Threadbare

The Chase Is On Part II

It took Chase about two minutes to size up Lady Marks-Runcible, and realize that she was a monster.

The signs were unmistakable; her manor was practically an isolated fortress of security, the servants were fearful and strange in that way that only a group that shared a horrible secret could be, and Chase and Greta were meeting her in the middle of the night.

Really, the occasional screams that wafted upward from somewhere below the estate were an entirely unnecessary bit of foreshadowing that Chase nonetheless appreciated. There was something comforting about dealing with a traditionalist, you always knew where you stood with a fan of the old classic villainy.

Of course, there was a good chance she was wrong. After all, she hadn't met the lady yet. It was entirely possible that all this was a front put up to keep fortune-seekers from pestering the aging widow.

But Chase thought not. Cylvania was a... sheltered place, by comparison to her homeland. It had been cut off from the outside for quite a while, and that had given its people a remarkable lack of intrigue and subtlety when compared to the more cosmopolitan lands that Chase was used to traversing.

There was a charming blend of innocence and straightforwardness here that made it simple. And Chase liked simple. She could deal with simple.

The ancient clock in the corner ground down the time, sawing air with strokes of its heavy pendulum. It was old and serious and dark, dark wood stained black and faded by the time it measured. It very much matched the rest of the dcor, which included fearsome orcish masks captured from long-finished battles, blades that had definitely seen use if the nicks on them were anything to go by, and paintings that depicted very calm humans posing in front of slain monsters and near still bodies on stark, trampled battlefields.

On the plus side, it didn't smell like tobacco. That was a plus. Pipes weren't as much of a big deal here as they were at home, and normally she would expect a room like this would reek of the unpleasant weed.

The second good thing about her predicament was that the couch was quite comfy. Yes, it was black and gloomy and looming, but the cushions were soft, and the leather worn in the way that it yielded softly to her slight weight.

The final good thing was that her minder was far more nervous than she was.

His name was Branson, and he was a farmer's boy. Big and earnest and not exactly bright, he'd been an easy mark for the Resistance. They'd fed him stories about what the golems and the undead were really up to, and he'd decided to help save his country from the vast conspiracy that threatened it.

By joining another conspiracy.

That threatened his country.

But that particular irony would have been lost on Branson, and Chase was by no means ready to make a major move yet or otherwise risk her cover by pointing out the paradox. Still, she felt that Branson, son of Bran, wasn't a bad person, just one who needed to learn a few lessons about who to trust and what to believe.

Right now, he was trusting his instincts that clearly told him he'd made a bad choice by coming here, and he believed that he'd be lucky to make it back home in one piece. That much was clear on his broad, honest face, and the way he wrung his cap between his callused hands.

So Chase decided to help him out a bit. Hey, she whispered...

...and palmed her face as he screamed and jumped behind the love seat.

She cleared her throat. Branson?

Yes'm?

I was going to ask, do you know if we're going to get refreshments at some point?

Er... The top of the farm boy's head popped up over the edge of the (black) love seat, and two wide, white eyes found her. I don't actually know, ma'am.

Miss, Chase corrected, and pinched the bridge of her nose between two fingers. I think I've told you this a few times now.

Right. Sorry Ma'am.

Miss oh never mind. Look, Branson... she slid from the couch and scrambled up onto the love seat. The lady is expecting us. We are guests. Mister Ruddimore knows where we are. We're going to have a nice talk, and then we're going to walk out of here at the end of it and go back to our business. It's going to be fine.

That sounds mostly accurate, said a throaty voice from behind her.

Chase closed her eyes, dipping her head...

...and hiding her face from Branson as her lips moved, forming words without noise.

Silent Activation, Silver Tongue. Silent Activation, Size Up. Silent Activation, Diagnose.

Your Silent Activation skill is now level 53!

She felt her moxie drain, felt her willingness to speak with this stranger decrease, felt the tension eat at her, just a bit more.

Then she turned with a smile, and the most cheer she could put behind her words. Lady Marks-Runcible, I assume?

Black-dyed lips curled back over flawless white teeth. Black, shadowed eyes narrowed as silver corneas focused wide, black pupils on Chase's own. Ivory-white skin twitched and rearranged itself into a smile and an illusion of warmth that did not touch those cold eyes, as the Lady tilted her head and raven-black locks fell into place with a feathery whisper in the silence.

She was tall and beautiful and built. Branson's gulp and sudden heavy breathing behind Chase made that clear. But Chase was more focused on the words that were rolling up the side of her view, the results of two of the three skills she'd triggered before laying eyes on the Lady.

The first was one of the Grifter's signature skills; Size Up. And it showed Chase what kind of mind she was up against.

Lady Wendolyn Marks-Runcible

Charisma About equal

Perception Moderately better

Willpower Much better

Wisdom Moderately worse

Influencing Conditions Silver Tongue, Unflappable

The second skill was part of an Oracle's stock in trade. It was called Diagnose, and it showed what was wrong... or right, with its subject.

Lady Wendolyn Marks-Runcible

Conditions: Fast as Death, You Are What You Eat

Debuffs: Unholy Hunger

Chase swallowed, and hid a sudden wave of worry with a low curtsy.

You assume correctly, the lady said, and Chase heard the whisper of skirts before the noble spoke again. Rise, do rise. And my dear boy, please come out from behind there. Everything your companion said is true.

Except it wasn't. There was a faint hint of a falsehood in that last part, a small variation in the way she said it that made Chase's instincts fire up. They were in danger, here.

Of course, it didn't exactly take a genius to see that. The lady's diagnosis on the second prompt wasn't just foreboding, it was more like fiveboding, possibly even sixboding. Though she didn't know what her various conditions and debuffs were, they sure looked like something that didn't belong on a normal, non-monstrous human.

But Chase kept her consternation off her face. This was a test in many ways, and if she didn't rise to the occasion here, the consequences would be fairly dire. The cards had been pretty clear on that point.

Still, there was a point of hope, and that came from the results of the Size Up skill. Both Silver Tongue and Unflappable were Grifter skills. The lady had a vested interest in being able to lie and hide her true nature, that much was clear. So Chase thought she had a little leeway to maneuver in this conversation, unless things were far weirder than expected.

All of this calculation, these few seconds of mental assessment leading to a decision as to her social strategy were entirely lost on Branson. He was too busy looking sheepish and extricating himself from the back of the love seat. A bit harder than it looked, because there were a number of sharp instruments on the walls behind the love seat, and he was tall in that way that farm-bred and farm-fed humans tended to be.

That was fine. The lady's eyes were on him, so he was serving his purpose. One of them. Definitely not the one he'd intended to serve.

Thank you for agreeing to see us on such short notice, Lady. Chase curtsied again, briefly this time. I'm not sure how much Mister Ruddimore told you...

Rather little, I'm afraid, said the elegant monster as she slid around the side of the loveseat, and took the half of it facing away from Branson and Chase. Which threw Chase for a bit, until she saw the mirror on the mantle. Though her back was to them, the Lady was still watching.

I believe you're here to sound me out for his interests in a rather risky endeavor, the Lady continued. One that could get us both into... trouble... She almost purred that last word, her voice going husky and playful.

The effect on Branson was immediate, as he glanced at her, then did a double-take, studying her profile with his eyes wide.

Chase stifled a smirk as he slid his cap into his lap, covering up what was probably a rising interest. Farmboys were simple creatures. Easy prey for this lady.

Her good humor faded as she remembered the lady's conditions. He could literally be easy prey for her.

Trouble, maybe, Chase said, turning on the couch to face the back of the lady's head. But necessary trouble. We wouldn't be here if the need weren't dire.

Needs or wants? said the Lady. Most people have trouble separating those, I find.

It's definitely need, Chase said. Mister Ruddimore is not happy with the direction this nation is taking. And I don't think he would have sent us here to discuss the matter with you if you didn't feel the same.

The Lady's head tilted just a bit to the side. Mister Ruddimore is... an old friend. We had many discussions about politics and the future of Cylvania during King Ragandor's reign. Mostly over dinner. her body shifted, shoulders untensing, arms whispering as they slid out along the top of the loveseat. One red-nailed hand crept a bit towards Branson, who swallowed hard, and turned his head to look at Chase with an almost pleading expression.

Which reminds me, you have been waiting for some time, continued the Lady. Would you care to join me for my evening meal?

Branson opened his mouth but Chase beat him to the punch. My lady, we would be honored to take some light refreshment or to discuss as you refresh, but I fear we have many duties to manage today. You are of course the most important appointment, but we are expected by several other callers of interest to Mister Ruddimore.

We're expected, Chase thought. That means that we'll be missed if you throw us in your murder cellar or eat us at dinner.

The lady's hand paused, a few inches from Branson's forearm. Chase glanced to the mirror, saw her lips curve into a slight smile. Ah, a pity. A tea then, perhaps. Be a dear and ring the silver bell on the western door.

The bell pull was three feet above Chase's head, and she bit back a surge of annoyance at the slight...

...then she paused. Did she want to be underestimated here?

Lady Marks-Runcible was a Grifter, and this was a deliberate insult. Why would she do this, unless it was to get a read on Chase's tells?

So Chase rolled her eyes and thinned her lips, much as she remembered her Mother doing whenever Chase was just the tiniest bit late to her chores. So unjust, really. But it was visible annoyance, and she found her way over, paused to drag a footstool, then clambered up on it and rang the bell.

She heard Branson stifle a snort, and she didn't have to fake it as her lips pressed more firmly against her teeth. I'm trying to get us out of here alive, buddy. She thought, sourly.

As to Baron Clarence Ruddimore, the Lady continued, her voice showing a hint of warmth, I always thought him rather charmingly old-fashioned. Particularly in his views on marriage, and my conjugal state... or lack thereof, after Bertie passed.

She gestured to the wall, using the hand that wasn't inches from Branson's neck. Chase looked up to see the portrait she was indicating, a thickset, glowering man with a flowing mane of hair. Like his wife, he seemed to be rather monochrome in taste when it came to clothing. Dear Clarence always thought I should remarry quickly. Until his match with Lovendia, he had a few thoughts on joining our own interests, so to speak.

I see... said Chase, running her mind through the briefing she'd received only this morning. Mister Ruddimore neglected to mention that he'd courted you. Or that he was a Baron, for that matter.

It's rather a small valley, when you get down to it, Lady Marks-Runcible turned her head , presenting Chase with a shadowy profile, and half of that white, white smile. I expect he rather thought you knew... which is a mindset that we're going to have to shed, now that we're open again, and more visitors are stopping by.

And that's a thing we can discuss, if you have the time, Chase said, returning to her seat, smile fixed. Your views on foreign policy, and how Cylvania is going to look to outside nations, given its current issues.

Nations such as your own? The Lady raised an eyebrow.

I fear that Laraggiungere is a bit far away to be a factor at this time, Chase said, folding her face into its most serious business mode. If a viable route can be secured between the two of us, then there will be trade. Once Cylvania has sorted out its policies on necromancy, anyway. I fear that as you are, most of the city-states will not find trade or aid sent your way to be... morally acceptable.

As we are... the Lady murmured, shifting in her seat, and draping her arms and cleavage over the top of the love seat. Branson, moving as if his eyes were on strings attached to her bosom, shifted to take her in, face turning the slow red of a doomed and boiling lobster.

But the Lady's eyes were fixed to Chase's, and the halven let her instinctual fear show through. Fear of the monster who was just waiting for a reason to pounce, yes, but Chase didn't want the Lady knowing that. So to deflect, she went with a useful lie.

I mean no offense of course, she said, waving her hands. It's just... well... there are laws against necromancy pretty much everywhere else. But here it's embraced, not only embraced, but you have... oh I'm sorry, I'm very sorry, I'm offending you. I should not have said anything. She put her hands to her mouth and cast her eyes downward.

Oh my dear, you haven't offended me, the Lady said, waving one ivory hand, blood-red nails glinting in the light. But I hear tea approaching, so let's discuss more after we've had some proper refreshment.

A few seconds later Chase heard the squeaking of wheels outside the western door, and a furtive, black-clad hunchback skittered in with a trolley laden with steaming pots, sweets, and a bowl of what looked to be almost-raw strings of meat.

He didn't stick around to serve it, and as the Lady rose and sauntered around the love seat toward the cart, Chase nodded to Branson, and went to join her.

Clarence always was a stickler about the undead, Lady Marks-Runcible said, pouring three cups of black, steaming liquid that smelled at least tea-like. He was of the opinion that the Necromancer corps was a step too far... though with the wars on, I did manage to persuade him that they were a necessary evil. We came to compromise by agreeing that they should end after the wars were won, of course.

Chase sipped her tea cautiously. It was strong, with a murky aftertaste that oddly turned sweet after a bit. Something like burnt molasses, she thought. The lady took a sip of her own cup, and Branson came over, picking his own up with two hands, wincing at the heat, and trying desperately to drink it without burning his mouth too badly.

When you had those discussions, did you know the Oblivion would end? Chase asked.

We had a suspicion that it would conveniently fall after the kingdom's politics were... settled, the Lady said. Either that or the crown would turn the full weight of the land's resources to fixing matters, if they were truly broken. So I would say that our original assessment turned out to be the correct one. We are encountering more nations, and open necromancy is going to be a problem. We rather caught a break with Belltollia; they're desperate enough with their own matters that they can't afford to be judgmental with ours. But they're beastkin; they have no stability and are ruled by chaos, it's just how they are. Tomorrow they could decide we're anathema, and then where would we be?

And that's not counting the larger nations beyond them, Chase said, sampling a biscuit and rolling her eyes in pleasure. Poppyseed, she thought, with some kind of fruit flavoring. It was very distinctive, and she took two more for later consumption.

Oh yes. Word will spread, said the Lady. There's no way it hasn't already. And here's the thing; legal necromancy is a faux pas, but forgivable with enough incentive and pragmatism. Monsters are not.

As she spoke, she lifted a long strand of the meat between her fingers, and tilted her head back, sliding it down her gullet, eye gazing down at Chase with all of the emotion of a shark on the hunt.

It took every bit of Chase's self-control to keep from flinching. She'd seen that meat before. She knew what it was now. She knew it had been part of a person, once.

And she knew if she let that register even the slightest bit in her expression, in her body language, in any part of her mind for too long, that she'd fail this monster's test.

Fortunately, she was very, very good at what she did.

WILL+1

You are absolutely correct! Chase said, nodding as the lady ate her grisly repast. When you get down to it, necromancy's a tool, like any magic. You can set laws on how to use it, and punish those who break them. But monsters are another thing entirely. Especially undead. If they rule you, who's to say they won't rule you forever? The dwarves have the right of it, there.

And instantly she knew she'd made a mistake. The lady's bloody fingers tightened, and she put her teacup down with a 'clack', as she looked down her nose at Chase.

The dwarves are the reason we're in this mess to begin with, Lady Marks-Runcible hissed. If they'd simply backed down after Taylor's Delve we would have had an end to the wars early! Now we've got simpering little dolls who don't even... the Lady grimaced and looked away. We would have had it wrapped up five years earlier. We had gathered the resources to dispose of the daemons. The Mad King would have followed shortly. We could have fixed it if those idiot little bearded busybodies had played ALONG.

Chase backed up, not bothering to hide her fear. This was bad, and the next few words would be crucial, and it was so hard to concentrate through her instincts which told her to run, run from the monster.

Any sane halven would have.

But...

Chase was an anomaly, she knew that. She, alone in her village, had desired adventure. And now here she was.

This was what she had wished for. This was what she had risked everything to gain.

And this was neither the first, nor the worst monster she'd ever been stuck dealing with.

Chase forced herself to move closer again. The Lady watched her come, her black pupils wide and dilated, so deep that Chase almost fancied she would fall into them. Bloody fingers twitched, stretched out as if to palm Chase's face, and tear it off...

...and Chase reached out, took a string of meat, and ate it before she could lose her nerve.

Congratulations! By knowingly devouring the flesh of a sentient being, you have unlocked the Actual Cannibal job!

You cannot become an Actual Cannibal at this time, all adventuring job slots are full!

Seek out your guild to forget an existing job!

The lady's mouth fell open into an 'O' of surprise.

The past is the past, and we can't undo it, Chase said, after she'd swallowed the last mouthful and prayed she could keep it down. But Mister Ruddimore sent us here to talk about the future. We want you to be a part of that, with us.

The Lady's smile was genuine, and as bloody as her fingers. You're partially right.

Oh? Chase got ready to run for her life.

I believe that Clarence sent you to talk about the future. But this young man here has more of an air of a gift. She turned her lazy gaze on Branson, hooding her eyes, and licking her lips. Perhaps we could... split him?

Branson swallowed hard, and a dumbstruck smile started to grow on his face.

Oh you damned idiot she's not talking about THAT, Chase thought, and dared to step forward and take the lady's hand in her own.

I'm afraid not. I need him. Like I said, we have several stops to make today, and we are expected...

The negotiations took some time, convincing her not to murder and eat Branson took even longer, and all through it Chase was fighting not only to keep the idiot farm boy alive, but also her own stomach.

Only when they were done and safely several blocks distant did she pull away from Branson and let her stomach go. The taste in her mouth was horrible, but getting that particular morsel of whoever it was out of her was worth the discomfort.

Are you okay? Branson asked, in that way that humans had that aggravated most other species of folk. If you'd just watched someone in distress, then clearly they WEREN'T okay!

It had taken Chase time and work to learn that the question they meant to ask in most occasions was something like Are you going to be fine, or do I have to do something to help you here?

So she said I'll be all right once we get back to headquarters. Don't worry about me.

Headquarters was a polite term for it. Headquarters in this case was the basement under a haberdashery in a mostly-empty part of Cylvania City. Once it had had streets full of shops with luxury goods to serve the nearby estates of the rich courtiers, but the move from a monarchy to a Republic had changed the dynamic so that most of the courtiers had moved on with their lives, and away from the district.

It did mean that there would be no help from the city guard or anyone else, really, at this hour of night. A fact which never escaped Chase every time she made her way down into the basement, descending those wobbly wooden steps to the repurposed storage space that now held a table, half a dozen chairs, and thankfully, a platter of breads, cheeses, and stew. To the side, a shop mannequin stood, silent and wooden, wearing loose clothes and a fancy hat. It was new, but hardly surprising. The store did do some business now and again.

At the bottom of the stairs two burly men sat on crates nearby, playing cards, their swords out of their scabbards and leaning against the wall. But they weren't the people to be concerned about at the moment. No, those two were front and center.

Mister Ruddimore Baron Clarence Ruddimore, sat at the end of the table. He was clinking his spoon in his bowl of stew, taking slow, deliberate bites before lifting his icy blue gaze to consider Chase.

Across the table from him, Greta ate slowly and methodically. Only when the Baron looked past her, did she turn and give Chase a nod, and a flickering series of winks in the code that they'd set before this whole con started. Chase acknowledged the motions, decoded them to get the gist that nothing major had happened, and returned her full attention to the man whom she'd just found out was a Baron.

She sends her regards... milord, Chase curtseyed.

The guards glanced over, and Ruddimore waved a gloved hand. Mister Ruddimore will do. May I assume that you were able to come to an agreement?

I did. Chase turned to look at the guards. But Ruddimore shook his head, and gestured at the farm boy.

Branson. Good work. Go check in with your mam.

Thank you sah. Been a pleasure, Branson muttered, bowed about five times, and fled for his life. Ruddimore intimidated him, and Chase didn't blame him one bit.

She'll support us with funding to begin with, and more vocal support once we get going, Chase said, once Branson was gone. She did ask for some strange things in return, I wasn't sure what to make of them but figured they weren't dealbreakers.

Such as?

Chase took a seat next to Greta, and a glass full of water to kill the bile taste in her mouth before she started in on dinner. She's heard rumors of a monster queen to the north, way to the north. She wants us to fund an expedition to find her once you're in charge. I wrote down the details, but it's a kind of horror I've never heard of before. A weredingo? Wardedghost? Gah, what's that word...

Wendigo, said the shop mannequin, turning to gaze at her with glass eyes.

Chase froze.

Next to her she heard Greta's spoon clatter to the floor. She turned to look at her sister, then both stared at the wooden man.

Ah yes, said Mister Ruddimore. Meet Daffodil Copperfield. He's from another group. We're coordinating for bigger and better efforts.

I... see... said Chase, looking him over from head to toe. It was a well-made body, with a flexible, smiling face and many joints visible in the hands, and the other uncovered parts of his wooden frame.

Yes, I'm a doll haunter. I hope that doesn't bother you? His teeth were white agains his oaken skin.

Chase took a breath. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little unnerved.

And she was, but not because he bothered her. She was put off because he'd surprised her.

He's loyal to the cause. And smart enough to know that he'll never hold power here, Ruddimore smiled. He knows his place. You may trust him.

Chase let her skepticism show in her body language, just a bit, and marked how Daffodil's glass eyes shifted in the light as she revealed a few tells. A pleasure to meet you, she finally said.

The bit with the wendigo queen won't be a problem, Daffodil said, glancing to Ruddimore. My friends in the east know exactly who she is and we've got a rough idea of where she can be found. If your budding cannibal wants to up her game, that's something we can follow through on in a year or so. If you want to hand her more power.

We'll make that decision after we've won, I think, Ruddimore said, then smiled at Chase. You've done well, and passed both tests.

Both tests? I figured you'd sent me in with bad information once the platter of human flesh came out, Chase said, frowning. So coming back with an agreement was one...

And you came back with Branson. Ruddimore smiled.

You knew she'd assume he was a gift.

And you talked the monster out of accepting it, Ruddimore's smile grew.

Chase paused. You were willing to sacrifice Branson.

A necessary one, I fear, if it came to it. He pledged his life to the cause, until our effort is done. And the riches that you have teased forth from Wendolyn have proven well worth the risk!

I see. Chase looked to Greta, who stared back, face solid. But to Chase, there were obvious signs of unease.

She was right to be disturbed. Greta had spent the day with a far deadlier monster than Chase.

Chase dug into the food, trying to banish the aftertaste of the unknown meat she'd consumed. And Ruddimore let her, merely pulling aside a chair for Copperfield, so the wooden man could sit down.

I'll leave you to him for now, the Baron said, as Chase looked up, startled. He's asked for you to move to his group. We've discussed matters, and I believe you could do more good with his people.

I... see. I thought I was doing some good for you and your team... Chase prevaricated, sneaking glances at the wooden man.

You have been, but with the manner of our operations from this point on, I believe your sister's assistance should be sufficient.

Chase froze.

She shot a look at Greta, and got a worried look back.

This wasn't part of the deal, she said. I don't want to leave my sister alone in a strange land.

And you won't, Daffodil said, drumming his fingers on the table, clacking them against the wood. You'll be able to visit her every other day or so. This is just temporary.

How temporary? Chase said, putting down her spoon and squinting at him.

Weeks, Daffodil said. We're almost ready to move. Can you stand to be away from her for a few days out of those, if it comes down to it?

This was it.

The wooden man, whoever he was, was clearly higher up than Ruddimore, and Ruddimore was pretty well placed.

This was too good an opportunity to pass up...

...but at the cost of letting them essentially hold her sister hostage in case she turned, and vice-versa.

A few weeks, Chase whispered, chewing her upper lip. I don't like it, but this is it, right? All we have to do is help you win, then we're done?

You'll have the gratitude of the rightful King, said Ruddimore. We'll send you back home with cartloads of riches, and a trade agreement for the lord or lady of your choice back there. What do you say?

What could she say? Ruddimore's offer told her that they'd bought the story she'd been quietly reinforcing since her infiltration here. That she wasn't actually in this for idealism, or out of goodwill, but that she was a fortune seeker, trying to get rich quickly.

So Chase smiled, and smiled big. What's a few weeks? Alright sir, you have yourself a deal.

And she shook the wooden man's hand, but she couldn't shake a feeling of foreboding that grew as she stared into those unblinking glass eyes.

Though things were playing out more or less as she'd hoped, she didn't feel at all in control of the situation...