - fairly expensive, but nothing you can’t afford. And then, next to that - there’s a mask, intricate silver filigree in spiderwebbing geometries, inlaid with black enamel, and a riotous mane of black feathers around it. There’s something underneath the mask.
never leaves a case unsolved, a quest unfinished. He gingerly picks up the mask to inspect it, but he also really, really wants to know what’s beneath it.
ꙮ Two things underneath it. One’s a price card, like that next to the little vat of spices. It reads “For you, no charge.” The other’s a small wheel of provolone cheese.
, hanging off of Awa’s shoulder, also sees that. She looks at the merchant and says, “Do you know him?”
ꙮ Among many other poses, the Merchant shrugs.
: “Truly, this is what it means to be loved by the gods.” His eyes sparkle at the mask AND the cheese.
: “Lo, I would be remiss to acquire treasures only for myself, and none for the lady. Her beauty shines through any mask, but sometimes, etiquette selfishly demands its tribute. One for her, as well.”
ꙮ The Merchant pauses for a moment, then briefly but noticeably gives the Awoken Prince a thumbs up, then is in… six, thirteen, twenty places in the tent at the same time, looking in every corner at once, for quite some time, and then, finally, with an unmistakable note of triumph in its stance, stands back, and there’s a two-hand-high crystal of hollandite on the table at the front of the tent, next to the silvered mask, spice, and cheese. Smoky white quartz, with… particularly evocative black inclusions in the stone, spiky bursts of black that look for all the world like spiders in the crystal.
: “Oh.” She says, staring at it. “I hadn’t—that’s perfect. How did you know?” Though she knows the question is hopeless.
ꙮ The Merchant bows, in several directions, simultaneously.
: “It was an answer waiting for a call.”
ꙮ Seems like you can get it all for the price of the spice-jar. (Or, I mean, you could leave the spice-jar on the table, I suppose. But that would be rude, after all the work the Merchant’s done to find everything, don’t you think?)
looks at the Awoken, and nods. “I had already commissioned my costume, including the mask. I hadn’t thought about this, but it’s perfect.” She considers the merchant, then looks at Methi’spaul Awl, if she hasn’t escaped in the intervening time. “Is there anyplace here that sells answers?”
ꙮ She laughs, delightedly, at the question. “Ach, if only answers were something a person could trade their obols for.”
shrugs and says, “We’ve other things to trade. I’m not afraid of the cost of things.”
ꙮ She gives Salme another curious look. Not that she thinks, at this point, that obols are any object for this mysterious lady of the High Houses, anyways, and it stands to reason she’d have more to trade. “Well, it’d probably depend on the questions, then, but I still don’t know as anyone in the Downbelow’s sellin’ answers to begin with.”
: “Worth a try,” she says.
ꙮ The Merchant seems to approve, in principle, and flashes Salme a quick thumbs-up, this time.
fishes out the appropriate amount of obol for the spices, masks, and cheese. (It works out to the price of the spice.)
: “The generosity is appreciated. Or is it… repayment?”
ꙮ The Merchant’s hand is out, waiting for the obol; when the Awoken gives the coin to it, it’s then standing with its head tilted back, the coin dropping in to the space obscured by the turban, and there is, very briefly, a sound like metal grinding against metal. A moment later, its hand is over the table again, and a few smaller, dingy obols roll out of its sleeve into a neat little pile in front of the Awoken, the difference between the obol provided and the cost of the spice.
ꙮ It bows.
ꙮ Methi’spaul Awl, for her part, makes a polite and noncommital gesture with her hands. “Once a guard, always a guard, I suppose. Just does me good to see you got what you all came here for.” They do not need, of course, to be asked to speak of House Tombac’s generosity to the members of their own House, and it would be an impossibly grave faux pas to ask. Those who were born to the Highest Echelons simply know these things, and she rests easy in that certainty and knowledge.
: “I am curious, Methi’spaul Awl, how you identified us? My beloved and I would surely like to come across as properly incognito in the future.”
ꙮ She blinks, once, thrown once again for a loop. “Ma’am, I’ve no idea who in the Everlasting Night you are. I… assume… that you came from the Highest.” She’s on treacherous ground, and she creeps forward on it, step by step. “I assume, also, that this isn’t your first time in the Downbelow. It is not this one’s place to look too hard at such things.” She casts her eyes down, then, a distinctly un-Guardlike expression. “But when I said that I was happy to see that you found what you were looking for, I meant it, I swear on all Yesterdays.”
: “I took no offense, and I didn’t mean to cause you distress. I simply was curious how you came to that assumption, because I would like to better blend in the next time we make such a sojourn. I was asking a favor, not setting a trap. I believe you.”
ꙮ She thinks, for a moment. “Well. You’ve the manner of nobility, sir, ma’am. And you asked if you seemed like easy targets… but also, I’ve eyes to see with, and I think you’d not have let that sneak-thief sneak away with your obols. So, truth be told, I made a guess.” She’s got the eyes of someone who is valiantly treading water in full armour without drowning, quite yet; the rest of her face is schooled still.
looks at the Awoken for guidance. She’s inclined to relieve the good guardswoman’s anxiety with some degree of honesty, but she doesn’t want to ruin his plans.
nods approvingly. “Who’s to say any muck has been churned if there’s no mess. Consider it washed.”
: “We’re not nobility,” she says. She stops being quite so draped around Awa, but she’s still holding his hand, leaning on him. “Or, I’m not. We’re not from Valaïs at all. Foreigners, who found our way to this place through strange paths.”
: “Many a sunless road has been travelled to bring us here, now.”
ꙮ That throws her for a loop in a dimensionality she was not, in any universe, expecting, and cannot comprehend, and she blinks owlishly a few times, puzzling through the implications before finally– laughing, and landing thus: “Well, then, I’m -still- glad that I helped you find what you were looking for. Moon’s crack, that was your yanst visit to the Downbelow, then. Alright. Well. A pleasure to meet you both, then.”
laughs a bit. “I mean, there are markets where people try to steal your shit everywhere.” She frowns. “Are the Highest Houses truly something to be so feared?”
ꙮ She looks pensive. “Well. House Tombac’s been kind and right to me, clear as night air, and I want to do right by them that lifted me up. And there’s Houses I’d– much as rather stay on the bright side of.” And then her voice drops, a bit, truly unnecessarily. “(You’re new here, then? Don’t get between Ambergris and Civet, let them have their scuffles and don’t get involved, but they’re fine to do work for otherwise. Ormolu and Vermeil paint a lovely picture, but the going’s never worth it once you see what’s underneath. And Galalith, Scagliola, and Marcasite promise obols they don’t have in their vaults, more often than not.)”
: “That is all exceptionally useful. Our gratitude. And if it’s not rude—I know you helped us because you wished to, but it seems like it’s difficult here, without obols.” She she presses one of the high-quality obols that the Guard-Captain gave to them into her hand.
ꙮ Her eyes widen slightly at the generosity and she bows, deeply, to both of them. “Thank you, kindly. I– thank you.”
winks, gathering the assembled and purchased items. “Come, darling. The night is forever, but the present is fleeting.” He moves a hand to the small of Salme’s back, guiding them from the tent.
laughs a bit, and leans, happily, into his touch.