RE: Incident [TEXT]
07-23-2013, 09:58 PM
(This post was last modified: 07-23-2013, 10:29 PM by whoosh!.)
Riisneians, numbers, and fugitives. You picture the number II in your mind, and the image of Number 6's emblem in the sky rises unbidden. VI.
Next time you see the bastard you might ask him if he has a tattoo on his neck. It's certainly a long shot, but if it makes him jump it'll be worth it.
“I'll do whatever I can to find Dominique,” you reply, and the relief that flickers across Katherine's face is enough to send guilt creeping through you. Your chances of success are slim at best, and that's if she's even still alive. If you do find her, that's not to say you can free her or return her life to normal. Whatever normal may be for a fugitive.
Not to mention you're making money off of her misery. Speaking of which...
“There is, of course, the matter of payment,” you say casually. Katherine's smile dims a little, but only slightly.
“Yes, of course. What are your rates?”
“Forty a day, plus expenses. I usually ask for a retainer of eighty.” That's a lie. The line you trot out is forty a day, but you've worked for less and you expect that you will again. If you pull off Number 6's heist then it probably won't matter either way. Not for the moment, anyway.
Silently, Katherine pulls out her purse and lays down eight bills on the desk. She looks at you nervously.
“That's right, isn't it?”
“Yes, thank you.” You pick each note up individually. You could just sweep them into a pile, but the action feels a little dirty, a little smug. You doubt you'll ever get used to taking money off the desperate. You always feel like you're cheating them.
You'll never be rich, but at least you'll have your useless sense of guilt.
“I need to ask a few more questions, if you don't mind.”
She nods.
“I know this is hard for you to think about, but is there any indication that Dominique is still alive? You said there was blood, a struggle, and that just makes me think-”
“There wasn't much blood. Just – a spray. Across the wall. And on the unfinished sculpture. Not a much. Not enough to kill someone. But I didn't think anything bad had happened, not really. Not until I saw the blood.”
“I see.” The blood might not be Dominique's, in that case. It might be that of an assailant. And if she had been murdered, and it had been bloody, then the culprit would probably have cleaned up all blood, including the splatter. Not likely to be a bloody death followed by a dump job, then. There was some hope.
“Do you know who commissioned the sculpture Dominique was working on?”
“She wouldn't say, just that it was someone very important. That was part of why she was so excited. But her agent would know. All of her commissions were handled by him.”
“Who's the agent?”
“Erik Leroux. He actually owns the building our studios are in, but you won't find him there. I can give you a telephone number to reach him on.”
You rip off the top page of the pad you were writing on and push the rest over to her.
“Please do. The address of the studio and some way of contacting you would also be appreciated. I'm also going to need a photo of Dominique, or a description.”
She scribbles down two numbers and an address, then reaches for her purse again. She hands you a photo from it.
“This is from a couple of months ago.”
Katherine is in the left of the photo, smiling and with her left arm around a second woman, presumably Dominique. Her hair and eyes are dark, her hair long and tumbling down to her shoulders. On the right side of her head it's partly shaved away. Her features are slightly round but she's powerfully built, no doubt on account of being a stone carver. She's significantly shorter than Katherine, and there's a small mole just right of her mouth. The kind of mark some people draw on with make-up.
“Hey, is this mole real?” You point at it and hold the photo up so Katherine can see it. She leans in a little, even though she must know what you're referring to.
“Oh yes, it's real. I always though it was cute.” She looks down at her interlocked hands, a small smile on her lips and the slightest blush on her cheeks. It only lasts a moment before she remembers the reality of the situation and the smile drops away.
“Ah, right. I think that's all, thank you.” You stand up, step around the flowers and hold open the door again. “You have my word that I will do whatever it takes to find out what happened to your friend.”
“Thank you.” She stands. Just as she passes through the door you start to speak.
“Ah, before I forget - “ Katherine stops in the waiting room and turns to look at you. “Dominique – was she a sparker?”
“Not that she ever told me.”
“Ah. Goodbye then.”
Interesting. Why not a straight no?
When she's gone, you sit at your desk and look down at the flowers. Blue carnations and roses of varying shades and – something white?
You reach down amongst the blossoms and feel the straight edge of an envelope. You pull it out and lay on the table in front of you.
“To my dearest Alexus,” it reads, in the flowing script of Evelyn Murios.
Or as you sometimes think of her, the Lady. One of your informants. Well, you say informant. You're more than that: sort of friends. You haven't spoken to her in a while.
It would seem that she actually sent these, which raises a few questions. Either Evelyn Murios is keeping quite the secret or something else is going on here.
You flip the envelope over and open it up. You unfold the sheet of paper you find inside.
Alexus!
It's been weeks! Have I offended you? If that's the case then you have my most sincere apologies, and you can accept these flowers in that light. (Otherwise simply accept them as something beautiful.) But perhaps you have been caught up in intrigue upon intrigue and you were simply too busy divining truth and righting misdeeds to contact me. I certainly hope so. I've missed your stories of danger and daring.
Whatever your reasons, I'm sure this rift between us can be ably mended by this invitation.
This Friday is the Festival of Faces, as I'm sure you are very aware, and while every party worth speaking about has been begging for my attendance, I've lain my favour with Tullius Rivenback. You will be coming as my guest.
I know that you will protest, tell me that you'll be out of place there, that my people are not your people, but nobody will know! This is the beauty of the Festival of Faces, my friend: for one day we abandon our identities and become something unknown and unknowable. I would advise a full face mask, just to keep everyone guessing who my mysterious companion is even longer. Not that they'll ever figure it out, but they'll put that down to your mask more than your true identity.
If it makes you feel better, you'll be doing me a favour. My planned date has skipped town with a ballet dancer, as I hear it, and as I'm sure you can imagine, it's quite embarrassing to have your lover abandon you so callously. As is so often the case, I was the last to know. If I turn up alone, the overwrought sympathy and smug, hidden smiles will be too much to bear. I can't allow myself to look bad when Lucien Rivenback will be there. I've told you about my cousin, haven't I? Pardon my language, but he's a little shit and I refuse to let him feel superior to me. However, the company of a mysterious stranger will surely serve to distract and mitigate the unsavoury pity that would otherwise abound. For great justice, you must attend!
Call me and I can tell you all the details. You have my number.
Yours, as always,
Evelyn Murios
You carefully set down the letter and slump back in your chair. Where to begin?
Firstly, it's quite clear that Evelyn was the actual writer. The handwriting is definitely hers, as is the style. It would seem that this is not Number 6's package, and that she sent you these flowers today is mere coincidence. Perhaps. That still doesn't explain what happened to the other package.
Secondly, you had completely forgotten about Friday. Put it down to never really being introduced to religion, as poor an excuse as that is. The Festival of Faces is a huge event in Victraedis for multiple reasons, among them being the strong presence of the Church of the Nameless God in the city, the fact that Victrix herself was (apparently) born and buried here, and finally that the Festival of Faces is the holy day devoted to Victrix and her obsession with anonymity. It's not framed like that, of course. The Church has some kind of belief that putting aside your identity is a noble act. You don't know much about it so you can't claim to understand it.
The point is, on one day in summer almost everyone in the city takes to wearing a mask. At minimum. Elaborate costumes are common, with the more involved taking on different names and personalities for the day. There are a lot of events throughout the city, some government and church sanctioned, most not. Plays are popular. The more conventional plays, but also weirder ones. Plays in derelict buildings, plays that went unadvertised and yet still have audiences, impromptu plays, plays where the line between actor and spectator blur. And everyone wearing masks.
You don't tend celebrate it. You're not part of the Church of the Nameless God and it honestly creeps you out. But you think you could stomach going to a party with Evelyn, if not for the small complication of the host being Tullius Rivenback himself.
Tullius Rivenback, one of five leaders of the city. It goes without saying that the sort of company he keeps is going to be of similar status. The sort of people whose families have crests, or else more wealth than you can comprehend.
To be blunt, it's intimidating as hell and you have no idea if you would even be capable of holding a conversation with these people. You're not entirely convinced that you'd be capable of acquiring a costume that would stand up to scrutiny either. Not in two days, with today being Wednesday.
You pick up the bouquet by the card box and shake it a little. It seems oddly weighted towards the bottom. That might just be so the flowers don't tip over, but...
Lifting out a fistful of stems, you peer inside and catch sight of something matte and black. Reaching in, your fingertips trace the edges of a box and a crest embossed upon its upper surface. You doubt Evelyn or the florists put that there.
You glance across at your clock. You have an hour or so before noon.
Do you want to investigate the contents of the black box now? Or do you want to take the opportunity to begin investigation into Dominique's disappearance? You could start with either the studio, her sister or her agent. Alternatively, you could prepare for lunch with your mother dearest. You left Number 6's message for her back at your apartment. It does occur to you that the letter was typed and in an unsealed envelope. Number 6 did sign it with his emblem, but that wouldn't be difficult to forge. You could replace the message with whatever you wanted, if you felt like messing with Number 6 and Ms Ashe. To what end, you're not sure, but it's an opportunity that begs to be taken advantage of.
What will you do?
Next time you see the bastard you might ask him if he has a tattoo on his neck. It's certainly a long shot, but if it makes him jump it'll be worth it.
“I'll do whatever I can to find Dominique,” you reply, and the relief that flickers across Katherine's face is enough to send guilt creeping through you. Your chances of success are slim at best, and that's if she's even still alive. If you do find her, that's not to say you can free her or return her life to normal. Whatever normal may be for a fugitive.
Not to mention you're making money off of her misery. Speaking of which...
“There is, of course, the matter of payment,” you say casually. Katherine's smile dims a little, but only slightly.
“Yes, of course. What are your rates?”
“Forty a day, plus expenses. I usually ask for a retainer of eighty.” That's a lie. The line you trot out is forty a day, but you've worked for less and you expect that you will again. If you pull off Number 6's heist then it probably won't matter either way. Not for the moment, anyway.
Silently, Katherine pulls out her purse and lays down eight bills on the desk. She looks at you nervously.
“That's right, isn't it?”
“Yes, thank you.” You pick each note up individually. You could just sweep them into a pile, but the action feels a little dirty, a little smug. You doubt you'll ever get used to taking money off the desperate. You always feel like you're cheating them.
You'll never be rich, but at least you'll have your useless sense of guilt.
“I need to ask a few more questions, if you don't mind.”
She nods.
“I know this is hard for you to think about, but is there any indication that Dominique is still alive? You said there was blood, a struggle, and that just makes me think-”
“There wasn't much blood. Just – a spray. Across the wall. And on the unfinished sculpture. Not a much. Not enough to kill someone. But I didn't think anything bad had happened, not really. Not until I saw the blood.”
“I see.” The blood might not be Dominique's, in that case. It might be that of an assailant. And if she had been murdered, and it had been bloody, then the culprit would probably have cleaned up all blood, including the splatter. Not likely to be a bloody death followed by a dump job, then. There was some hope.
“Do you know who commissioned the sculpture Dominique was working on?”
“She wouldn't say, just that it was someone very important. That was part of why she was so excited. But her agent would know. All of her commissions were handled by him.”
“Who's the agent?”
“Erik Leroux. He actually owns the building our studios are in, but you won't find him there. I can give you a telephone number to reach him on.”
You rip off the top page of the pad you were writing on and push the rest over to her.
“Please do. The address of the studio and some way of contacting you would also be appreciated. I'm also going to need a photo of Dominique, or a description.”
She scribbles down two numbers and an address, then reaches for her purse again. She hands you a photo from it.
“This is from a couple of months ago.”
Katherine is in the left of the photo, smiling and with her left arm around a second woman, presumably Dominique. Her hair and eyes are dark, her hair long and tumbling down to her shoulders. On the right side of her head it's partly shaved away. Her features are slightly round but she's powerfully built, no doubt on account of being a stone carver. She's significantly shorter than Katherine, and there's a small mole just right of her mouth. The kind of mark some people draw on with make-up.
“Hey, is this mole real?” You point at it and hold the photo up so Katherine can see it. She leans in a little, even though she must know what you're referring to.
“Oh yes, it's real. I always though it was cute.” She looks down at her interlocked hands, a small smile on her lips and the slightest blush on her cheeks. It only lasts a moment before she remembers the reality of the situation and the smile drops away.
“Ah, right. I think that's all, thank you.” You stand up, step around the flowers and hold open the door again. “You have my word that I will do whatever it takes to find out what happened to your friend.”
“Thank you.” She stands. Just as she passes through the door you start to speak.
“Ah, before I forget - “ Katherine stops in the waiting room and turns to look at you. “Dominique – was she a sparker?”
“Not that she ever told me.”
“Ah. Goodbye then.”
Interesting. Why not a straight no?
When she's gone, you sit at your desk and look down at the flowers. Blue carnations and roses of varying shades and – something white?
You reach down amongst the blossoms and feel the straight edge of an envelope. You pull it out and lay on the table in front of you.
“To my dearest Alexus,” it reads, in the flowing script of Evelyn Murios.
Or as you sometimes think of her, the Lady. One of your informants. Well, you say informant. You're more than that: sort of friends. You haven't spoken to her in a while.
It would seem that she actually sent these, which raises a few questions. Either Evelyn Murios is keeping quite the secret or something else is going on here.
You flip the envelope over and open it up. You unfold the sheet of paper you find inside.
Alexus!
It's been weeks! Have I offended you? If that's the case then you have my most sincere apologies, and you can accept these flowers in that light. (Otherwise simply accept them as something beautiful.) But perhaps you have been caught up in intrigue upon intrigue and you were simply too busy divining truth and righting misdeeds to contact me. I certainly hope so. I've missed your stories of danger and daring.
Whatever your reasons, I'm sure this rift between us can be ably mended by this invitation.
This Friday is the Festival of Faces, as I'm sure you are very aware, and while every party worth speaking about has been begging for my attendance, I've lain my favour with Tullius Rivenback. You will be coming as my guest.
I know that you will protest, tell me that you'll be out of place there, that my people are not your people, but nobody will know! This is the beauty of the Festival of Faces, my friend: for one day we abandon our identities and become something unknown and unknowable. I would advise a full face mask, just to keep everyone guessing who my mysterious companion is even longer. Not that they'll ever figure it out, but they'll put that down to your mask more than your true identity.
If it makes you feel better, you'll be doing me a favour. My planned date has skipped town with a ballet dancer, as I hear it, and as I'm sure you can imagine, it's quite embarrassing to have your lover abandon you so callously. As is so often the case, I was the last to know. If I turn up alone, the overwrought sympathy and smug, hidden smiles will be too much to bear. I can't allow myself to look bad when Lucien Rivenback will be there. I've told you about my cousin, haven't I? Pardon my language, but he's a little shit and I refuse to let him feel superior to me. However, the company of a mysterious stranger will surely serve to distract and mitigate the unsavoury pity that would otherwise abound. For great justice, you must attend!
Call me and I can tell you all the details. You have my number.
Yours, as always,
Evelyn Murios
You carefully set down the letter and slump back in your chair. Where to begin?
Firstly, it's quite clear that Evelyn was the actual writer. The handwriting is definitely hers, as is the style. It would seem that this is not Number 6's package, and that she sent you these flowers today is mere coincidence. Perhaps. That still doesn't explain what happened to the other package.
Secondly, you had completely forgotten about Friday. Put it down to never really being introduced to religion, as poor an excuse as that is. The Festival of Faces is a huge event in Victraedis for multiple reasons, among them being the strong presence of the Church of the Nameless God in the city, the fact that Victrix herself was (apparently) born and buried here, and finally that the Festival of Faces is the holy day devoted to Victrix and her obsession with anonymity. It's not framed like that, of course. The Church has some kind of belief that putting aside your identity is a noble act. You don't know much about it so you can't claim to understand it.
The point is, on one day in summer almost everyone in the city takes to wearing a mask. At minimum. Elaborate costumes are common, with the more involved taking on different names and personalities for the day. There are a lot of events throughout the city, some government and church sanctioned, most not. Plays are popular. The more conventional plays, but also weirder ones. Plays in derelict buildings, plays that went unadvertised and yet still have audiences, impromptu plays, plays where the line between actor and spectator blur. And everyone wearing masks.
You don't tend celebrate it. You're not part of the Church of the Nameless God and it honestly creeps you out. But you think you could stomach going to a party with Evelyn, if not for the small complication of the host being Tullius Rivenback himself.
Tullius Rivenback, one of five leaders of the city. It goes without saying that the sort of company he keeps is going to be of similar status. The sort of people whose families have crests, or else more wealth than you can comprehend.
To be blunt, it's intimidating as hell and you have no idea if you would even be capable of holding a conversation with these people. You're not entirely convinced that you'd be capable of acquiring a costume that would stand up to scrutiny either. Not in two days, with today being Wednesday.
You pick up the bouquet by the card box and shake it a little. It seems oddly weighted towards the bottom. That might just be so the flowers don't tip over, but...
Lifting out a fistful of stems, you peer inside and catch sight of something matte and black. Reaching in, your fingertips trace the edges of a box and a crest embossed upon its upper surface. You doubt Evelyn or the florists put that there.
You glance across at your clock. You have an hour or so before noon.
Do you want to investigate the contents of the black box now? Or do you want to take the opportunity to begin investigation into Dominique's disappearance? You could start with either the studio, her sister or her agent. Alternatively, you could prepare for lunch with your mother dearest. You left Number 6's message for her back at your apartment. It does occur to you that the letter was typed and in an unsealed envelope. Number 6 did sign it with his emblem, but that wouldn't be difficult to forge. You could replace the message with whatever you wanted, if you felt like messing with Number 6 and Ms Ashe. To what end, you're not sure, but it's an opportunity that begs to be taken advantage of.
What will you do?
Spoiler