Eberron: Requiem of Death

[DralonXitz]

Eberron: Requiem of Death

The moon shines bright over the Brelish metropolis of Sharn, the stars pulsating softly like a luminous spectrum of fireflies, dancing about an extravagant source of light. Although quieter than the main hours of Sharn, the city is still bustling with life, as people return from late hours of work, enjoy in the risque nightlife, and generally enjoy the relative peace of their wealthy nation.

Things however are not as peaceful and tranquil in all sections of the city. Within the wealthy district of Dragon Towers, the manors and palaces of esteemed Sharnian nobles echo with the sounds of opulent parties, balls, and heated discussions. Deeper within the lively neighborhood stands the palacial estate of Thara Tavin, with the mark of the notorious House Tarkanan mark emblazoned above the ebony entranceway.

Inside Tavin's mansion, the dim lights and somber attitude attribute to the illicit demeanor and occupation of it's owners, as faint whispers and relays are delivered between darkly-clad shades within in. Adorned with extravagant belongings alluding to the obvious windfall bequeathed to it's owners, the criminal den stands as the true archetype of the motto, “crime pays.”

Burrowed within the core of this criminal hive, sleeps the luxurious apartments of the Tarkanan authority, where esteemed Pugio's and other high-ranking blackguards reside during their off-time. At the end of a long, decrepit hallway sits a medium sized room, adorned with gold and black rugs, lamps, and rich leather furniture, emboldened with the counterfeit House's arms. Behind an enormous desk sits the personal receptionist of Cyrus Dormiano. Guarding the Pugio's black entranceway like a sentinel, the beautiful raven-haired woman slowly writes down some notes upon a roll of parchment, when a cloaked man enters from the back office and slowly whispers to her a message, her nodding in approval. Adjusting her glasses, she looks up at the four talented assassins sitting before her and softly utters, “Lord Dormiano shall receive you in a few minutes. Until then, I leave you to yourselves...”, and gently pleating out her scarlet dress, she glides over to the office, leaving the four blades to themselves for the time being.

 

[Paranoia833]

A changeling reclines across his pleasantly comfortable chair, legs vaulted over one of the armrests, head rested against the other in a position most undignified and out of place considering the immaculate glammerweave attire he is clothed in. He is in his natural form for once; pallid grey skin, course tangled hair, milky white eyes and all.

When the secretary speaks, he turns his head to face her in a slow, lazy motion and flashes her a disturbing grin, twisted by the scar across his top lip into something resembling a sneer.

Searching for something to occupy his time, he draws his knife from his sleeve. It appears in his hand so fast an inattentive observer might assume some kind of conjuration at work. The dagger in question is clearly well made though not particularly exceptional, local in make and recently forged. He plays with it absentmindedly swapping it from hand to hand, holding it up to the light for examination, running his finger slowly along the blade's edge and so on. Suddenly he speaks.

"You know, I was told House Tarkanan was a small outfit of thieves and assassins. Evidently they've gone up in the world... either that or someone has a most hurtful sense of humour." The comment was not aimed at anyone in particular, and the changeling doesn't seem particularly bothered if he gets a reply or not. He just continues to sit there playing with his knife.

 

[Hanuman47]

Avram leans against one wall, hidden within a charcoal gray cloak. From time to time his face is briefly illuminated in the ruddy glow of a dreamlilly-dusted cigarette. The scented smoke hangs in the air around him as he regards the receptionist with an appreciative eye. "I don't suppose your employer would favor us with a drink to pass the time, would he, doll?" There is the slight nasal twang of a rural Aundairan in his voice.

Careful, don't overdo it. Avram looks at the others, sizing them up, especially the changelings. I didn't know this was going to be a team effort. He resists the urge to scratch underneath his sandy colored wig or check that the spirit gum is still holding his moustache in place. This had certainly better be worth it.

He shifts his gaze away when the first changeling speaks. Avram exhales another lungful of smoke and watches it swirl in the lamplight. He makes no comment in reply. Best not to give too much away at this point.

 

[dave_o]

The third sits with hands folded, dressed in a well-cut longtail jacket colored in shifting Glamerweave reds. His face is restless, involuntary -- one moment the softly angled lines of a handsome young noble, another the weeping sores and dead eyes of a leper. He makes the slow turn of a pit viper toward the other changeling in the room, the longsword belted at hip settling into the leather with a creak.

"I'm not quite sure whether to be impressed or insulted."

Nix smiles, both faces sharing the grin -- the noble with laughing eyes, the leper painfully. His gaze drifts back to the fading skirts of Lord Dormiano's assistant. "Perhaps she could tell me?"

 

[Autumn]

Jale sits back casually in his chair, legs crossed. The elevated foot twitches rhythmically, marking the passing seconds. That aside, he is a perfect picture of relaxed patience. His rapier lies across his lap, his elegant hands resting unmoving on its ornate sheathe. Green eyes survey his companions coolly, giving away nothing of the thoughts behind them.

He gives every sign of being happy to wait, silent and unmoving, for the rest of the night if need be. In actual fact he's impatient to find out just what proposition Tarkanan has for him, and is rapidly growing rather tired of this whole performance - leaving them waiting alone in this opulent waiting room is surely a calculated move.

He's not impressed. He's also determined not to be baited into showing his hand - to his prospective employer, or for that matter to his fellows. And so he continues to wait, motionless but for the incessant rhythm of his foot and uttering no response to the laconic comments passed by the others.

 

[Hanuman47]

OOC: Let the contest of Cool begin! May the suavest man win!

 

[Paranoia833]

The changeling splayed out over the chair spends a few seconds joining his comrades in silence, before seemingly growing bored. The knife vanishes from his hands. 'The silent treatment eh? How... professional. Still if our employer wants to see us squirm I may as well give him a show.'

The first changeling sits up, a deliberately slow and relaxed process, the stretching and yawning exaggerated to almost comic effect. After a few seconds of this he seems to tire of the charade and springs up from the chair onto his feet. He turns to face the second changeling.

'Seems as good a place as any to start.'

“I’d recommend being impressed. That way everyone is happy and we are all saved the consequences of any rash actions that may result.” He saunters over to where the other changeling is standing and leans forward to examine his constantly shifting form. “Impressive shaping… better than mine to be honest, though I can't help but note you seem a little indecisive. Local boy? Or possibly girl? I remember once meeting a very curious young lady like that actually, only ever took the shapes of men and boys, wasn’t particularly tomboyish or anything, just had some kind of obsession over it. Teenagers eh? Anyway where was I? Oh yes, introductions.” He steps back, turns to address the others.

“To be honest it’s been a while since I bothered with names, but if we’re going to be working together it would probably be best to have some form of address. I believe my people introduced me to my employer as ‘Melchior’ though to be honest the name holds little interest for me. If you can think up a better one do let me know.”

 

[DralonXitz]

With the stagnant odor of forced toleration and boredom permeating the quaint chamber, the rich door finally opens, releasing into the room what feels like an evanescent revolution of activity, releasing them from this enslaved state of cooperative respect. Gently brushing her raven hair out from her azure eyes and with a stare that seems to consume and imprison lesser men, she seems to seductively tease each of the men with a hint of sensuality, mockery, and some unknown emotion behind as she, in her gentle octave beckons, "Come inside, Lord Dormiano awaits you."

As the vixen steps aside, she beckons the heroes inside to a very small, midnight-black chamber, adorned with glowing blue crystal lines and facets across the walls. The furniture is evidently grotesquely expensive, emblazoned with magical glowing runes of House Tarkanan, pulsating a soft shade of sky. Behind an obsidian desk, sitting in a deep black leather chair is a truly imposing figure, over six feet in height, clad in long, flowing black robes, the glowing crest of Tarkanan emblazoned red on the center of his torso. Long, silver hair flows from his shoulders behind his back, his left eye shining an opulent crimson, almost to a surreal degree. A long, black gash, stretching from his left eye downward towards his mouth compliments his noxious disposition, as he slowly rubs his long, white fingers across one another, looking straight at the entering heroes. With a mixture of annoyance, anger, and in some small sense, relief, he takes account of each assassin, mentally ascribing their appearances into his vast array of knowledge.

Slowly waving his left hand to four chairs in front of him, the receptionist closes the door behind them, and the small amount of light escaping from the lobby retreats to the black abyss of the Pugio's chamber. As the heroes take their seats, he brushes his hair back and slowly begins to speak.

"Greetings...welcome...whatever customary greeting you all feel entitled to, within my house." Slightly smiling, he coldly glares at Avram, fully aware of the youth's arrogant demeanor, and utters, "While for some of you, such an austere reception must surely be very bovine and simple, I would trust that my House has been able to provide some sense of amenities and welcome to our potential...assistants". Filled with a sense of personal victory, as if his words had just smote the brash assassin's attitude to mere particles, he continued.

"I must thank you for making the trip all the way out here to Middle Central. I realize you all may have had truly pressing matters at hand, however, I can assure you, your reputations proceeded you, and should you accomplish what I desire, the reward shall be indeed worth it." Sliding his right appendage to the side of his table, he slowly grasps a small portrait with his fingers and slides it in front of the blades, as he says, "Enough trivialities. This is the man, Tyrax Dekoron, the epitome of despicable capitalistic righteousness and hypocracy. A truly abominatable individual who is capable of reproving all entities of so called "organized crime", and debasing my associates to the likes of mere blackguards and sneak-thieves, while at the same time, extorting millions out of Sharn's residents in taxes, interest, and other legal "fees." Glaring at the portrait with a sickening stare, he spits at it and coldly utters, "In my opinion, they are the most organized crime in our land."

"Yet, personal vindiction aside, the man must die. However, he is by far too high ranking of an individual to simply be dispatched by your likes, such a blatant attack upon Kundarak would result in the King coming down upon our House, which is something I cannot allow. It is for this reason you were hired."

Pulling out a small envelope, he unsheathes four sets of Identification Papers, sliding one to each assassin as he explains, "You shall all undertake new identities, as aristocratic financial associates of Kundarak in Upper Central to partake in the hedonistic lifestyle of the Dwarves. Your names are your own, as to these men, you are unknown, mere shadows within the abyss. However, you must remember, your past histories are no more."

"The four of you are the chairs of a corporation in Aundair, a wine conglomerate based in Fairhaven. While bankers by day, the dwarves are vigorous consumers of spirits at night, and know the personal gain to be made through wise investing, better than anyone perhaps. You will court their nobles, associate, mingle, and become intertwined with them, weaving your web of deception and despair into the hearts of the greedy. And finally..." he says, taking a sigh of relief in, "when all is ready, you shall strike, hard, pure, and fierce. You shall ensure his death in a way as to incriminate his own House, and cause the greatest catastrophe for their House in ages. Aside from a residence and some minor aid I can provide, I leave the rest to you." Reclining back after his long monologue, he simply asks, "Questions?"

 

[Autumn]

Jale uncrosses his legs and stands up in one smooth motion, reattaching his scabbard to his belt. He licks his lips ever so slightly, eyes fixed upon Dormiano's... secretary. Or whatever he chooses to call her. He inclines his head respectfully as he passes on his way into the Pugio's office, his eyes never leaving her.

Position in Tarkanan certainly does seem to have its perks... he muses silently to himself, a trace of a smile coming to his thin lips.

He sits down in the leftmost of the offered chairs, perfectly at his ease but not so relaxed as to be improper for a business meeting. After all, for all the ridiculous airs and graces that this pompous blowhard might choose to give himself - that's what this is. A business meeting. Jale pays little mind to the rather singular decor. Such eccentricities can be tolerated where large sums of money are involved.

"Greetings...welcome...whatever customary greeting you all feel entitled to, within my house." Slightly smiling, he coldly glares at Avram, fully aware of the youth's arrogant demeanor, and utters, "While for some of you, such an austere reception must surely be very bovine and simple, I would trust that my House has been able to provide some sense of amenities and welcome to our potential...assistants". Filled with a sense of personal victory, as if his words had just smote the brash assassin's attitude to mere particles, he continued.

Austere? Jale wonders with a mental smirk. Is that how he chooses to think of all this childishness?

Still, despite his initial contempt for this man, Jale can't help but find himself growing more and more interested as he goes into the details of the job. It sounds like this might be quite a challenge. Unbidden, his brain is already engaging with the difficulties entailed and turning them over.

"Very well," he cuts in as soon as the Pugio has finished speaking, his voice soft but forceful. "Speaking for myself, you've certainly piqued my interest. All that remains is to satisfy my mercenary instincts. Just how much money are you prepared to throw at this problem?"

One thin eyebrow is raised as he impassively awaits the reply.

 

[Hanuman47]

Avram Soloman

Backtracking just a bit...
Without shifting his position to betray his interest, Avram intently watches the changelings. I suppose it would be too much to hope for for one of them to knife the other. Not so soon, anyway...

Avram puts his cigarette out on his boot then pushes away from the wall to walk over to Melchior. "Names, is it guv'nor? You can call me Antonio - Antonio Sebastian." He extends a carefully gloved hand.

He appraises Jale for a moment. "What about you, mate? You a face-changer too?"

Returning to the present...
Far from being angered by Dormiano's rudeness, Avram is elated. Bullys are always the easiest people to push around... He considers the offer carefully, brushing aside the Pugio's rant about crime and capitalists. It's all just rationalizations. But this has the makings of quite an interesting game. What a role to play... Avram is a bit worried about being out of the public eye for so long, but he's certain he can come up with a suitably salacious scandal to keep tongues wagging.

Keeping up his nonchalant front he replies. "Sounds like a laugh. But, like my mate here, I want to know about the coingage as well. And do you have a way to establish our bonafides with the Kundarak blokes, or is that up to us?"