Dark Moon (Liminal)

[Jackson LaCroix]

Stubble lined the chin of the man. He would not break gaze. "I have No appreciation to give." Jackson would find johnny and this.. underground. Yshul or trouble could find him.

Co-existing with the night, floating citrus ashes illuminated his structure. The voice of a vagabond bound in rags heralded skaldic songs to sleepless urchins. They were tales spun under the spiral of the last glowworm and the glitter of wet cobwebs. Howls from the wilderness of the dead shook the nailed floorboards of the present. A mead horn refilled like a reservoir, becoming the only reflection the lost wished to see.
Yet for a settlement built above abandoned excavations, it opened still like a maw to swallow down the weak and hopeless.

LaCroix himself intended to ricochet the coughing figure against the door frame behind like a hollow doll.

"LEAD."

[Liminal]

Oh, that's what Jackson intended, but it wasn't what happened. True, Jackson had a fair amount of skill in the martial arts, but here in Sunberth, anyone who was still alive after adolescence had fairly good defense skills as well. The man dodged around the rush, anticipating Jackson's movements, and then for good measure, punched him in the back before he could turn around, hard enough to leave a deep bruise.

A gravelly belly-laugh drifted into the night. "You ain't from around here, mister. Less'n you're the sort of fellow as what could beat up Red-Eyed Pete in a cage match, trying to bully your way around ain't gonna get you anything but killed. Maybe you're a tough guy where you're from, but this ain't Syliras, or Zeltiva, or whatever godsforsaken hole you've crawled out of. You're one man, and lone wolves in Sunberth get picked off pretty quickly if they walk around like they can push everyone else around."

He spat on the ground again. "Still, I kinda like your energy, so I'll make you the same offer as before. A miza or two, and I'll show you to the underground."

[Jackson LaCroix]

The tanned figure waited. Watched. The weight of currency grated softly between his right thumb and index fingers while the feel of gemstone lodged within the center smoothly eased the tension. His bruise stung but it was nothing to what LaCroix thirsted to reciprocate. He tossed several coins to the figure.

"Save your idle breathe."

Every muscle beneath his skin wanted to squander the night killing wise fools and perhaps they would still get the chance, but ones more deserving. His tone changed little.

"Lead."

[Liminal]

The man pocketed the coins, and then opened the door. "This way."

A set of stairs were there, barely lit, leading downward. Without any hesitation, the man began to descend them.

They went down for what seemed like a long, long time. Certainly, they were four or five stories below the ground. Abruptly, the stairs ended in front of another door. The man knocked once, four times, then twice, and pushed it open.

Inside was a vast room, several hundred feet at least on all sides. It was teeming with activity. Stalls of goods and shady-looking merchants were everywhere, and many people were examining the wares. It was clear that Jackson hadn't come in through the only entrance, given the number of people here.

"Here ya are," the man said.

[Jackson LaCroix]

Briefly staring at the figure, Jackson knocked shoulders with the man in passing. Entering further into the underground which was in fact very true to it's name, the warrior scanned the tables and wares for authenticity or at least a damn good fake. He sucked on his tongue briefly while in thought, pursuing religious iconography and pre-Valterrian relics.

Opening each of the five senses culminated into a wagering sixth sense that bet on gut instinct to guide it's cast of the engaged die. He did not openly believe he'd find the purity of influence wanted but a reflection of it's orbit would bring direction in a town where the only thing uncovered previously was hazardous dead ends. While not floating on the surface of antiquity, Jackson scanned for the rhyme of guards and color of greed, wanting to understand as much about the current ecosystem as he could before accidentally being pulled under.

[Liminal]

There were stalls of nearly every conceivable description. One seemed to be selling exotic weaponry; another, dusty books; a third, a series of oddly-carved ivory spires.

One close to Jackson was covered in strange-looking pieces of iron and stone. They were etched with an odd sequence of glyphs, and had been polished until they shone. Next to the stall was a eerily lifelike statue of a strange animal, something that looked like a cross between a cat and a lizard. A wiry, fidgety man with brown hair rapidly going gray stood beside it.

Another did seem to feature statues of various deities. Some, such as a jade figurine of the death of Sylir, were easy to figure out, while others were more difficult to tease a meaning from.

Which way Jackson went was up to him. There didn't appear to be any guards, which was fitting after all in Sunberth, where hatred of authority was the greatest unifying feature of the culture.

[Jackson LaCroix]

Jackson navigated his shoulders to face an unobstructed stall and looked the brown haired man in the eyes until he got his attention.

“Looking for a local expert on pre-Valterrian relics, religious artifacts and alchemical properties.”

His strawberry blond hair fell down upon the bridge of a keen-edged nose as he once again scanned the table, then quietly gazed upward without protocol.

“Specifically involving Ruros, dead god of war and Harameus.”

With a vague turn of the neck, it was intriguing that none of the syndicates had claimed visible authority over such a key industry, for if their influence held sway here it was imperceptible to the passing glance. The tanned figure blinked his green eyes in a second’s thought then re-attuned their dialation to the dialogue.

“Which syndicate holds sway within these halls, or do the thieves take what shines the brightest.”

His own conviction played one of the cards that previously had been held close to the chest. It was a necessary half-ruse, like tapping a nerve. Cross rubbed his left pinky knuckle while keeping distance from the table to allow it's vendor to see his every deliberate action. The place felt like a shoal at low tide, with a collection of driftwood, shells and buried treasure seeped into the lowest bank. He was firmly skeptical, but turned the question over to see if it matched the dealer’s hand.

[Liminal]

The man returned Jackson's look. "Aye, if you're looking for a local expert, that's me." At the last question, he gave a brief smile. "Nah, ain't no syndicate moving in on the Underground. Pride of Sunberth, it is, and the anti-Organization sentiment runs way too high for anyone to try and pluck it up. People die that way." He spat on the ground.

"Ruros artifacts are incredibly rare," he went on. "Most of 'em were destroyed after the victory of Myri the Usurper. I've only seen one in all my career, a statuette a man dug up in Lisnar twenty years ago. Lisnar's probably the place to go for any others, but like I said, ain't many people even seen one."

The man shrugged. "Harameus though, that's different." He picked up a pendant from one of the tables; it was of blue metal, worked in the shape of a small ring. "This one you can tell from the Alchemical symbol, plus the back of the chain." He flipped the chain around, revealing that the clasp was imprinted with a capital H. "Lets you tell if an object's been alchemically altered even if you don't know Auristics. You just hold the ring up to your eye, and something that's been altered will glow blue."

[Jackson LaCroix]

With a tilt of the jaw, Jackson visually acknowledged the figure’s words. “The ring. Your asking price.” Someone bumped into his arm but continued past with only a smart comment; his money pouch was still fixed to it’s belt . The low space held a spin all it’s own, similar to a hub who’s spokes ran in every direction from the center outward. Freedom was vitality and they treasured it here as highly as stolen gold, much higher then earning it.

For what it all was worth though, that alone provided a swiftness of passage that the tapestry of buildings could not hide. Shrill echoes of hucksters, sewer soaked rats, embellishing fortune tellers, bold faced children and coldly finished adults paraded the aisles to the periphery of every glance. The warmth of company and the livelihood of smooth barter scattered all around him like a sprawl of orange tinged leaves. Perfume and cleavage, a wooden eye, a packed pipe, a crown of feathers. The eclectic mix of grinds inside the toast to life spiked a balance through the bottom of the cup they called the Underground. Some roasted, others burned, infused with a wanting buzz that left the finish of lacquered mahogany and cooling cedar on the fabric of another body that slid against his back. “Lisnar, tell me of it’s past and who travels within it’s present.”

[Liminal]

"Hundred and fifty," the man replied. "It's got a very specific use, certainly, but it won't wear out, and the craftsmanship is excellent." From what Jackson could see, the man spoke the truth.

"As for Lisnar..." The man looked thoughtful, an expression that ill-suited his face. "Lisnar's old. Older than Syliras, older than Zeltiva, maybe the oldest city in what used to be Alahea. Before the Valterrian, it was sort of a suburb of Treval, you might say, tucked right up close to the capital itself. When the catastrophe happened and Treval was left a smoking hole, Lisnar survived. Oh, none of the buildings or streets survived, but some of the people did, and eventually, they reemerged, came back into the sunlight and started building the town again.

But since it's right next to the place where Treval used to be, it's the best place in the east to find pre-Valterrian artifacts, especially durables. Treasure hunters, artifact hounds, gray-market traders, Lisnar's crawling with 'em all. It's civilized, mostly, but it's got that frontier feel to it, and the gods only know what you'll find around there."