⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⋆﹏𓊝﹏⋆⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ Fire On The Downline ----------- @draconianDignitary (I guess a felt member can be in pursuit, it would be funny if they want to.) #f2f #inperson #narration #potential-violence(?) #violence ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⋆﹏𓊝﹏⋆⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ The influx of private messages were all sounding off like a frantic plea from foes and a little less than enemy alike. They swirled around her like a storm‑tossed sea. She could not help but wonder how swiftly this quagmire had formed. Yes, she had taken the pistol, but the fallout was tallying quickly by a turbulent foe, a member of the Midnight Crew lay decapitated, his severed head a reminder that flirtations with danger do not absolve one of consequence. Though she knew not why she felt attachment to these living chess pieces, other than their fates echoed the memory of her own fallen cadre in their operations, but they were all long since gone to the abyssal depths of the sea. Her recent conversation with her former pedagogue gnawed at her, she had never spilled such emotion before, as to ask him why he cursed her to bear the oracles fate as he had. Such answers she had wanted to ask for centuries after her death, as she lowered the second fenestrated pane to herald his prisoner's arrival. She had intended to avoid the use of such a device; should he come through it an enemy, it would betray her position, and the uncertainty of trust weighed heavily upon her. Was the man she had been conversing with a reluctant ally or the next assassin poised to claim the newfound bounty on her head? She stood at the water’s edge, the dock yawning beneath a weather‑worn houseboat. In her grip, a cerulean blade, its pincered tip glinting like frost‑ed steel. Should a member of the Felt or the Midnight Crew emerge from the plane, weapon raised for a second decapitation-attempt tonight, she would be ready for whatever spewed out.
Hearts is dead. At least one of them. The image shown on a small handheld display still sits with Droog, growing heavier and heavier. Death is a part of the business. Unavoidable. Inevitable. But not to him, not to his select few. He would simply not allow it. But Diamonds Droog was not in a position to allow or disallow anything. He was captive, trapped, cut off from all the resources and ability that he had. And now Hearts is dead. And now somebody new is offering him escape from a similar fate. He cannot wait to consider his options. (He has been considering options for quite a while now.) He steps through a plane as it connects into working order, and in that step, he is offered only a brief moment to get his bearings. A new place, a new reality, the smell of brine in the air, a blade waiting for him. Behind, the green walls that he had gotten quite used to over the last many hours. Which way does the danger lie? (Both. He knows this, for certain.)
She had already weathered numerous high‑stakes crises and understood, all too well, the precarious etiquette of confronting a stranger. Alternia’s own trials had been no less perilous, especially during those pivotal moments when she was forced to forge an uneasy alliance with another vessel to repulse sudden Imperial raids. “Destroy the portal,” she commanded, her blade serving less as a weapon than as a pointer, indicating the exact direction in which the rift should be closed. She positioned herself a few paces from the pane, close enough to intervene should an assault materialise behind him, yet far enough to convey that she was not ready to plunge her sword into his throat. “Were you followed?" She did have questions of what occurred, but a nine feet tall pirate could only convey so much at first glance without sounding as if she were readying for confrontation.
Droog has, through all the various tribulations of his existence, been damn good at following directions. Swift. Efficient. It's how he got here. And he'll be no different now. With a blade pointed, he follows the gesture, terminating the connection of his entry point. Green walls and furniture give way to a plain, empty blackness, cracks dancing along the surface for good measure as his cue stick collides. Nothing is following him through there. He's not going back that way, either. "We're alone." The truth; he could not hear everything from his room, but there was certainly some kind of commotion as he left; raised voices, the sound of fine china breaking. As far as he knows, nobody even noticed him taking his leave. Aside from one person, of course. (He was allowed to escape. He knows that. He's sure that the Captain must, too.) Job done, he turns to face her, head tilted up in order to meet her eyes. A rare thing, for him. But these Alternian adults come quite large. He's well put together, but there's the signs of his captivity; clothes slightly wrinkled, a twitch in some of his fingers where they are lingering around his weapon. He says no more, for the moment. He's waiting. Calculating.
When the last reverberation of the panes light faded, a hush settled over the perimeter. She surveyed the scene with only her eyes, never daring to turn her back on a troll, however diminutive, even when the creature was not a troll at all. A hand resting on a weapon might intimidate a weaker species, yet on the gladitorial world it is a matter of protocol. It would be folly to relinquish one, especially given the dishevelled state of his attire, but she noted no blood, no evidence of an actual struggle. Had this been a success, or too easy to be believed? “Good,” her terse words betrayed the usual loquaciousness of the pages she recorded. In speech she is far blunter and her voice a sharper blade than the poetry she pens in journals. Gripping her sword but lowering it to the ground, she made her way toward the houseboat, now moored at a secluded dock in Midnight City. “Let us conduct our business indoors,” she said. “I never converse beneath the glare of a moon, and I sense you have much to recount on the death of your men.”
The captain is close to his expectations. He only had a few to go off of, of course, with only a few brief conversations and some eavesdropping on a child’s reverent rants a few dozen sweeps in the past. But it lines up. She’s cautious, dangerous. She is going to be a problem for him. “Yes, best we move. No telling what eyes or ears are present out here.” He glances upwards, towards the moons in question. The same Alternian sky. Something uneasy about this place, so similar to the one he called home but different. Like there’s something different in all the air around him. There’s no safety here, just a brief reprieve. Indoors will have to do. Into a stupid houseboat. Okay. He won’t say that out loud. “I may not have as much to say on the matter as you wish. But, yes. Lots for us to talk about.”