Closed [Tent City] The First Meet

[Fallon]

25-Spring-514

The message was sent out with the morning cawing of birds. Those notes, those letters, that call. If it could even be called that. Fixed in spots, the flapping sheets called, the blackened shadow of a castle upon the surface with three parallel slashes going through it. It was their mark. As for the invitees, they knew who they were, and whether or not they came would finally be the proof that they were willing to dedicate themselves. It was the calling, the signal to rise and to gather. Too long had they been apart, too long had they segregated themselves in the cold of the winter. But now spring had come things would change. Winter had brought the end of things, it had wiped clean the things that were old and provided a stage. Spring would create the foundations in which to build upon, new growth to be cultivated into what was needed.

Words would be shared, points of views gathered or even correctly built upon. Plans could be lain, a gathering of understanding of local lore. That was what she needed the locals for, it was the curse of being an outsider looking in. She needed to breathe in the air, she needed to know and understand. But that was the steep learning curve she would have to face, even she knew she was far from competent at leading or working with a group. Still, with practice, understanding and time something fascinating could indeed be created. But that was her challenge, and that was her goal - whether those few others that had been gathered in the cold of winter would rise up with her was another question all together.

And it was somewhere in the twists and turns of the tent city, that Bitzer had called for them. Among the scatter of tents, with the rumbling moan of voices between the canvas. Noisy, grasping, the suffocating scents of slums and filth having long grasped at the air - but that was the scene of their starting, that was their stage. They had to work from somewhere after all. Lips pursing Fallon prepared herself and their meeting location. Perhaps in some regards it was foolish to bring them here, among the dangerous eyes that forever watched. No one trusted here, it spoke it in every step, every patter of feet and walk. And it was with that distrust that none would share, and instead keep to themselves in their own separate communities.

Orvin looked upon her with large eyes, having taken position by the open tent entrance, his tail flicking occasionally with anticipation but largely he remained at rest, stuck in his enjoyment of basking in the spring light. Fallon herself was waiting, her back straight with the tent space behind her cleared and packed away - apart from the whistling iron kettle. She even moved to the point on readying the lantern and to bit lit and hoisted up should conversations go on into the hours of darkness. Her eyes only briefly drifted up from her movement, her eyes turning to the musky smelling cape and coat, around to the rubble build up of discarded stone used to make a poor excuse of a fire pit for the season and then upwards to the sky. For the moment the weather was well, if not chilled in the air - either way it was a far cry from its previous white and wintry state. It probably would not last however, and the spring rains and damp would quickly consume. Possibly. She was not confident in such things.

Discarding the thought, the once squire straightened herself, hands clasped behind her. Her feet placed themselves in the ground, the red sash and tulwar hanging at her waist - waiting almost to be used - whilst the kurki sat resting across the base of her spine. When they came they would begin, they would talk, discuss, plan and create. Ties would be laid out, strings linking each other together. They would know their allies, the ones they stood with and who would support them. With a crack in her voice, a low mumble of words she would speak, "Let us begin."

She was ready for Sunberth, to open the way and lead those willing to stand up for change.

For it was their future, and it was up to them to carve it out.

[Zandelia]

The tent city was more volatile than Zandelia remembered, more cagey and xenophobic in nature. She was not entirely sure what had occurred to turn its vaguely welcoming arms into weapon wielding fists but she had gathered it has something to do with a series of accidents – bad luck thrown after bad luck she had heard whisperings of. It held little fear for her though, she was a native of the city and that counted for something in Sunberth. It also perhaps had something to do with the fact that she was wearing her Night Leather armour and her full arsenal of weaponry was visible every time the light breeze flicked the opening of her cloak to one side. She strode with purpose towards where she knew Bitzer’s tent could be found.

I’ve spent enough time with her planning what our actions should be…what they could be. She decided group input was better and I hope to Akajia herself that she is correct she thought to herself as she weaved in between the denizens of the city of canvas.

A few threw her dark looks but with a movement of her arm her tonfa came into view and they thought better of engaging her, turning instead to their appointed tasks and saving as much face as they could. She didn’t press any of them on their cowardice – a strike to test her abilities would come eventually but hopefully not this day. This day was for talking, meeting and scheming in the shadows. Ironically though the ten city didn’t much like the pair of them it was a fine barrier to the rest of the city. The Syndicates seemed reluctant to enter it, at east openly. She had not seen a Daggerhand patrol here since their arrival.

That was good, it meant that there would be secrecy after a fashion. At least from their primary enemy and that, in her experience, was worth a small portion of discomfort.

“Unless they are sending their own spies” she muttered to herself under her breath.

She would be watching very carefully indeed, her gaze would greet any new arrivals that did attend with a sharp green lance of assessment. Her job was to keep Bitzer safe and she took that responsibility very seriously. If even the slightest hint of a turncoat in their midst was apparent she would hunt the bastard down with all of her skill. Only she would have control of any misinformation spread, she would make certain of it. Her role would be that of the weaver – hence her new alias of Web. She arrived at Bitzer’s tent and spied her standing.

She looks worried, almost statuesque with concern if I’m any judge of her. Admittedly I’m not yet but we’ve spent some time together she told herself as she approached. She pulled her pipe from its satchel and thumbed some Blue Vision into its eagerly awaiting bowl – she lit it off a small fire to her right and inhaled deeply before her greeting.

“No one showed yet then?” she stated simply, it was obvious Bitzer was alone, “good! Means they see us both together and make a link. Could be useful. They’ll come Bitzer, or they won’t. Don’t worry about it. We can take on the city by ourselves if needs must” she spoke, close to the woman’s ear but not enough to invade personal space.

She sat upon the ground then, leaning upon her right elbow as she puffed away at her pipe with enjoyment outwardly, concern inwardly. Despite her glib words she was wary about continuing their venture if they were alone.

At least in the same ways we had planned at least she told herself.

She would get vengeance for the Edge, it was just a matter of how long it took and how it happened.

[Gad]

Gad considered the wheels within wheels, and the city within the city. The Tent City was just like the rest of Sunberth in that it was frenetic and changeable in it's layout, open in the space it occupied, and yet increasingly xenophobic, just as the city proper was. It was a bit of self-similarity Gad was becoming mildly aware of, how it was a part of the city and apart of the city at the same time, and how this piece was only a piece but was reminiscent of the whole thing. He took a sip from his water-skin and decided it was too early to already be ruminating, and so he started paying more attention to occupants and how the busied themselves. Some of them seemed to notice him, and recognize him. His appearance had never helped him blend in, but this was more about what he'd done than how he looked. Gad worked in and around the Tent City from time to time, because the people there were mostly transient. However, the turnover rate wasn't so fast that people would forget entirely about him, and the suspicions he tended to arouse didn't fade as quickly as he'd have preferred. And it didn't help that something had happened near the end of last season to put the people here on edge. It didn't matter now, he guessed. It wasn't like he could do anything about it. He was only here because of the calling. The ominous looking silhouette of a castle that had been scarred by three cuts. It was the signal he'd been told to wait and watch for, and now that it was sent, he was to come to this place. The weird thing was that Gad expected to be nervous, but when the time came to go, it felt natural and routine. He might've even called it relaxing, as was often the inevitable being realized. Gad considered the odds were high that he'd been on this course every sense he bumped into Wren in stumble alley, and maybe even before that. Up ahead of him now was the tent, looking as it was described to him, and he yawned before he stepped in. "Is this a private party or can anyone join?" He said, stepping in. There were already two people here. Women, surprisingly. One was around his age, with a short haircut and fairly well armed. The other was older, with a less friendly looking face. Gad thought he recognized the younger one, and he had to grin at how small the world could be. Still, he didn't mention it, and he took a position kneeling near the tent flaps just in case things weren't what he'd been lead to believe. His decision to come here was primarily to observe, and to hear out their plans. Like all true Sunberthers, he didn't trust anyone, especially "planners", who were right up there with bards in his book. Still, for whatever reason, he'd been approached (or maybe he had approached them) to be an accomplice, and he wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty if there was something to gain. He just wanted to make sure there was nothing to lose first. "So are you ladies the only ones coming or am I just characteristically early?"

[Kellyn Kye]

It was a short walk through the mud to the tent down the way. Kellyn had been told of a meet to attend in the Spring. Now it had come. And she was on her way.

Marching along, she felt the odd, jangling stiffness of a person blindfolded and lined up for the firing squad. Her waterskin, full to capacity of something stronger than its customary liquor, was tied loosely to her waist. Her palms felt... prickly, as did the back of her neck, as if miniscule crabs were scuttling across her flesh, their tiny pincers giving a pinprick every so often to hold her attention. Kellyn momentarily contemplated rubbing charcoal on her skin in a weak attempt to make the sensation stop, but refrained. It wouldn't help. Not in the least. These unusual feelings came from within, not without.

She had her nerves to thank. Kellyn had never been to a meeting before. Not something planned in advance, formal. This was something new, unknown.

The tent appeared, curled amongst the others. It seemed to be as expected. It wasn't too large. The girl stepped in without allowing herself a pause. Gave a quick, assessing look around. The prickling died down a little, a cooling sensation added, as if in relief.

Three. So far, there were three. Four, including herself. The girl she had met
--name, what was her name... there had been the wolf and the laugh, the color pink... Bitzer, that was it, wasn't it?-- and another woman, along with a younger man. She took each of the others in quickly, with a cursory stare. The woman was older than she was, smoking a pipe, giving a sharp look right back through mismatched eyes. The boy was darker, disheveled and... Sunberthan, she thought. Yes. It was that distrustful look. She'd recognize it anywhere, immediately.

Standing silhouetted in the entrance by a stream of the morning light and the taunting caws of the birds outside, there was a moment of hesitation. Of not knowing what to do. The feeling of scuttling crabs turned suddenly to butterflies, which wafted their feather-soft wings against the skin of her arms, seemingly from the inside. Then she stepped the rest of the way in. Her head ducked in a nod of greeting to the one she recognized, her mouth set in a hard line. She gravitated towards one of the walls of the tent, set herself at a wary distance. Not too far away as to seem completely aloof. Just far enough.

Three others could mean that she was early --something she hadn't meant to have done-- or that there weren't many coming, and the group was smaller than she had figured. The first wasn't an issue. The second... might be a bit of a setback, but not really a problem either, she thought, and more could always be recruited to suit The Scars' purposes. There were always kids looking to prove themselves, one way or another.

There was a little bit of light talk going on, but as it appeared to be merely conversational, Kellyn tuned it out. More out of the want to stop the internal, ticklish fluttering than anything else, she slid the black book from her rucksack, and a piece of recently sharpened charcoal from her pocket. Silently she got to work as she waited for this meeting to happen.

The general shape of the tent was sketched out on the first blank page, a quick, rough background to detail the dimensions of the space she had to work with. Then little figures were added in, one at a time, bereft of character for now, simple mannequins denoting position. There were the two women, relatively near to one another, one standing and the other sitting. The young man whom she'd had to step past to get into the tent came next, kneeling next to the entrance... something of a telling placement on his part. Lastly came the miniature of the wolf, posture relaxed, lying in a puddle of light. Noticing him for the first time as she drew, having been focused on the humanoid occupants of the tent when she arrived, the artist smiled.

[Fallon]

Zandelia was the first to arrive.

If there was anything she had noticed about the woman it was her seeming punctuality. Always there, always ready to go and meet when an allotted time and date had been set. And it was that reliability that Fallon liked; it meant she had someone she could count on. It was refreshing when she compared it to other people from the past. Eyes slid to the armour, the stirrings of memories from the past bubbling in her mind.

There was only a respectful nod, but entire stance as to how she held herself was not changed. There was only a quick blink, her eyes turning away finally. Why did she have to wear that? Out of all the pieces possible. She exhaled, then inhaled. The smoke was familiar; somewhere it lingered on the back of her mind, sweet, rippling white upon black. Nostrils flared as she breathed, ”No, not yet. Though, you are early.”

Not long after another emerged from the twists and turns of the tents. From the stares and filth did another appear male and a face she did not immediately recognise; male, tanned skin, the look of a native Sunberthian if she ever saw one. Her chin tilted up to him, her brow knitting into a line as she tried to put a name to the face – and promptly failed to do so. Orvin at this point lifted his head, his ears pricking upwards as he stared upon the male. Standing, he swaggered his way over to investigate this newcomer. As the wolf prodded with his snout, Fallon spoke, ”It is an invitation early. You’re early. Good habit.”

Sucking in the air she gave a look forward, ears pricking to the noises. Zandelia was sucking on her pipe, and the lad was simply waiting patiently upon the floor, whilst she herself was stood to attention. Lips where wetted, her eyes drifting to Zandelia; searching for a clue, a hint, anything that would mean this meet would be alright. And it was perhaps now that she would need the intelligence and council of her more than ever.

It was the shadow that caught her attention though, there in the light stood the artist Skell. She looked a bit disheartened at first, confused as to why there were so few people. Eyes narrowed down, and then her fingers curled to signal her in. Yes there were few of them; she did not need reminding of that. And it was perhaps silently that she prayed. Just what on earth had her brother been doing all winter? Drinking and lazing about the city whilst she ran about?

Fallon cleared her throat.

”Despite being early, shall we begin?” her hands came together in a clap, ”Even if only slowly. I suppose introductions are in order. As… of you that have been approached know of what happened in Winter. You know of the Hound, of the Daggerhand general who was strung up in a most interesting display. You know of the rumours, you have heard the hums of whispers, and answered the call. You look for change; you look for a way to deal with your foes, to cast aside the grasp of what once was before for something better,” Her eyes flittered about at that point, her eyes turning to Skell who was drawing, then down to the lad and finally to Zandelia, ”You chased the hound, and in your chase you have come to this name. The Scars.”

There was a pause, a moment of collection of thought, ”So, this is our first meet. Our first gathering. There may be few of us, but that does not matter. All things start off small and grow. Bit by bit, piece by piece, the get bigger. If you have the will to take it, if you have the call to reach out and grasp it then it will be possible. But if you do not, then turn back now.” At that point her hand rose, pointing to outside of the tent and beyond in gesture. There was a long chime of silence, waiting for any of them to make a move – and none of them she should stop. Only once that chime was up did she continued, ”So, let us begin. I am Bitzer, right hand of the Hound and member of the Scars. Now, who are all of you?”

And those introductions finished, did she continue, ”So, you probably have questions. Let us begin there. Ask, and I will do my best to answer.”

[Noven]

A pair of mongrels yipped at each other and sped past his ankles, forcing the young merc to check himself. Krysus, no wonder he'd stopped coming to this shyke of a mess they called the Tent City. How long had it been? Eight years? Ten? He'd lost count, but he could still remember sauntering about like the self-proclaimed daredevils they were, blissfully ignorant in their hot headed youth and forever trying to outdare the other in stupidity...

Until those lowborn scum who fancied themselves untouchable members of the Daggerhands spilled Henry's guts onto the cold, cobbled stones and left the boy to lay in the stench of his own death.

Well, untouchable they no longer were.

And this is why I'm here, Noven reminded himself as he wove his way past tent after tent. This is why I've joined the Scars. To bring those fucking rats down on their knees and beg for mercy. And to give them none, as they only rightfully deserve.

So it was with a chest full of bitter anger and thirst for vengeance that Nov walked quietly up to the designated meeting place. He'd seen the flapping papers out in the streets, branded with what he had come to understand as the Scar's insignia. A part of him cautioned against the image; were they to be just another gang grappling for power, doomed to throw their lot in with the rest of Sunberth's murderous nutjobs?

The cook and occasional merc hoped not. He hadn't worked this hard to make as close to a gang-free living as he could, in Nona's memory, for nothing. The only affiliation he had with cut throat mobsters was in their extermination. Nothing more, nothing less.

Surly as ever, Nov approached the mix matched group with more than a little wariness. Up until now, he had no knowledge of who the other recruits might be. What they did, what they looked like, how their temperaments might be. From the looks of it, they were a lot as shady and curious as he. Two women, one man. One of the women seemed to have only one, functioning emerald eye, the other a thin and pale look about her. Though the former was clearly many years the latter's senior, both shared a similar shade of blonde and a prettiness that did nothing to belie the steel behind their gazes.

The third member who had shown up was scruffy looking fellow. Not dirty as one would assume, Noven realized after a moment more of scrutiny, but as disheveled as Sunberthians come. Aside from his lankiness, the kid looked a bit like himself. Dark skin, dark features, and reminded him surprisingly of He--

The cook stopped that train of thought right then and there. He was in a bad enough mood as it was.

Nov had walked in right as Bitzer introduced herself proper--right hand of the Hound and member of the Scars--but heard a good deal in his slow approach. Raising his brow at the others, the young merc cleared his throat uncomfortably before responding in kind. He didn't like groups, and he didn't like meeting new people. But he would do what had to be done.

"The name's Noven," he greeted grudgingly. "And, ah, sorry I'm late."

[Matthew]

He had likely made it more complex than it actually was. Fallon was smart, she had chosen an excellent place. What better place to whisper than a place where all the whispers drowned each other other? Fallon would be just another whisper in the crowd and no one would think any differently. Still, he had wanted to see if he could figure out something that would give extra insurance. He was the sort to think of a plan, and then think of a plan for that plan, and then a few different plans for each of those plans. First there had been the scouting, a slow walk through the Tent City. It had taken quite a few walks before he had managed to memorize the immediate area. When that was done, he had put it to paper. His drawing skills were not exactly existant, but he had tried. A sketch of the immediate surroundings and all the pathways that wound through them. The Harlot had quietly pondered as he worked. As his quill bobbed and weaved, he had thought. He was involving himself. There was no real reason to involve himself. He had came to push his studies to the brink and he had learned so very much. He had almost mastered his craft here, and then what? He would likely move on. There was no reason to create this tie. He didn't owe them a thing, nor did they owe him. Matthew had still drawn the map. He had still went to talk to coworkers that would be available on that day, asking if they would want to do a little extra work. He could trade their time for his own time if they wanted more. Being able to safely sell their wares was enough of a payment for most, though. He had been able to find the number of people he needed, and soon the day came. The Harlot and the Whores went to the Tent City, though with two very different plans in mind. ~ He had been sure to double-check with Fallon before he did this. He couldn't tell if she approved, or if she was just humoring him. He wasn't exactly a part of her undertaking, so he wasn't sure how she felt about his presence. He didn't know if she trusted him, if she liked him, or if she even cared one way or another. Sometimes he got the idea that she thought Wrenmae had a crush on Matthew and tolerated the harlot's presence because of that. Still, they had met each other multiple times and it had all seemed to go well. Sometimes he patched her up, sometimes she came to the Sanctum just to talk things over. It was the last time they had met that he had approached her with his idea. They could set up a perimeter of whores. If they put one whore at each of a certain number of crossing pathways, then they would have the entire meeting area guarded. Not that the whores could stop somebody desperate to get in. They were just information. They were ears. They would be the ones who knew if anyone had asked around about Fallon, about Bitzer, about the Hound, about the Scars. It would be a way of knowing just how well they had managed to keep all of this quiet and secret. Apparently Fallon had someone who would be interested in that information. Matthew wasn't sure if he was allowed in the tent. He was curious on how Fallon would do this, but at the same time, he knew that some of these things might be private. The Harlot liked the idea of planning and debate, but he would understand if it wasn't his place. He was sure she would let him know if he wasn't welcome. He approached the tent and blinked at Orvin, the beast blinking right back. He was a quiet thing, and oddly enough that made Matthew feel rather comfortable around him. Matthew was a quiet thing himself. Orvin stared for a few moments, then glanced away. He either wasn't concerned, or was just trained to only rip out a throat at Fallon's command. Matthew continued on, but paused just outside the doorway. Only whenever Fallon had finished speaking would he show himself. He would wait for a moment, blue eyes staring into Fallon's steady gaze, awaiting a verdict. With a shake of her head he would be gone, just as simple at that. He had at least been able to hear her speech. From what he could tell, it had been a very good speech. With anything else, his sharp blue stare would move to everyone else in turn. Wrinkles. White eye. Scar. Full lips, could sell kisses. Light hair, styled to the side. Rather masculine, but not too horribly. She could sell that chest in various ways. Pipe smoking. Addiction? Sitting. Leaning. Overly casual? Or actually casual? Don't overthink it. Sharp green eye. I wonder... Messy, just a bit. Unkempt, perhaps that is the word. Earrings, a different style of tunic, kneeling, a certain look to his eyes, perhaps defiant? No, calm. No, relaxed. No, distrustful. No, not good at reading emotion. Don't even try. Light hair. Long hair, a lot favor that. Skin tone, not the best. Why isn't it the best? Sunberth. Likely Sunberth. Blue stare, slim, young, book in hand, drawing. Ah, a smile. The only smile. Shoddy jewelry, though pretty in that handmade way. In shape. Dark hair. Bubbling rage so fierce that even I, as clueless as I am, can see it in his stare. Shapely lips, could sell kisses. Scar, messy hair, dirty flesh. Could use some grooming. Handsome, but intimidating, perhaps? Gloves. Gloves? The Harlot walked, smooth and graceful in his gait. He was painfully aware that he stood out like a sore thumb. His dark hair was perfectly styled, his flesh was clean, glowing, and golden. His jaw was strong, his face created of quite a few handsome and pretty features. He was dressed so well, but not in fancy clothes. They were simple clothes, a snug white shirt that showed off what he was selling, and a pair of black britches. His face was oddly blank, but not in a way that seemed to take effort. It was naturally blank. When he spoke, his voice was soft and almost... alluring. There was an energy about him. Not of wisdom, not of intellect, not of talent or anger. It was a sexual energy. "I-" He paused then, blinking, head turning to stare at Noven. Noven. He opened his mouth to ask him if he was the same Noven that he had heard of, the Readied Cock of Brega's House, but thankfully caught himself. Social tact. He had to remember there was such a thing. He continued walking, continuing to speak. "I am Matthew, a prostitute of Ruby's Scarlet Sanctum. I apologize for being late as well. I was perhaps a bit too cautious in my preparations to come here. It is nice to meet each of you. Bitzer, what sort of relationship do you wish this group to have? Friends? Business associates? Something different?" The Harlot finally took his own position, and perhaps a few would wonder if it had been specifically chosen. It was directly to Zandelia's left and just a bit back, standing tall with hands folded over his waist. He was assuming the white eye was blind, and he was also curious how she handled him where he was. Perhaps he was over thinking it. He liked the small details.

[Zandelia]

As she drew upon her pipe, tendrils of smoke curling around her face before dissipating into a fine haze towards the roof of the tent, she waited and watched the flaps to the outside world. She had been brought along for her expertise and her overwhelmingly trustworthy nature – perhaps more the former than the latter – as such she had a task to perform and would not shirk it. The fact that there was only one way out concerned her slightly but not enough to end her relaxed posture. If the worst came they would deal with any betrayal. She had considered the possibility and as such had made sure that she was fully armed. She hadn’t had enough gold to purchase mercenaries and they were less than trustworthy at any rate. Her weaponry was loose in their sheaths and that was enough.

I’ll just collapse the tent if I need too, confusion breed advantage after all she thought to herself as she bit the mouthpiece of her pipe.

It was not long before they began to arrive, one by one and fulfilling her expectations all too neatly. She had hoped for perhaps one excellent fighter amongst them all but if her gaze were a decent judge none of them could claim expertise in that field. They would change that but she wondered how long they would have to get everyone into fighting shape before they were mobbed by the smaller gangs seeking to take advantage of their weak and formative state. She would have to spread some misinformation to cloak them in a small shroud of secrecy, this much she was certain of already. If she could gain some of the newcomer’s help doing so she could also gain the measure of them at the same time and this idea was pushed into her mind for consideration.

A rogue, messy and tentative in approach but wily enough to feign boredom to put us at a disadvantage perhaps? Does he mean for us to think we need to convince him even though he already arrived? A woman, young and silent but quick to smile. Nervous perhaps, we can use that well enough. The third is more interesting, a brawler perhaps by his physique and a darkness to his eyes despite his nervousness. Feigned? But this fourth…clever. Care should be taken in any manipulation she noted, taking in their appearances less than their mannerisms.

Appearances could be deceptive, as was proven when Matthew walked inwards and placed himself out of her field of vision. She smiled at that, he had noted a potential weakness and had decided to exploit it for his own advantage. Clearly he had a mind similar to hers in some respects and she knew he would seek a reaction. She gave him nothing, merely puffing away at her pipe and listening to his footfalls to note his position. He was within striking distance should he test them with treachery and so she was not overly concerned.

Silence reigned for a few moments and she wondered if the others were unsure of how to open the proceedings. She took matters into her own hands for Bitzer’s sake and bridged the lull in the words.

“You can call me Web,” she smiled at the all, raising her pipe in greeting, “I have no need for questions from Bitzer here but I have one for all of you. Seeing as Matthew has asked the question about relationship I have a linked question that might help determine its answer”

“What do you seek to gain from our ventures? A simple question” she finished, the question asked and head moving to regard Matthew briefly.

Desire they would use, to know their wants and be able to promise their fulfilment was a powerful agreement and one which could bind them together somewhat. She was sure they would still have questions for Bitzer, it would be natural enough. She hoped, however, that their answers to her own would prove a spring board from which to build a plan for their futures.

[Senghor Vilhjalmr]

If death wasn't a cousin to sleep than surely Seng would still be in bed, asleep but no, he had to be amongst the grimy shyke of the Tent City. Lhex, even the Pig's Foot would have been a better meeting place than this, but he knew that with the power came the secrecy, albeit too much of it though. Seng's tired stride through through the Tent towards where call was wasn't lazy but it certainly rushed because he was still thinking of the various ways he was going to kill Noven for not coming to fetch him, the eager bastard probably didn't take a bath because he was waiting for the Hound's call once again. A little shake of the head caused Senghor's stoic side to clearly come to life ass his muscles pulled and he remembered where his alliances lied, the first promised the power of the world whereas the other was his, amongst his brethren he already felt the burden onto his shoulders, so many lives to possibly look after(?). With a eased stride his hand gently pushed aside a bit of the tent's 'door', he walked in and found a room full of mixed individuals, his eyes looked amongst them to find but one and when he did a glare of death seemingly brought back the could of winter. His ears picked up the last of the introductions as he eased his way towards a seat, amongst them all Senghor was the tallest, his lean body only made him seem taller whereas he wasn't, he sighed and looked amongst them, an equal number of women and men, give or take a few... He wouldn't if bother to remember them all, they all came here with their individual desires and it wouldn't surprise him if they were all going to work together. After the cleanest amongst was done with his speech, Senghor bit down on his jaw and kept his deep vocals from echoing within the tent, he didn't want to be rude but they didn't expect him to be suddenly friendly either were they? The pipe smoking woman spoke, it seemed that their conversation was already deep in interesting shyke hence he didn't want to intervene for now he'd listen, observe and speak only when speaking was worth speaking, however they noticed him or not, it didn't matter. Let the indeed begin...

[Gad]

It wasn't long after he'd arrived that others started to show up. A procession of weirdos, freaks, and misfits filed into the tent, each one more curious than the last. There was the pale girl, who looked like she smoke more than Web and drank more than Gad himself. She had yet to introduce herself, and she had a cautious look to her. Next was Noven, a sullen faced looking type who gave Gad this look like he'd recognized him. Gad didn't think he ever saw the guy before in his life, but there was apparently something about Gad's face the guy didn't like. Gad shrugged. He had that effect on people. Then there was 'Matthew, a prostitute of Ruby's Scarlet Sanctum.' Well, that was how the guy had introduced himself. Gad wondered if the man had any shame, then realized he probably liked his job. The wizard dismissed it. Takes all kinds I guess. Matthew did the duty of asking what was probably already on everybody's minds, and the gray-eyed web offered up her own relevant question. Just about that time, a nearly seven foot tall brute found his way into the tent. Gad blinked. Normally, he was the tallest man in the room, and despite his relatively thin nature, he could use that to seem imposing. However, once that guy had come in, Gad looked frail in comparison. It was about then that Gad felt the need to put forward some of his own questions. From what he already knew, he thought he could piece together some basic information about this group. So far, their illustrious leader had killed a Daggerhand general, and now they were in the midst of a recruiting drive. It didn't take a master of intelligence to see where this was going, or a master of mathematics to put two and two together. He directed his questions at Bitzer. "Alright- hi, I'm Gad by the way- I've got a few questions about this. So, let me get this straight; you guys whack an upper level Daggerhand general- execute him and put his corpse on display- and are now starting to get yourself a few lackeys here in the city-" he looked quickly to the others who'd arrived "no offense, some of my best friends are lackeys and I don't mind being one as long as I'm getting paid and know the risks. Which brings me to my question. What exactly do we have to gain from this? This little gang- that is what this is right? A gang? I mean, I hear some people in this town think Robern is still alive, but even if he isn't- even if the Daggerhands are weaker now than they've ever been, their remnants, scattered as they may be, are still more powerful than all of us put together- unless I'm missing something? So what, exactly, do we have to gain by picking a fight with these guys?"