Closed Machinations of Common Minds.

[Senghor Vilhjalmr]

33th of Spring 514AV It was the 12th bell of the day and Seng couldn't believe that he and Noven had gathered them all again, this time their presence was of an ambitious nature. In winter when they 'all' sat around his table it was to weave a tightly knitted brethrenhood, where death wasn't inevitable without the shield of one and the blade of another, he proved it true when he worked with everyone of them, when their bonds tightened and solidified, personally he'd vehemently fight for them but he knew that wouldn't do the same. The Broken Shackles : that's what they called themselves, after a Sunberthian card game, it was almost laughable but when one looked through the name they could see that it was embodied them, they were survivors, fighters, warriors, thieves and most of all, Free. They were Free from the bullshit of Sunberth because they wanted to take their city as it was and make it their own, their lust for money and leisure would be sated by the forgotten dank, scum infested, rat hole that the rest of the world looked down upon. It was with their great city that through blood, through bruises and every scrape, through each scuffle and fight that they would see themselves as men and women of freedom. As Senghor inclined his head towards his door, he saw an infinite pathway which ultimately led them all towards whatever its is that they want, he wanted to return his honor, his name to his deceased parents and getting a little coin too didn't hurt much. Cagn did it, Asad did it, Dusu, De'wale and all the men who once were their couriers of his conception, amongst them all he looked like a failure but no more, the Journal that was kept from him explained it all it told him of their struggles and victories and now it was his turn. That nagging voice at the back of his head, now gone and unless because he'd embraced it, the enraged beast everlastingly sitting at the back of his mind, still there. A sigh slipped from the lips of the warrior as he turned and sat down, his weight causing the chair to groan albeit out of recognition, his golden brown eyes never losing their luster as he looked at their faces, a bit of greed in them all, a bit of fear but a lot of promise and potential. "Ladies, Gents. Winter is finally over and thankfully we've all made enough coin to still be living. An accomplishment in its own right indeed. I'm not going to bore you all with another long winded speech about brotherhood and sticking together because we've already established that," he said, his deep voice the looming over any other that dared challenge it, "I brought all here today because we've got another season at our feet, and we need to take it by the reins and scheme this city dry as much as we can" "I'm sure we've all heard a bit of gossip, a rumour or two about something that will definitely intrigue us," he paused for a moment before looking at them "What we should do now, is capitalize on it and make it our own" Senghor said, he knew that they could all continue doing the same routine, mostly mercenary work, thieving here and there, cage fights and the blood pits, but truly that wasn't ambitious enough, they needed solid plans and this was how they'd get them. "So ladies and gentlemen, how're we going to make ourselves a whole lot of coin this season?"

[Noven]

He sat, arms folded, expression neutral, as familiar words washed over him and his mind returned again and again to the same, ominous subject. A rumor, started by the Hound and his first, shocking display back in Winter. And now, a truth Noven was having a difficult time denying.

Robern is dead.

There were plenty who had not shared his skepticism from the very beginning. Ambitious, greedy, big-headed mobsters, mostly. That single claim the Hound had made in his mysterious call to arms had ignited a mad scrambling for power that was hard to miss, even in a city already up to its eyeballs in strife. And the more Sunberth's nefarious gangs fought for the biggest piece of the pie, the more Nov had to admit that the Daggerhand leader was definitely dead.

Or gone. Either way, something was amiss. The scales had tipped, and everyone with ink on their chests or hare-brained enough to call themselves a gangster was vying to weigh said scales in their favor.

As much as he disliked the idea of treading anywhere near this underhanded war for power, even Nov had to admit there was merit in it. Or, more specifically, money. And they needed lots and lots of money to get where they needed to be. If there was one thing he'd managed to learn from the past season during his budding involvement with the Scars, it was that more resources equaled more possibilities.

Up until last Winter, the cook had been struggling to develop leads on his mystery Daggerhand Boss. And came up with none. Not a single step in the right direction. But through the Scars, he had at least been able to kill a few more underlings and squeeze a drop of information or two in the process. Maybe if he kept things up he'd finally make some headway.

Which was where the scheming came in.

They made decent enough income. Between their trips to the Pits, their mercenary work, and their thieving opportunities, they made enough to keep their bellies full and heads roofed. But it was not enough to hold any leeway within the city itself. They needed to make better use of their numbers and skills, because...well, why not? They could, so therefore they should. It was time to leap for a bigger morsel, and to widen their appetites a little.

"Well," Nov began, drawing himself back out from his internal churning, "there are the three most obvious ways. We can, one, kill people for money. Two, rob people of their money through scams and lies. Or, three, pick up something real popular to buy and sell."

He thought about it for a moment, then snorted. "Which are all pretty rotten ideas. Not to mention near impossible to succeed with for more than a season. Half the city is knee deep in these shit stained trades, and most don't make it past a couple nights in the business."

"Which means," Nov continued, leaning forward and resting his arms on the wooden table, "we have to get creative."

He grinned. "Any takers?"