Masked Encounters [Slaine]

[Corr Blackbeam]

The Veiled Visage was busy tonight.

Corr could tell even from his shadowed alcove across the street that the establishment was nearly full to the brim. Laughter and the clinking of glasses wafted out of open windows, elegant figures milled on the ivy-choked balconies, and a queue had begun to form at the door, where two very tall bouncers (Corr suspected they might be Kerasoka) stood to attention, their bare arms folded.

He fingered the odd-shaped item in his cloak pocket and appraised the building, more than a little irritated that his latest job had brought him here.

The Veiled Visage was a bar and guesthouse, but it certainly wasn’t run-of-the-mill. For one thing, it catered almost exclusively to the upper crust of Fellsgard society. Nobles, merchants and traders, governors and other members of the five houses of the Lineage… ‘Ordinary’ folk rarely found themselves crossing the threshold of this particular locale. The entry fee alone was enough to put most of the riff-raff off.

For another thing – and this was what had Corr fiddling apprehensively with the unfamiliar concoction of fabric, wire and beading in his pocket – the Veiled Visage only let in patrons who were masked.

It was stupid, really, Corr thought as he lounged in the shadows, narrowed eyes surveying the preening figures in masks in the queue. The Visage marketed itself as a place the wealthy and well-known could ‘disappear’ for an evening. Where they could talk business (or pleasure) in private, knowing their normally-recognisable features were hidden. As a result, a sort of enigmatic prestige had attached itself to the establishment, and it had become a highly fashionable place to spend time. Corr hardly knew why, given no one could exactly ‘see and be seen’ there. In his opinion, it was frivolous and inane. Another excuse for the privileged to show off and conduct their dirty dealings on the sly…

It was surprising, he mused as he shifted position, that his line of work had never led him to the Visage before. But now here he was, on a job for a rich merchant’s wife who suspected her husband of infidelity. Corr had been following the man for three days now, and was thoroughly sick of the sight of him. But he wanted his bag of gold, and he’d known as soon as the merchant slipped his carriage driver a few coins and mouthed, ‘The Visage, tonight’, that this was it. This was where he would finally snare him.

Lovers always exchanged secret tokens of some sort, whether hastily scrawled love letters or miniature portraits concealed within lockets. Even a monogrammed handkerchief would do, Corr thought. He just needed something his client could confront her husband with; something that would elicit a confession... that would be enough to earn him his due.

With that thought, he decided he had loitered long enough, and finally donned the mask (which was black and rather raven-like), tugging it down over his eyes. He shouldered off his cloak, under which he was wearing a set of dark, finely-cut clothes procured with a five-finger discount from an obliging tailor’s en route, and left it bundled in the shadows as he drew himself up, strode across the cobblestones and joined the back of the queue that now snaked down the street from the Visage’s entrance.

The queue moved slowly, and Corr found himself tapping one black, leather boot on the ground as he waited his turn. When he finally reached the door, he produced a handful of coins from his tunic (he’d insisted the merchant’s wife cover the cost of his entry – his contracts often specified that any unforeseen expenses be paid) and smiled pleasantly up at the nearest bouncer.

The Elf, who was indeed a Kerasoka, frowned down at the coins and gave Corr a suspicious look. “It’s guestlist only tonight,” he growled. “You’d know that if you were a regular. Entry fees are pre-paid. If you’re not on the list, you’re not getting in.”

A number of choice swearwords ran rapidly through Corr’s head. He tried not to let his surprise and annoyance show – which was far easier than it would have been had his face not been mostly masked.

“Oh – oh yes, my apologies,” he said, pitching his voice a little higher than its natural tone. “Force of habit, you know?” He laughed. “The name’s, uh… Radothar.”

It was a colossal gamble. Colossal. Renwick Radothar was a wealthy dandy whom Corr had spied on as part of a previous job. The young man had black hair – though that was pretty much where the similarities ended – and was a frequent patron of trendy establishments just like this. While Corr had been following him, the man had spent almost every night at some bar or other, playing cards, courting noblemen’s daughters, getting drunk and challenging other dandies to duels. Corr just had to hope his former mark had fancied an evening at the Visage tonight…

But it wasn’t to be, it seemed.

After squinting down at his list for a moment, the bouncer gave a low, "Hmph", and peered back up at Corr. “What’s your game? There’s no ‘Radothar’ written here.” The tall Elf stepped towards him threateningly. “That your real name?”

“Of course it is,” Corr said, stepping nimbly aside and attempting to sound outraged. He was grateful – so grateful – for the mask. “I’m sorry, I must have forgotten to write ahead, after all. My mistake.” And he turned and walked quickly away, feeling the bouncer’s gaze burning into his back.

Once he was around the corner of the building and out of sight, Corr slunk along the Visage’s outer wall in darkness, looking for an open window or a likely-looking staff door. He was in a mostly-deserted alley now, and the murmuring and clink of glasses sounded incongruous in such surroundings. He passed a few discarded masks lying forlornly in the gutter.

Before long, he came across a narrow rear entrance. The wooden door had a surprisingly flimsy lock for such a well-to-do establishment. Still wearing his mask, he pulled a lockpick from within his sleeve and began to move it carefully around inside the keyhole.

He hadn’t really wanted to do it this way – the risks associated with getting caught were high, with all these lords and ladies (and towering bouncers) about. But he had to admit, this was his natural environment – he felt far more comfortable picking a lock than sweet-talking his way in the front entrance…

[Slaine]

It was her last night night in Fellsgrad - that was what she told herself, anyway. With her errands all squared away save the purchase of a mount , Slaine would soon be on the road, headed down the winding paths of exploration, discovery, and adventure.

Despite having lived in Fellsgrad her entire life, she knew little about it, but was certainly doing better than she had first leaving her childhood home. She navigated roughly by the three beacons of the city, using their jutting structures in the distance as a landmark by which she kept note of her progress and location. While it might have been simpler to buy a map, such things were not readily available, especially not after dark, leaving her to wander the streets by educated guesses alone, lingering inconspicuously near groups and in visible, but generally unseen places along the road, many far too distracted by their evening conversation to so much as worry about the woman or her magnificent hat.

It was by lurking and dropping some eaves that she first learned of Veiled Visage, remembering vaguely that Nigel has often gone to such a place to meet with friends, the sort that sometimes sent him home with cash, sometimes sent him home with the compulsion to corrupt his service preserving the public safety. She had never learned much from her studies and though prone to rebellion had never attempted to buck his dire warning that it was not a place for little girls, and it especially was not a place for her. Nigel was no longer alive, and she was no longer a little girl. Scrawny, short, and inexperienced, maybe, but she was grown and capable enough of making her own decisions if she so decided to take the liberty.

So she asked, and dressed nicely enough to be pointed in the right direction, cheerfully thanking those that helped her along. She wore a white blouse, billowing and ruffled at the neck, tucked into high-waisted slacks fastened with two rows of silver buttons and piped with yellow silk, the full legs tucked into knee-high boots. A dark short cape wrapped around her left shoulder, the interior lined with yellow silk, a ribbon fastening it below her right arm, the effect of the outfit bringing her closer to dashing dandy than heroic adventurer, especially with that hat concealing her disappointment when she found herself faced with a heavily guarded entrance and two frighteningly tall men that gave her little in he way of acknowledgement, looking neither like she belong nor that she was entirely out of place.

Rather than try her luck, she continued. Without a mask there was no getting in anyway, though she had seen a few discarded along the way, just none she had liked enough to put to her face, not really wanting to know where they had been or who they had been on before being left on the ground. She had nearly passed the alley when she spotted a dark shadow lurking, turning ahead of her and vanishing again in the depths of the shadows. Softening her steps she crept after him, focusing on remaining as silent as possible as she looked him over, inspecting the service door from behind a corner..

A blank white half- mask in the shape of a human face peered up at her from the brush and with a bit of dusting off and careful polishing she had made the piece of leather look rather agreeable, tucking the brim of the hat under her arm as she fixed it over her own face and then neatly squared herself up for her grand entrance - the fellow was nicely dressed and masked himself, perhaps merely having stepped outside to meet someone. Presumed merry and drunk, she hopes him helpful and devoid of questions as well, approaching the stranger with a tearful sounding sob, her fingers brushing the molded nose of her mask. "I'm so sorry - can you help me? I arrived a g-guest of Roderick - you know Roderick, don't you?" Weeping restlessly behind her mask she sniffled. "But when I stepped out, the guard wouldn't let me in again - my things are in there, my Roderick-" she broke off, quietly crying, her chin tucked to her chest and the wide brim of her black hat casting deep shadows.

[Corr Blackbeam]

Corr heard (and felt) the familiar, faint click that meant the lockpick had done its job, just as a far less familiar voice sounded directly behind him.

He had been so focused on his delicate task that he had failed to keep an ear pricked for any footsteps approaching. As a result, he nearly jumped out of his skin as he heard the feminine tone, and with a panicked lurch in his chest he slipped the pick out of the lock and tucked it surreptitiously up his sleeve, hoping his body had shielded his shady method of entry.

Turning, he stared through the dark eyeholes of his mask at the diminutive – and rather bizarrely dressed – figure that stood before him. It was a woman. That much was obvious even though her face was covered by her own white half-mask. He thought she might be slightly Fae, too, if the height and pointed ears were anything to go by.

Corr relaxed slightly, but didn’t totally drop his guard. This odd stranger might still be an important noble who could report him rapidly to the bouncers should he arouse suspicion or make the wrong move…

He took a second or two to study her outfit – the ballooning breeches in particular catching his eye – before taking in what she’d said.
She was crying – he could hear it in her voice, even if he couldn’t see her face; though when he looked at her eyes, expecting to see bright tears there, she tipped her head down and tucked her chin to her chest, and her expansive hat cast her face into shadow.

Corr reached up and adjusted his mask slightly – a little nervously, if he was being honest. Then, as he’d done so many times in the past to get out of scrapes and unsavoury situations, he slipped into the character of a dandyish nobleman, hiding his natural, street-roughened accent behind an aristocratic veneer.

“Uh… Roderick? Why yes, of course,” he said pleasantly, flashing her what he hoped was a polite smile from beneath his mask. “Do not fear – I found this door ajar and can escort you back inside, if you like. You’ll be back with Roderick in no time.”

He held out a hand as the door, now unlocked, creaked open slightly in the breeze.

“I myself have just arrived, but through some error my name appears to have been scrubbed from the guestlist.” He gave a little, scoffing laugh. “Their mistake, of course. I most definitely wrote ahead.”

From the flickering shadows through the open door, there was the sound of voices and the loud clink of glass. The air wafting out smelled of herbs and alcohol – perhaps this entryway led to the storage rooms behind the Visage’s bar.

“Shall we?” Corr said, indicating the door. He stepped back to allow her to go ahead of him, like a well-trained nobleman would. But his mind was running a mile a minute. Just get inside, he thought, ditch the lady, and find the mark. Then you can blend into the shadows – no one else need ever know you were here…

[Slaine]

Slaine wasn't entirely certain what she had seen, but whether it was something about his vibe or maybe just her own self-indulgent streak of misanthropic mischief, she didn't feel all that bad about using him to get inside. As soon as he had accepted her story about Roderick, she found it difficult indeed to believe the door had simply been left ajar, thinking sad thoughts to get those extra weepy brownie points in and suppress a bemused smirk dripping with doubt.

With both hands and the yellow silk lining a corner of the half-cape she lifted the mask behind the cover of the hat brim, wiping her face drier as a hopeful lilt entered her sniffles. "You know him! Oh, I should have assumed as much, everyone knows Roderick." Everyone might have known Roderick, but she certainly didn't. She looked toward the door, then to her "savior" again, standing there slightly overlong as she considered his story for a few agonizingly long seconds before nodding agreeably to his lie. "They do that all the time, and those goons at the door-" She rolled her eyes with a sigh of contempt at the mention of them. Sniffing again for good measure Slaine straightened the cape, carefully skewing the hat as she sized up the doorway. "We shall," the mage chirped softly as she stepped ahead of him, perhaps a bit too enthusiastic, a bit too eager to put her grand scheme of shirking Nigel's most basic plea for common sense. Don't go places you don't belong.

The facade of distressed damsel dropped as soon as she stepped inside, glancing over her shoulder with an impish grin as within the dark she fixed the skew of her hat. Despite being so tiny she took up an awful lot of space when she wanted to and was now bodily blocking him by standing in the center of the hallway several paces away from the door between two bins and a rack of brooms and mops, some still damp or dripping. He had offered to escort her inside, after all. What she hoped to pass as a nervous giggle broke from her lips as she looked about the dim surroundings, carefully skirting a bucket of opaque gray water as she moved forward no longer blocking the bottleneck of poor space management as she approached the first bend in the walkway, entranced by the siren call of light and sound and chaos. "Oooohhh, are we going through the kitchens? My father would pocket the samples and bring-" She stiffened, realizing what she was saying as excitement got the better of her, a familiar and appetizing waft of food coming from somewhere down the hallway beyond a well lit fork in the road. A tingle of embarrassment made her visibly wither, shrinking against the wall as she grew stubbornly silent. The point was, as an audible growl issued from her stomach so politely made, she was starving at the mere thought of it - that food had been exceptional!

[Corr Blackbeam]

The mysterious woman appeared to perk up remarkably quickly, Corr noticed, once a means of getting back inside the Visage had been assured. He had expected more hesitation – some qualms or misgivings about scurrying in a back entrance, or at least another question or two – from a well-to-do lady such as this. But she merely considered him for a few drawn-out seconds before accepting his hastily-offered explanation.

Adjusting her oversized hat, which still served to conceal her features slightly in the evening gloom, she stepped ahead of him and entered the building with a swish of her cloak, leaving Corr to bring up the rear. He was careful to glance left and right before following, to ensure no one saw them slip inside. And he pulled the door carefully closed behind him, but left it unlocked, lest he find himself in need of quick escape route later… (one could never be too careful, in his line of work).

Stepping forward further and turning his head at the same time, he almost tripped over the figure of the woman, who had planted herself resolutely in the centre of the shadowy corridor they now found themselves in. Between buckets, mops and brooms, and the wide reach of those puffy pantaloons, he was unable to get by, and so he dithered behind her, peering up the corridor to try to see what lay beyond.

As she moved forward, Corr caught the tantalising scent of expensive foods drifting down the hallway. The woman ahead of him had clearly smelt it too, as she began to say something, then cut off abruptly and shrank against the wall.

Corr looked at her curiously from behind his mask as he sidled slowly past.

It was no surprise that a high-born lady’s father would be a regular at the Veiled Visage. But the way she’d said it… it almost made him think she hadn’t been here before, despite her story. Not to mention her sudden excitement on gaining access to the building, and the odd disappearance of those tears (if they had, indeed, been real)…

“Your father?” he said lightly, keeping his voice down as he ventured past a brightly-lit fork in the hall. “Anyone I’d know?” He kept the aristocratic lilt in his tone.

Stopping at an open doorway, Corr glanced in and smirked slightly as he heard the woman’s stomach rumble. Beyond, there did indeed appear to be kitchens – this one was warm and smoky, with several large pots bubbling away on a giant stove, bunches of fragrant herbs hanging from the ceiling, and a number of harried-looking cooks chopping various ingredients of every type: meats, cheeses, breads and vegetables; pies and cakes; fruits and garnishes…

Corr lingered, quite hungry himself now, and wondered how easy it would be to sneak through unseen – the chefs did look very intent on their work.

But at that moment, another door nearby swung open and a large, red-faced woman in a grubby apron came out, carrying a keg of what Corr guessed was ale under one of her stubby arms.

She saw them immediately, and Corr snapped to attention, smoothing the front of his smart clothes, his eyes widening behind his mask.

“Oi!” cried the woman, her face somehow turning even redder – whether in anger or mortification, Corr couldn’t tell. She was holding a wooden spoon in her free hand, and she raised it and shook it at them for emphasis. “How many times do I need to turf you people out of here? No liaisons in the staff areas! There’s rooms for that upstairs!”

She gestured roughly at the open doorway. “Out. Out!”

Muttering a series of apologies, Corr backed into the kitchen, turned, and hurried through them to the opposite end, assuming (since they had been shooed that way) that it led out into the Veiled Visage’s bar area. As he went, he reached out – quick as a flash – and pilfered a small tart encased in buttery pastry.

[Slaine]

"Hey watch it!" Slaine hissed, proving she could make a very convincing housecat as, despite having placed herself underfoot his nearly stepping on her. It hardly slowed her down, however. "Oh, my father - maybe - he was gu... ard... bodyguard. He, uhm, died, recently." The explanation came distracted and awkward, and no where near the level of distraught that the loss of her fabled Roderick had been. Truth be told, she didn't want to talk about it. Nigel had served as a guard and retired with honors. It wouldn't do to be spreading his name here. He had been respectable for his morals and iconic for his height nearly a half a century prior during the height of his career as a guard and was unlikely to be remembered, his death nearly a quarter of a century ago. She might have had some misgivings about his parenting capabilities, but Slaine still deeply loved and respected her father.

Luckily, cook spared her from having to explain any further, a blush rising to her cheeks beneath the white half-mask as her jaw dropped with shock at the suggestion that she would be liaisoning with him. A small hand fluttered to her chest as she looked between the two of them, wanting very badly to defend herself but finding that it might have better suited her to simply roll with it, though by the time she had come to this conclusion, Corr was leaving, hurriedly cutting through the kitchen.

Slaine put aside her ego for the moment, starting after the stranger with a huff of indignation. Liaison. Huh! How dare she! How rude! "Hey!" She called after him in a whisper-shout, loud enough to be heard over the din of chaos as she skidded after him, eyes narrowing as she watched what she was fairly positive was an act of thievery. Rather than stop him, however, she instead tried to mimic, snatching a tart and stuffing it into the billowing fabric of her pants, presumably into a pocket. "Hey," she called again, catching up to him as the doorway opened into a cool dark hallway running behind the bar area, a welcome respite from the steamy heat of the kitchens. As she caught up to him, she reached for his arm. "Don't get any ideas-" the woman whispered near his shoulder, glaring up at him menacingly only to break into a convincingly pleasant smile as a well-dressed server rounded the corner.

She looked them over with uncertainty, ducking into the kitchen and to turning to a nearby prep table, gesturing toward the door. There was no time to scold this poor man for unintentionally being implicated in pursing intimacies with her as she did not care to be carted out so soon. "We'll talk about it later, we shouldn't stand here. Do you want to get a drink? Blend in?" She wiggled her fingers in the direction of the main room, anxiously checking over her shoulder at the door, ears twitching as she swore she heard the furious bellow of woman that had shooed them out from the back of the kitchen indignant at their audacity to not move faster. "They're still there?

[Corr Blackbeam]

The air in the busy kitchen was stuffy, and as Corr neared the far end of the room he felt himself begin to sweat beneath his starched and tailored outfit. How the well-to-do of Fellsgard managed to spend all day in these get-ups – especially in the summer – he had no idea. Even his face was sweating behind this blasted mask… but at least it ensured he couldn’t possibly be recognised.

Turning as he reached the door, he watched the part-Fae woman begin to follow. Her description of her father had been rushed and a little garbled, and it only added to Corr’s unvoiced suspicion that she was no ordinary noble… Part of him wanted to probe her further – there was something intriguing about this diminutive figure, dressed up to the nines and perfectly eager to sneak in with a stranger through a servants’ entrance. That said, he thought, she did look rather outraged at the red-faced cook’s suggestion of a liaison. Her own cheeks had reddened and she called after him indignantly, following him through the kitchen and only pausing to snatch up a tart like he had, which she concealed somewhere in her voluminous garments. Behind his mask, Corr raised an eyebrow. Definitely not an ordinary noble...

It wasn’t long before she joined him at the kitchen’s exit, where they looked out into a shadowed hallway behind the Visage’s bar. Corr glanced down as the woman placed a hand on his arm and bade him not to get any ideas. Her voice was pitched at a whisper, but her gaze held menace, and this time Corr raised both his eyebrows. He was about to reply when a server appeared, and the Fae woman broke into an agreeable smile. Corr did the same, nodding slightly in greeting and realising that, with her hand on his arm, they probably looked even more like the liaising type than they had done before. His companion slipped back into the kitchen out of sight, and Corr followed, ducking his head to keep his voice from carrying.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, “I’m not here to liaise with anyone. But that actually worked in our favour, you know. At least she thought we'd come from inside..."

He trailed off as the woman suggested they move – get a drink and try to blend in somewhere. Corr paused a moment, thinking quickly. It would be sensible to try to lose her in the crowds near the bar as soon as he could manage. Once he had located his mark, perhaps he could find somewhere to transform; hide under a chair or table to eavesdrop and snatch what evidence he came across when he could. But the woman’s implication that they stay together could potentially work in his favour, too. A lone, unoccupied man in dark clothing hanging around a rich merchant was liable to attract more suspicious glances than one who was simply seeking a shadowed corner to have a private conversation with a lady. That was what the Visage was all about, in any case...

And besides, he thought, he was rather unlikely to find anywhere in this place deserted enough for one of his drawn-out, ugly transformations… Nearly shuddering at the thought of someone walking in on him half-shifted, he nodded to his companion just as a faint, outraged shout issued from behind them in the kitchen: “They’re still there?”

Corr glanced back wild-eyed, then beckoned the Fae woman to follow as he hastily darted out and down the hallway beyond.

“Quick,” he said, “before she comes looking... and before she realises those tarts are missing, too.”

Despite himself, he grinned at the thought as he made his way to a point where the hall granted access to the Visage’s bar area. If they slipped out together, it would look like they’d simply been liaising – the perfect cover, he was beginning to realise. The room with the bar – one of several interconnected parlours that made up the Visage’s ground floor – was opulent and luxurious, with carved, wood-panelled walls, beams criss-crossing the ceiling, and elegant seats dotted all around. Crowds of patrons in the latest fashions, all with masks adorning their faces, milled and lounged around the room, sipping brightly-coloured drinks and laughing.

“A drink sounds good,” Corr said, glancing back. He paused, surveying his companion in the orange-gold light from the lamps. “What’s your name, anyway?”

Too late, he realised suddenly that he had completely failed to keep up his accent. In his hurry to get out of the cook’s firing line, he’d let his voice slip back into its natural lilt – with all the lowborn inflections that belied his aristocratic appearance. Clearing his throat, he tried to cover it up. “Allow me to buy you a drink – whatever you like. I hear the wine is very good here. And then, perhaps, I’ll help you find Roderick?”