#settlement.post

Not all of which he'd allowed, a few had taken their leave over it — something he didn't particularly mind. No need to conform to rules they couldn't abide by nor would he put the comfort or safety of his own crew in jeopardy over a single entity.

As of that morning he'd put his mind to those who'd figured they could lose themselves into the crowd, dissolve without ever being known or simply those used to a different type of settlement. It didn't matter, he'd learn each individual by face, name and capabilities eventually and he would seek them out if they wouldn't come before him.

It's one such individual that had brought him before one of the tents. Jangles enters without much ceremony, the flap of fabric thrust to the side as he steps inside.

There is a lantern mere inches from his face that makes him recoil briefly, an unnatural greenish light twirls almost invisibly behind the foggy glass. One of his metal fingers taps against the crystal, the light flares. Deep-set eyes narrow before he ducks under it, continuing his way towards the counter.

There doesn't seem to be a salesman, either hidden behind wares, some other compartment of the tent or simply just out of his line of sight.

[Jangles] Y'surely got wares.

Bolframmon appears from out the corner of the tent, his gear and collection scattered about the place and certain spells and barriers have not been set up, bar the dangling lantern of an unusual flame you could be convinced it is just another tent. He is surprised to have a visitor so soon as he has not even put up a sign saying what this place is. He studies the man briefly, clearly seeing from his attire he’s a Dreglander and must be one of the few running this new town. Either that or he’s just a really nosey one who came to see what was about.

[Bolframmon] *he coughs to announce his presence before approaching* I do indeed have wares, sir! Although I must apologise for the state of the place, I was not expecting customer or company anytime soon.

The sound catches Jangles' attention, he turns from the multitude of odd looking wares over to the owner of the place. The Dreglander doesn't hide his brief inspection, his eyes flicking from head to toes and back. He cocks his head briefly, his brow raises just enough to light up his eyes by the reflection of the flame, they flick over to the rest of the tent, his mouth purses slightly making a 'not-bad'-expression.

[Jangles] Tidiness ain't a thing y'gotta fear with me about. Y'do yer business as y'see it.

He steps away from the counter, turning more towards Bolframmon, the glint of the lantern showing his shabby outfit consisting out of a sleeveless vest and a pair of slacks. They might be a desert-camo, though it's difficult to determine whether the plethora of stains is a design choice or the result of wear-and-tear.

[Jangles] It's Jangles, by the way. Ain't here for y'wares. Got nothin' missin' from m'life. Nothing that y'can find in a random tent anyway. Real reason I'm here's t'see if y'got anything missin' on yer own end. Is my job t'see everyone happy an' dandy an' fantastic. Ain't gonna have a sit down and a sob, tho. Just lookin' t'see if yer needin' a supply-a-power or water, really.

Bolf’s faced changes to a surprised expression at Jangles’ offer, he wasn’t too sure what to expect here but the offer of help certainly wasn’t on that list. He smiles as he extends his hand towards Jangles.

[Bolframmon] A pleasure to meet you Jangles, my name is Bolframmon. I appreciate the offer for power and water, but I will be quite fine, I’ve come prepared already. *He looks about his tent again.* Although once this mess is organised and the rest of the tent is set up, I think a drink might be desperately needed.

[Jangles] Basically Bolf then.

He eyes the hand that's inching towards him, he raises his corresponding hand, the metal glinting in the low light of a few lanterns. There is a hesitance in his action as he extends his, a split-second of doubt before he allows the other man to take it.

[Jangles] Ain't a scam that I'm runnin'. Won't mess with y'things and only askin' what's fair in 'xchange. But if y'got it down all's the better for it, 'suppose. Just lettin' y'know it's on the table. We've also got decent tradin' routes outside adda settlement so if yer needin' fer something specific y'can let me settle up arrangements.

A sly grin snakes onto his face as he hears Bolf, his body language becomes a bit more open, stiff muscles in a defensive posture slacking ever so slightly. A satisfied grin ending in a gentle chuckle.

[Jangles] Ain't that what anyone's needin'? We've got a nice diner 'round here somewhere. Good prices, great patron. Or else I'm sure y'can find someone willin' t'trade a decent bottle fer onna y'wares. Just outta curiosities sake… Whadda y'dealin' anyway?

[Bolframmon] A diner? Well, I could use a good meal too, I’ll go have a nose later. As to your other question…

He steps away and gestures towards the various items scattered about, upon looking books of various sizes can be seen, necklaces and earrings are gently hanging of a stand, and some sort of weapon can also be seen sticking out of a barrel.

[Bolframmon] Without the long winded explanation, you can call me a merchant who specialises in magical wares. Relics, spellbooks, enchantments and potions etc. Basically if you need something magic based or need something removed, I’m your man.

Jangles' mouth twitches, like he'd just bitten down on a lemon or set his teeth into something rotten. His hand is quick to retreat to his body, fingers coiling back into his icy palm.

[Jangles]  Fuckin' Benign ain't guidin' shit today! Haddan inkling, yeah.

The curse dies off into a weak sigh. It's a weak lie, an attempt to save face if only for himself. He'd been suspicious of Bolf but for the same reason he is suspicious of anyone not from the Dreglanders. Anyone he couldn't pinpoint with one look.

His gaze goes over the tent and the wares on display again, as if he could see the corruption dripping off of it now, he couldn't. Boxes don't act suspicious when they're different. They might glow or groan but installing a few LEDs or throwing your voice could give you the same effects. Pretend magic was more common in the Dreglands, pretend magic was a niceness, an escape… Real magic was something people would escape from.

[Jangles] Cannai ask y'the keep this on the down-low? Ain't lookin' t'make a big deal outta this… But y'chose a peculiar place t'set up shop. Dreglanders ain't fonda things that ain't… regular. Gotta bad history. If y'gotta sell dancin' candles or self-readin' books don't put them out on the curb 't catch attention. We've gotta rule that keeps us happy: If it don't have t'magic it shouldn't. I don't givva shit what y'do behind these here curtains. I givva shit that my people ain't comfortable. Y'do yer business behind this here cloth and we're all happy an' dandy. That business bleeds out onto the streets and I end up comfortin' a sweet thing and explainin' that there ain't corruption nibbling at their home our bussiness-relations might end up a tad strained. I tend t'snap when I'm put under strain…

Bolframmon raises an eyebrow at the sudden reaction and request, was he afraid of magic? It had been a long time since Bolframmon had been in the west but he swears that they handled the realisation of the arcane better than this. But this man has been polite and he has no intention of causing any trouble yet.

[Bolframmon] *raises his hands in a mock surrender pose smiling at Jangles.* You have my word, sir. My business will only take place in this tent! Your people need not fear me and my wares and it will never get out... Unless you guys want a magic show? I still have the top hat and magic wand somewhere…

[Jangles] Good.

There is a timbre to his voice, a low growl akin to a threatened animal. A defence installed in him from a young age. Something feral that many of his countrymen share with him. His arms twitch, the loose bolts rattle against the metal rods. If he'd still have skin he would have goosebumps by now, how fortunate that metal has difficulties displaying the more minute details of interactions.

[Jangles] No need ferra sharp, condescending tongue. Things don't need 't get hostile neither. Just a word-a-warning… real friendly-like. Things get… uncomfortable when y've only gotta blade and y'know opposite you's a guy that can melt ya with the flick of his eyes. It's better not to let the general people think 'bout such things. Fear tends t'breed stupidity… Ain't nobody served with stupidity.

A deadpan look, almost serious haunts Jangles' face for a brief moment, his eyes crawl up from a point of nowhere and back to Bolf. Upon seeing the man's face his familiar grin places itself on his face once more.

[Jangles] Don't mean drinks're off the table… Might just not let ya get 'm fer me.

At that final sentence Bolframmon does a mock gasp and puts his hand on his heart, but behind the act the gears turn in his mind as he puts together what kind of situation he’s now in.

In short these folk aren’t the biggest fan of magic and sound prone to turn into an angry mob at a moments notice, for now he’ll have to bite his tongue and play nice with the other children.

[Bolframmon] *still on mock gasp stance* Why Jangles! We’ve only met and yet your words hurt me so, *He grins and chuckles.* but your rules and advice are accepted and heard loud and clear, if anyone should ask about me just tell them I sell remedies and random antiques. Would that make you easier, my friend?

Bolframmon's words roll around in Jangles’ head for a brief moment.

[Jangles] I can be a right bastard without even tryin', Bolf.

His grin stands fast on his face, faltering slightly as the topic switches.

[Jangles] Can live with that. I'm sure there's mora yer type skulkin' 'round. These typa places tend t' attract 'em. Y'can deal with 'em, no problem. Y'can sell old shit to Dreglanders if they're into it but if y'know it's magic and they don't… I'm gonna trust y'not to sell it t'them. I don't wanna stick my arm in another wasp nest knownin' 't can be avoided. Dreggies point 'emselves out. If I know of others like yerself I'll let 'em know yer a good one t'interact with.

There is a pause, Jangles fills it the only way he knows how; making odd noises with his arms or clearing his throat. He still feels the dread creep around him, what few and short hairs he has on the back of his neck stand upright.

[Jangles] Gonna wish ya good luck with yer wares then… Suppose I came to say what I hadta… If ya got more questions y'can find me at the general store… The little tent with the hairy elephant in front of it. Y'll find either me or Roan there. Roan always knows where I am.

[Bolframmon] *He bows politely* Thank you, I’ll be sure to keep that in mind, no doubt I’ll be around soon to invite you for a drink. *He starts to head back to the far corner of the tent before turning back and smiling at Jangles* And thank you for your warm welcome.

Jangles sets a foot back, his other is quick to follow.

[Jangles] I ain't goin' nowhere. I'll be seein' y'round.

The inside of Bolframmon’s tent is lit with gently guttering points of multicoloured light, contained in strange lanterns of smoked glass. Arabesque shadows are cast around the wares laid out for sale, and saffron incenses smokes on the dark wooden shelves. Books of every colour of ancient leather are stacked in leaning piles, amongst rolled parchments and boxes of carved yew wood. The door, of draped cloth, is pulled back shyly, curiously, and a young woman steps wide-eyed into the tent.

Finding no attendant, Isabel approaches the little table, where several daggers of beautiful, scintillating alloy are arrayed for inspection on a cloth of silk. Below them, a sword, inscribed with unknown runes and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Isabel carries a simple cage of rain-rusted brass. Inside, a few subdued songbirds chirrup. Bundled over her shoulder are rolls of linen, calico, embroidered taffeta, and held in the crook of her elbow, oddly iridescent hand woven lace in guipure style. The young woman looks weary, and her hair has been made untidy by the recent rain. [Isabel] … Hello? Sir? Madam?

[Bolframmon] *heard in the distance* One moment!..

Bolframmon appears out from behind the counter, almost out of nowhere, the lanterns about the tent change colour to a bright blue upon his arrival. He smiles at his guest although his eyes show a brief moment of surprise. His customers were of varying ages and cultures but it had been a while since someone had entered his tent so young. But there was something else about her that he couldn’t put his finger on, it's almost as if there was an air of familiarity about her, it almost reminded him of home.

[Bolframmon] Good Afternoon my dear! How can I be of help?

Her voice is watery with nervousness. But she smiles and bows slightly.

[Isabel] … I have birds for sale, Sir, and fabrics too; none salvaged nor burned! Threads, too, pins, nothing State, no substitutes. The lace is good Sir, hand made… Now, a man of stature ought to have some embellishment… Customers don’t like to see a threadbare merchant … Shall we try this?

The young woman hefts the fabrics onto his small table and places the cage on the floor. The birds cheep and flutter anxiously. She lifts a portion of silk, dyed in a gradients of blue and presses it against Bolf’s shoulder.

[Isabel] Oh how it suits you! You’ll be the envy of all others! And how about a plump little bird or two for supper? Why, they’re delicious soaked in Armagnac…

Bolframmon raises an eyebrow at the young lady and smiles, she’d almost make a fantastic saleswomen if she didn’t sound so nervous. But why is she nervous? I’ve done nothing to make her that way... He takes the fine silk into his hands, making sure to keep eye contact with the seamstress

[Bolframmon] No doubt your wares are lovely and this is all well and good, but you’ve yet to answer my question; how can I help you? What exactly are you after miss?

She meets his strange eyes. Her own are a shade mismatched and her hands, against him, are gloved.

[Isabel] … Honest trade Sir - Shoes for the horse, tabac… The road is hard… And you can’t sell anything to these State-ones, they’d rather die from the cold than trade for a woollen cloak… Foul men. There. Now this seam should lie flat. A man should dress every day as if he might meet his bride, or his worst enemy!

He chuckles at the last statement His Bride or his Worst Enemy, last time he was well dressed she turned out to be both. He still felt like she was after something else, but he decided to play along. At the minimum he was getting some additions to his robes.

[Bolframmon] Very well then, let us trade! I have some fine tabac from down south that I’ll exchange for this lovely silk you’ve bestowed upon me! And that black songbird *He hears the songbird chirp, it sounds worried* and no I’m not going to eat you little one.

She makes a sound of discontent, moving around him to bunch the silk into dramatic drapes.

[Isabel] Well, how much tobacco? Silk is expensive Sir. Very. And this is almost certainly dyed with real lapis. It would be an injustice to let it go for nothing, and my Father, he’s a good man Sir, but he would be terribly angry, you see. You must get a good price Isabel, fifille, if we’re to eat! Yes, and the black one - well, you’ve excellent taste Sir, he has the finest voice of all! Only, the blacksmith has already offered me a pretty penny for him… I suppose I’d take a dagger, the tobacco, perhaps some oil for my lamps Sir, if you can spare it for a young lady? And a handful of your coin of course - for the lot.

She steps back, admiringly.

[Isabel] No brass of course. Now doesn’t that look handsome. Dazzling! You look clad in evening itself.

[Bolframmon] *he looks at the adjustments she has made to his robes, he grins at the handiwork* Well well, the young lady has beauty and brains it seems! I have plenty of tobacco to trade and you raise a hard bargain! But on consideration this is exceptional craftsmanship so I accept! But on one condition…

He places a hand on one of the ornate daggers, its handle decorated with runes and its blade intricate but clearly deadly.

[Bolframmon] What does one as lovely as yourself need a dagger for?

She looks aside. Her voice becomes a murmur.

[Isabel] Well... In case I meet my worst enemy of course... Since I am already dressed for him.

She bows in her blood red cloak.

Bolframmon looks at the young girl, finally understanding her nerves. Who is going after a young girl? Then he remembered how disgusting humanity can be, and they call him the monster.

[Bolframmon] Very well… then we must arm you with something that matches your attire my dear.

He reaches underneath the stall and pulls out a small blade, its blade straight on one side but curved at another, foreign symbols etched upon its bottom. It’s handle is leather leaving diamond patterns up to the guard and on its sheath, a  a small charm hangs from it. Both handle and sheath almost matching the red of the young ladies cloak.

[Bolframmon] I received this on my journeys through the east, the little charm there is one of protection, may it serve you well… *he places the sealed weapon in both hands and presents it to girl*

Isabel takes the blade. Her careful, merchant eyes take stock of the item, the weight, and finish, all in a polite, but thorough manner. She thumbs the blade from its sheath.

[Isabel] … I’ll show him my blade is just as sharp as my wit and my tongue.

She lays the blade down on her bolts of fabric, and lifts the cage where the little wild birds flutter.

[Isabel] Well, come out, little fascienne. Shhh.

She eases open the little rusted door. The birds panic, but her quick, gloved hands seize the blackbird securely. She brings it from the cage, oddly subdued in her hands. A few threads of spider web cling to the feathers of the bird, and she picks them off.  Bringing it close to her lips she whispers a few lulling words. It’s cheeps soften, until the bird’s eyes are blank and it is unmoving. Isabel brings up her other hand to close around its little neck. She pauses, eyes narrowing.

[Isabel] Are you certain you won’t have him for supper, chou? I will pluck ‘im for you.

Bolframmon raises his hand to halt her and shakes his head

[Bolframmon] No no, the bird won’t be eaten, it's much more useful as it is right now, more entertaining too.

He walks around the corner, returning with a black steel bird cage, its frame decorated with wires looking like vines and flowers. He props it on the counter before pulling out a small bag out of his robe sleeve. The bag is made of a similar material to his robes and looks somewhat full, it jingles as he places it down and opening it reveals a large variety of currencies. He takes out a few gold coins and slides them over to his customer.

Isabel looks over the transaction and the markings in the coins of soft, old gold. Bolf has been generous, and she gives a nod of thanks, before laying down the fragile, seemingly sleeping bird beside the coin. [Isabel] One less for the pot! He will wake up. Take him. She watches as Bolf also prepares a bundle of dried tobacco leaves, and she places the coin in her needleworked leather satchel as he does so, tucking the sword under her arm and the bundle of tobacco in the crux of her elbow. Isabel turns, shouldering her burden of silks, rags, and fabrics, and lifting her cage again. [Isabel] If I catch ‘im a Mrs. Blackbird, Sir, I will come back. They will duet.

[Bolframmon] *he smiles at her as he places the bird in his new cage* And I’m sure a lovely duet it will be *he bows* A pleasure doing business miss.

Isabel departs his tent, laden with her goods, returning his smile with a wink.

Bolframmon turns his attention to the bird, gently stroking its wing as it awakens. A brief tingling sensation flows through the tip of his fingers, a sign of magic.

There are no more distractions, no more people; not with jangling bionics nor with charming leopard print. There is only Roan amidst a sea of scattered boxes. There is a stack of finished packages set behind the counter, neatly folded and upon it, with the help of a stencil and some white spray paint, a happy message of 'Welcome'.

Roan's idea, the memory of cold nights accompanied by the silence of darkness and silent roar of an empty stomach enough reason to ensure nobody else would live through the same if she could help it. Perhaps a waste of resources to some, but to her it might show as a sign of gratitude and welcome, perhaps enthralling others to join… Perhaps just-… her way of making this world slightly better.

She puts the torch in the last box, four times 1-0… For now it should be enough to give to the people outside. Her hand rummages through it, accounting for everything she had set out to put in there;

A blanket of thick material — industrial and layered with a fine sheet of plastic on one side for multiple uses, a torch — small, weak but self-sustaining with a crank on its side.

A portion of field-rations — high-calorie bread made with protein powder, pork fat, nuts, and honey, salvaged with just a few spices and herbs, enough to just cut through the gritty, salty taste of the fat but certainly an acquired taste. Along with a re-usable metal tin of water.

The last item: a container with ointment, an off-white in colour, and it's only explanation — a small scribble of felt-tip pen, hastily scrawled: 'for pain//AB-AS'. She'd caught snippets of Rocksalt's little explanation, something about an ointment, antiseptic and pain-relieving because of morphine something or other. Not medication, merely preparation.

Her hands have long since memorised the practise of folding the box and within a second the cardboard slab reaches under and over the rest, sealing it. The last one, she puts it with the others before dragging the chalkboard outside and standing it next to the hairy, plastic elephant. Although heavy and loaded with sand for stabilising she sets it down without much effort. She goes back inside, cleaning what few stray-boxes are obstructing the knick-knacks and wares on display.

For newcomers to the Settlement:

Free welcoming packet upon saying 'hi'.

Ask inside.

It was a bi-yearly tradition for Matis to place his backpack on the slightly worn head of the plastic, decorative elephant outside the sewn together tent as he rummages around to find a new, full canister of oxygen. Even the very faint drizzling rain appears right on time for their arrival.

He hears a faint hiss when he unscrews the empty canister and  a soft ‘click’ when attaching the new one to the nozzle. Leaning against the elephant; his eyes rest upon the chalkboard sign next to him as he takes his time to catch his breath. His men wait and continue to do so until Matis pockets his oxygen and shoulders his rifle. Their reticence to speak is their greatest talent, most of the time.

With a small limp in his step, Matis enters the tent the same way he does every other previous time he visited: Like an injured, wary wolf with its upper lip every so slightly curled into a sneer. His men follow soon after.

Roan recognises him instantly, that shrewd and sharp face with parchment-like skin stretched so taut over it it might crack open any moment. His is a ghastly face; pale, defined and aged. His is the face she imagines when there is talk of ghouls and Drowners.

But she knows better than to judge by looks alone. She knows Matis, one of the first outsiders to have arrived in Blue Light after the message went out. She believes him to be kind, a bit of a windbag but kind. She pities Matis and his men as she already stretches her arm sideways, dragging a box with prepackaged waffles her way. Dry, as good as tasteless, but at least filling and likely holding more nutritional value than whatever paste they smashed through those raspy-sounding faceplates.

[Roan] Matis! You made it back again! I was kind of afraid you-…

The young woman trails off, a look of concerned horror replaced with an innocent, if slightly guilty, smile.

[Roan] How are you? You've lost weight again, haven't you?

How odd it can be to hear ones own name spoken with such friendly glee. And how odd it is to hear his name being spoken in the first place… By now, he knows it is almost futile to teach anyone with Dreglanders’ muddied blood running through their veins, to address him the way they should. Yet still he insists. After all, if even a Mother-forsaken Unward can be taught new tricks, Roan will eventually learn as well.

[Matis] ‘Lieutenant’.

The Breathers eye the box she drags closer with hunger. All but N_H know what’s inside. The young woman’s polite questions go unanswered.

[Matis] I am not here for small-talk, girl. Now unless you are guilty of false-advertising… we will take our ‘welcoming packages’.

[Roan] I mean each time you leave here and I'm thinking: 'He'll look better next time. He can't lose anymore, can he?' But by the Benign you get here and it's… It's kind of infuriating… I try my best but your boss-lord-whatever… He's just forgets to feed you. Maybe stick your nose in his face? Works for Waffles.

She babbles carelessly; sweet, delighted but painfully unhindered by certain social stigma. It isn't long before she notices the curious and timid faces of the Breathers peeking up behind Matis. The box is pushed forwards and a friendly nod is given for them to take what they want.

[Roan] Go on, no need to be afraid. They’re fine!

She speaks with a light voice, delicately pronounced as if speaking to a small animal or child despite her likely being the youngest in the entire tent. Her gaze returns to Matis. Her innocent smile breaks open to a wide almost sinister smirk. Perhaps Jangles might have rubbed off on her more than she'd realised.

[Roan] You didn't say 'hi', Matis, dear. Besides that's kind of the reason behind it! Get to know people, friendly talk! Being nice. All that good stuff!

The Breathers linger behind Matis; like sheep behind their shepherd. They will go as far he can see from the corners of his eyes but not a single step beyond that point. Her invitation falls on deaf ears. The younger ones of the small group briefly glance towards Matis but hold their position.

It’s quiet in the tent as Matis assesses both Roan and the boxes she offers. He places one hand on the nearest Welcome Package and slides it closer to him over the counter. She’s right… The one condition to receive a free gift such as this one was indeed listed on the chalkboard outside. And Matis is, of all things, a man who likes to play by the rules.

[Matis] Alright. If you must know, girl; Our dietary requirements are met and maintained. Indulging is an affront to Mother. A sin that weighs... B_W…-

He lifts the box in both hand and passes it to the Breather closest to him.

[Matis] - ...about…-?

The box is opened and the Breather inspects the food-rations inside.

[B_W] -…about one and a half pounds, sir.

The box now remains with the Breather.

[Matis] About one and a half pounds.

His dark, half-hooded stare remains on Roan but is only broken briefly as he glances towards the rest of his men. With a nod of his head he allows them to come forward and take a box for themselves.

[Matis] And you will gain an important life’s lesson: If you would like to continue to talk to me, girl, you will refer to me as ‘Lieutenant’ or ‘Sir’. This is your final warning before your actions will be classified as acts of non-compliance and hostility against the written trade treaty with FAIR-CO. Am I clear?

There is a knife-like sharpness to all interactions with Matis… No, a better comparison would be a fire… in the rain. Difficult to get going but once it's started it might temporarily be comfortable but too close and you get burned. The sputtering fire coughs once, twice and seconds later Roan blisters her fingers due to carelessness.

She fidgets on her feet for a few seconds, knocked off-balance by the sudden wall erected between them. Her brow creases in confusion and worry. Defensively she takes the box of waffles, the stack of welcoming packets forgotten. She takes out one packet of waffles and slides it over to B_W, another one is slid to the position of a Breather near him and continues until every one of them has one in front of them. Her fingers remain on the packet in front of Matis, shy eyes slowly gazing up to look him in the eyes.

The Breathers take what’s now theirs; leaving their waffles and packets untouched as they put it all in their backpacks. They begin to groan under the weight and fatigue. Matis’ face turns the other direction as Roan’s eyes focus on him. Head down; a shadow over his eyes now.

[Roan] I-… I didn't do anything you just said. I'm not trying to insult you. I'm being nice… Far nicer than Jangles ever is with you. I wanna—…

She sighs in defeat, her brain racing to catch up with the scenario she somehow ended up in.

[Roan] I wanna see you happy, Mister Felon, sir. I wanna see everyone happy. Beeyuuw, Eyecks, Ahetch… Just everyone. 'Sirs' and 'Lew tennants' will only distance that.

Matis reaches for his oxygen mask, inhaling several times while Roan talks. His strength is spread thin and the cold rain and aching joints have worn him down to the bone. Some distance is exactly what he needs right now. And speaking of ‘distance’...

[Matis] Tell Jangles -…hgnn…- We will set up camp near the border. Same rules apply.

There is only a solemn nod at his words, a weak 'Will do.' before her eyes dart from one miserable, starved soul to the other. Her eyes stay fixed upon B_W, she stares at them, the side of her mouth twitches.

Her hand returns to the box, the package crinkles in her hands before she slaps another packet on top of the one she just gave Matis. The sadness doesn't stick to her face. A cracked expression immediately broken by sheer happiness and the unmistakable grin of success.

A sweet aroma fills the air, the rich smell of chocolate, almost strong enough to be smelled outside the small merchant tent, comes flying from the door behind the stall.

A happy whistle can be heard, also coming from the back, as Bolf strides into the store with a tray of cookies.

[Bolframmon] Aaaah, just like mother used to make... delightful! *He swipes one of the cookies and takes a huge bite out of it.* Yep…I’ve missed having a place to bake… Wonder if I could sell these?

They decide to take some time from their own stall to look around the settlement and see if there is anything worth seeing. Cassius for his want to silently collect information on those around them, and Amor for his inability to stay still for more than five minutes.

The former is a mountain of a man. Tall and broad with facial features that can be deemed feminine if not for the strong jaw and two days worth of stubble adorning olive skin. Chestnut hair that normally falls to his waist gathered up into a neat bun at the base of his head. The sides of his head neatly shaved to show the tattooed letters 'C.S.'. Dressed all in black from shirt to tie to a tailored suit that has seen better days. Carefully cut out windows on the backs of black leather gloves to show intricate tattooed symbols that will give him away to those who know what they are looking for. Similar windows cut over his bulging biceps to show black ink detailing Furtherances.

The man trotting by his side is stark in contrast.

Shorter than his companion, but by no means frail. Lithe muscle and crude, amateur tattoos are on display as he has chosen to wear no shirt. Only a large leopard print fur coat draped over his shoulders and gold chains upon his chest. Handmade trousers put together by scraps of leather each from a different hide and mismatched army boots completed this frayed and ratted outfit. The hair on his head a shocking shade of white-blonde and standing mostly on end. The owner has long given up on trying to style it. This is hair that did exactly what it wanted.

Amor scratches at his barely groomed beard as the pair wanders up to the first stall. The scent of baking making his stomach growl and a slow grin begins to creep across his face. There is a low hum of warning from Cassius, but Amor is certain that Big J wouldn’t dream of letting anyone dangerous enter his settlement, so going over and saying hello and trying to get a bit of grub isn't going to do any harm.

[Amor] Ey! Y’handin’ those out? Cause, don’t see a fer sale sign or prices an’ shit. This mean they’re open fer grabbin’? Kinda hungry, y’see. Been hard an’ busy work, ya know? Name’s Amor, an’ the big guy ‘ere is Cass.

Cassius stays silent.

Bolf is mid-cookie when his guests enter the tent, looking at their attire he assumes they aren't of a magical profession, although one of the two has a faint air of magic about them. He swallows, smiles at the gentleman and gestures towards the cookies.

[Bolframmon] By all means my friends, come and help yourself! I’ve always thought food tastes better with company anyway, much like drink, wouldn’t you agree? *He stays seated, resting his arms on the stall.*

There is the slightest look exchanged between the two men. Eyes slipping to corners to glance at each other before Amor is moving. Hand reaching out and greedily grabbing three of the cookies in his paw. The slightest huff from Cassius was all the utterance he makes. More a sound of displeasure than a warning. The taller man slowly reaching out and primly plucks a cookie from the plate between his thumb and forefinger. The biscuit scrutinised for a moment before being broken in half. It certainly seems like there was chocolate in there, and a careful bite confirms it. A wary, yet pointed look is sent to the man beside him; who is in the process of shoving the cookies whole into his mouth.

Chocolate. How has this man managed to get hold of chocolate? From the careful exploration of his tongue, he determines either it was a very very good replacement or this man was richer than he seems. Either that or has smuggling connections far out of reach of those of the Dreglands. Cassius carefully considers how he is going to bring this up. Not a man of many words but he listens and pays attention. This is something that would be of use and interest to his companion. And perhaps to Jangles as well. Always know where the money is. It usually leads to the clutch of power.

However, it seems that Amor has been thinking the same thing. Around the prickle of magic his ever rushing mind is trying to ignore and avoid, he has noticed the sweet treat embedded in the cookies. Sugar isn't exactly easy to get hold of, but if you know the right people, say the right thing, have a certain something something to trade… You can get it. Chocolate on the other hand… Hell, he hasn't had chocolate in near enough a year and he was good at what he did.

[Amor] So… Y’loaded or sumink? Cause… Yer standin’ ‘ere handin’ out chocolate like it were jus’ fallin’ from the sky. Gotta understand, friendo, looks mighty suspish. ‘Specially since ya ain’t even had the politeness to offer yer name when I had the common curtus to do it right away.

[Bolframmon] Oh, I do apologise Gentlemen! Where are my manners? *He stands up from his chair, dusting off his robes of crumbs before addressing the two men.* My name is Bolframmon! Travelling merchant and expert in all magical goods, at your service! *He bows politely.* The chocolate you’re enjoying I got from a trade on my way here, I’ve a bit of a sweet tooth so I couldn’t help myself.

Bolf studies the men properly now as he stands up. This 'Amor' is clearly a man of action, and has some strength underneath that giant fur coat, that can prove useful later down the line. Looking at Cassius he locks eyes with him briefly, he can see the man questioning everything about this situation, gears turning and analysing Bolf to his best degree. I guess these are some of the head Dredglanders men, that 'Jangles',  he thinks. He smiles as the men continue to eat his treats, at least his baking is still approved by others

[Amor] Bol...fra...framinnon...faaam… I’ll call ya Bolly. Y’look like a Bolly. Don’ really go wi’ those fancy names. Too many airs an’ graces, y’ get me? As fer that chocolate trader o’yours… Guessin’ ya got the brass then? Wanna share the knowledge? Cause… Sure ya know… Chocolate kinda vanished after the ol’ Staties fucked it all up fer the rest of us. Well… I say vanished… Jus’ fuckin’ hard t’find it anywheres, ya know? Whole world seems like the fuckin’ wastes these days. Yer not from the State are ya…?

Cassius moves a little away from his companion to look at the range of items for sale. He can't really identify if things are actually magical or not, but he has a good feeling that they are a damn sight more legit than the bits of shell and bone that Amor has for sale. Granted, his friend put a lot of work into his charms, and the aesthetic ranged from pretty to verging on voodoo. But nothing that actually works. Amor doesn't work with that kind of magic. His is a raw power he tries to repress. Too much fear of being found out. Of being dragged to the Drowning.

[Amor] Not that I’d judge yer too -harshly- for bein’ a Statie, but…. Well…. Root of all evil an’ all that.

Amor pauses.

[Amor] Hang on… Hang on… Magical goods? So like… Tricks and shit? I do that. Yanno, find the lady, what’s your card. Hopefully there’s punters comin’ through who believe that junk. We both know magic ain’t shit, right Bolly?

Bolframmon raises an eyebrow and chuckles at his new name. He’d been called many things over time, Bolframmon, Lord Bolf and something that rhymes with Passive Stunt all came to mind. Another title for another social circle it seems.

He also couldn’t help but grin at the last statement, Root of all evil, bless these mortals.

[Bolframmon] Bolly will do my friend, and indeed! Magic is indeed a thing of wonder and intrigue, hence my passion for collecting and distributing it as such. Also to answer your question, no, I am not part of this State you speak of…*He looks towards Cassius as he's looking through Bolf’s wares.* See anything of interest? I can explain what it is if so?

[Cassius] No.

His voice is monotone but soft. Cassius feels no need to make any effort for someone they will be leaving behind in a few weeks. Bolf doesn't run the place and he as of yet hadn’t offered any help in trade. He isn't his… Thoughts pause as the word swirls in his head, one that hasn't sit right for a while now. Owner. It has been a long time since he considers himself to have one of those. A long time of Amor telling him over and over not to call him that. Because really, it is damn weird. He hadn’t bought him, he’d saved him. Big difference.

Bolf doesn't own him, doesn't run the trade-post, and so unless Amor demands he play nice, Cassius doesn't owe him shit.

But perhaps he is making excuses for his own prejudices. Old State life still ingrained in his bones. Amor can't help what he is, but this man seems to revel in it. Seems proud of it. Of magic and all that it can bring. Cassius is still afraid of Magic. He trusts Amor. He trusts the power thrumming through the man’s veins. But anyone else? He has to force himself to stop his upper lip from curling at the word Aberrant that slips into his mind. This is one prejudice that was hard to shake.

Amor on the other hand seems undeterred, although Cassius can see the slight tightening of his shoulders. The straightening of his spine. The slightest twitch at the corners of his eyes. The fact that his grin widens and his voice simply gets louder. There is fear around other magic users. A fear of being found out. And for Cassius, the fear that this time he won't be able to save him.

[Amor] So… Ya don’t wanna share knowledge then? Bit of a piss poor way t’start our lil' relationship, but whatever, friend. We all ‘ave our trade secrets I guess.

He peers over at the trinkets and charms set out on the stall. Narrowing his eyes a little as he watches Cassius’ long, nimble fingers delicately feather over one or two of the items. Amor doesn't know what any of it is for. Doesn't know what it means. And for that alone, he doesn't trust it.

[Amor] Yeah, but it’s a loada bollocks ain’t it? Magic an’ shit. Somethin’ t’impress the masses, all smoke an’ fireworks, innit? Good way o’making a living, an’ there ain’t no shame in trickin’ the stupid.

He forces the smile to stay even though he suddenly clocks onto what Amor meant. He actually thinks this is all fake? That I’m some sort of fraud? It has certainly been awhile since a mortal has disreputed the idea of magic, even longer since someone had insulted his trade. Relax, he means no ill intent, he’s just ill informed, the less he knows probably the better.

[Bolframmon] *laughs heartily?* Yes, but of course Amor! You’re a clever man. This stuff works very similar to faith, pull the strings in the background, put on a show and voila! *He snaps his fingers* Customers and opportunities arise! *He gestures towards the inventory on show.* I’ll have to put on a act for you all sometime.

[Amor] Yeah, I’m right clever, me.

The soft snort that comes from Cassius is pointedly ignored.

[Amor] Seem like a smart kinda guy yerself. Got a nice lil' set up here. How long it take ya t’make alla this shit? Takes me a while t’make alla my trinkets, but worth it in the end, yeah? Folks eat it up. ‘Specially the… Whaddaya call ‘em… Citizen types. Got a fucking hard on for even a sniff of magic. Pay out of pocket for a bit o’rock wi’ some string and paint on it.

He barks out a quick shot of laughter to hide the way his eyes nervously flicker across the wares that the other man is selling. His eyes lock with his companion briefly and Cassius gives him a knowing little look. Neither have the ability to gauge someone’s power, but pushing their luck isn't on the cards. Just because Cassius has seen Amor destroy a wall with a wave of his hand doesn't mean that this person couldn’t do much worse.

However, Amor’s need to squash down any admittance that magic is real is too strong. A shield and sword he’d used many times before to deflect any thoughts that he himself might be magic. The unbeliever can't possibly hold any power himself. Keep shouting that gospel over and over again and hopefully he won’t end up being marched to the Drowning.

[Amor] Faith… Sure. Call it whatever ya like, Bolls. It’s still sleight of hand an’ fuckin’ magnets.

Why is this man so adamant on magic not existing? Bolframmon thinks, humans have always longed for these abilities, for fame, power or just for ease of life. Yet here this man is trying to reject every aspect of it. The notion confuses Bolf even more seeing as he could feel the dormant magic within him. Very well, if a simple magician he wants, a simple magician I’ll be.

[Bolframmon] Indeed, but we can’t deny, it's certainly some pretty magnets to the untrained eye. *He pulls out a coin from his robe, the copper shines in the light revealing its foreign designs on its body. Dipping it into a nearby lantern the coin starts to melt in his hands, Bolf then claps the coin into his hands, he opens them to reveal the coin has disappeared.* Cassius my friend, check your left pocket.

Amor’s eyes glitter at the sight of the coin. It has been a long time since he’d seen any kind of currency. He works mainly in trading. Kick the shit out of a guy for food and board. Do some tricks for some leather and fur. Couple of weeks of bodyguarding for jewels and a tiara. Actual money on the other hand…? Hard to come by. And his gaze is fixed on the coin as images of riches dance in his head.

The little squark of objection he makes as the coin is melted down is almost enough to make Cassius smirk. Although, the much bigger man’s expression becomes vacant the second that Bolf speaks his name. There is a stillness to the man that verges on unnatural. A beautiful marble statue stands poised in the light of Bolf’s lanterns. A bird-like cock of his head as he looks to Amor as if for orders. The shorter man merely nods.

Cassius dips his thumb and forefinger into his pocket and brings out the coin. Delicately gripped between his fingertips with a look of disgust on his face, as one might hold a dead shrew.

[Cassius] Huh.

The coin is tossed over to Amor who greedily snatches it out of the air and shoves it down the front of his trousers. If Bolf is happy for coins to leave his hands then he is happy not to see them again. Cassius wipes his hands primly down the front of his suit jacket as if he’d touched something dirty. Subtly giving Bolf the updown with eyes that relay his prejudice.

[Amor] Neat lil' trick ya got there, Bolly. Might hafta teach it t’me sometime!

He picks up the plate which holds the remaining cookies and salutes the man behind the stall.

[Amor] Was good makin’ aquis-i-tions wi’ ya. Might see ya again, friendo!

A wave over his shoulder as he turns on his heel. Swaggering away as if he’d won some kind of great battle. In his head, he’s done good. Made a connection with someone rich. Someone to either befriend or rob blind before they leave. Cassius gives Bolf a long, thoughtful look before nodding his goodbye and following silently after his friend.

Bolframmon bows his head before waving to the two gentlemen as they leave his tent, a smirk on his face as they leave, whether they'll become friend or foe… He can tell from this first meeting alone that he had made the right call coming to this settlement.

* They had hoped to have arrived before the rain came, but luck was not on their side. *Puddles forms quickly on the hardened path they travel, soaking the toes of their boots. Heads down; hair flattened against their heads underneath dark rain capes. There is light on the horizon. The settlement is only several more kilometers away but for the small group of Breathers, it would mean at least one more hour of cold, dark, rainy misery with no chance of finding appropriate shelter to wait for the rain to stop.

*Lieutenant Matis Phelan’s eyes are fixed on the road, leading the group of five; rifle at hand; kept dry underneath his coat. One of his men is new to this journey. The poor health of the previous one exempted them; this time; yet Matis’ own ragged breath and slightly limping gait did not surpass their set health-standard by much.

* He stops and glances over his shoulder. Only the lower part of his face; from the haggard scar by his nose and lip; was still vaguely visible in the faint light they had.

[Matis] Keep up.

* The rain runs in rivulets across the broken tarmac, pushed apart by root and weed in this untenanted hinterland of the State. Just ahead of the group, set back slightly into the treeline, the lights of small waxen candles in green bottles flicker. One of the Breathers, bent low by the cold, flinches suddenly at a line of spider silk on his wet face. There is the smell, faint, but definite, of smoke and saffron.

*Matis squints at the sight of the lights ahead. He has travelled this road several times before but these lights were unfamiliar to him. Other travelers, however, are to be expected. The closer they come, the stronger the scent. There is no way around it, unless through high, yellowed wild grass. His men are tired and his own muscles ache with cold.

[Matis] Stay on the path. ...Heads down, mouths shut.

*He hears muffled confirmations coming from his men, most in the form of ‘Yes, sir.’. Matis’ cold hands remain on his rifle and hears the faint chinking sound of his rosary chain against the metal barrel with each step as they approach the lights on the side of the road with no intention of stopping.

*Ahead, rain hisses on a tiny, smoking campfire. The breath of the wind takes the fragile, guttering flame and casts a thin wash of light on the dripping bowers of trees, and a shape; a dark bundle of cloth that sits on the edge of a painted wagon’s step. A wrought iron kettle sits amid the embers.

*Hunger and cold lure the hindmost Breather, the newcomer in their party, closer and closer to the flames and the prospect of some food or a warm drink. He stops. Out of breath. He takes one step closer but flinches at the loud snort of a black draft horse he had not noticed in the even darker shadow of the wagon. The others haven’t noticed his stalling just yet.

*The bundle on the step twists, pulling bare toes closer, staring at the glistering, rubber rain-caped figure. Isabel stands and unhoods, apprehensively. Her hair is white, though she is youthful.

[Isabel] … Good evening… Oh. Ah! are you a man of Mother? Come out of the rain, chou! Here is dry enough. You are welcome at my fireside.

* The Breather glances from the young woman to the others. He could now see the second to last of his colleagues had noticed his disappearance and turns to look. The rest halts as well. Hesitant eyes focus back on Isabel and her inviting campfire.

[Breather N_H] I…. I should not dally… The settlement is near…

*Isabel steps onto the wet, yellowed grass. The oil paint on her wagon shines in the firelight. Flowers, horses, roses and thorns.

[Isabel] But they won’t mind, chou! I’ve seen your uniforms before. They don’t burn on the fire! I know… And the knee pad, it tears so easily, mmm? Oh, chou, how long has it been since you starched that collar? Here. I know. I’ll stitch your rips and embroider your name on your cape. It won’t cost much. It is but two letters, isn’t it?

* His eyes follow hers down to the small rip at his knee pad. It is hardly noticeable in the dark, pouring rain with only the flickering light of the hissing fire and dancing candles in coloured bottles. His fingers then glide over the sleeve of his uniform, underneath his raincoat, where he had noticed a loose thread earlier…

[Breather N_H] Are y-…

*His sentence remains unfinished and makes way for a sharp, painful gasp as the butt of Matis’ rifle pushes between his shoulder blades. He stumbles for two steps, panting. In this weather, even a Breather could sneak up on someone, unnoticed. The others have gathered around as well. Matis does not speak but his lowered brow and cold stare make his statement perfectly clear. ‘Keep walking’.

[Breather N_H] …Y-yes, sir… --- Hhhh -- sorry, sir…

*Isabel gasps. She takes a pace back from Matis. The Breather staggers on, and she watches him strain for a single pained breath, fumbling for the oxygen mask at his neck. Her eyes turn to Matis, and she pushes a wet white ribbon of hair behind her ears, nervously. [Isabel] … Chou-fleur… How may I help you? Let me see. *Her eyes flit to, and then away from, the untidy knit of scar that divides his upper lip. Her voice is less assured, and she is uncertain. [Isabel] … Would you not… Care to rest a while? I said to your man… Uhm. Well, you are all welcome… I can repair your things - Perhaps see to the little tears that… Well, it’s certain you will have some, chou. You can put your fingers straight through those uniforms, they boil them and pass them … nh, I heard, some of the shirts are thirty years old... *With the youngest Breather now wheezing into his oxygen mask at the front of the group, the others now linger around the wagon like a pack of starving wolves. But each of them remains close to Matis; not wanting to be next in line for a hard shove between the shoulders. None speak.

*Matis’ eyes are narrowed. Being taller than Isabel, he looks down on her but ignores her offerings. His attention is drawn to her wagon and the few items he can see from where he stands. The slight sneer on his face; amplified by the crooked scar; is now fitting. He slowly turns to Isabel, stiffly. There is limited movement in parts of his limbs.

[Matis] Their uniforms are shuf-... shuffictient…

*His lisp is unmistakable on that last word.

[Matis] … and harlotry is againsth the Strictures.

*He lowers his voice; eyes still focussed.

[Matis] We don’t do business with whores.

*She stares at Matis firmly. Her gloved hands linger on the clasp of her hood.

[Isabel] … I am not a whore.

*The water drips from the raincapes of the gathered; and from the eaves of her wagon. The big horse shudders behind her.

[Isabel] You are rude! You’ll do no business with me regardless of what I am! Go away! *There is silence. The Breathers look at Matis with their heads down as if struck by lightning. Matis' expression darkens. He hisses. [Matis] Insolent wretch..! *As the words roll over his tongue, so does a sudden vile taste of brackish saliva; a mixture of extreme bitterness and rot. *Matis heaves and attempts to spit out whatever causes this terrible taste in his mouth but to no avail. He hangs his rifle over shoulder and grabs his water flask. The little water remaining tastes just as awful...

*Isabel stands with her fierce eyes half lidded. She exhales, the surge of her strange, unconscious magic dissipating. Her little fire flicks and sizzles.

[Isabel] Perhaps there is better water down the road, FAR from here!

*She turns, taking the creaking step into her painted wagon. Isabel gathers her green bottle lanterns hurriedly.

[Isabel] And may you choke on it!

*She wipes her cheek on the sleeve of her thick cloak, and with a final, heated look at Matis, slams shut the wagon door, leaving the little clearing lightless but for the dying fire. Her big horse shifts, brasses and tack chinking.

*One hand covers his mouth. The other, sporting the rosary chain, rests on his knee as he leans forward. Matis spits on the ground by his feet once more but it doesn’t help.

*The moment Isabel’s door to her wagon closes, Matis growls and kicks her little kettle several feet away. His boot stomps through the small remaining campfire, scattering the glowing coals between the wet grass. It sizzles and dies out.

[Matis] You impudent…-! -hgnnn-

*His sentence was cut short by his heaving. He reaches for his rifle. The temptation burns in his eyes as he glares at the wagon. None of the Breathers move. Slowly, his grip on the weapon slacks. He speaks through gritted teeth.

*They’ve been there a grand total of one whole hour and already Amor has gone wandering. Cassius feels that perhaps he should be grateful that he stuck around fifty minutes longer than he was expecting, but still. Being left to set up the army truck to look more like a small stage and ‘magical’ trinkets stall whilst his companion is out exploring is not his idea of a good time. But… He owes him more than could be weighed in gold, so…

Turn Twist Thread Tug

*Slumping against the truck as he knots and ties rope to hold down the canvases to create a makeshift canopy, the Ward tries to keep a neutral expression and not allow his irritation to show.

Turn Twist Thread Tug

*But really, he supposes he was allowed to be a little annoyed. For a man who has a lot to hide, Amor has a tendency to go running head first into trouble rather than keeping his head down and just letting Cassius watch his back. That’s what he was built for. Meant for. If Amor didn’t allow him to just do his job then…

Turn Twist Thread Tug

*It is ridiculous. Amor is ridiculous! This whole situation is ridiculous! He’s been saved from luxury to be sentenced to following around that gaudy, Chains’ damned, leopard-spackled rat-bastard Aberrant…!

Turn Twist Thread Tug

*His lip curls ever so slightly as he gets up and swings the canvas into place. Stomping around the truck as he makes sure everything is settled and tugs the old iron pegs from the makeshift satchel sling hanging around his neck. Perhaps he looks a little shamefaced at having even thought that particular slur. But it has been a long journey and really, he is tired. Looking after Amor Roy is more trouble than it is worth sometimes. Arm raised with hammer in hand and the other holding the peg steady, he pauses as a shadow falls over him and his work. Lips part to speak, but then clamping shut again. Instead looks to the other with a questioning look in his eyes.

*It is a really hard thing to miss. Amongst a sea of vehicles, mounts and carts this one stands out like a sore thumb. It’s that rusty-trusty Dreglands-make. An image that both portrays a sturdy vehicle capable of hitting a sizeable tree and shrugging it off; as well as a fragility that it might crumble to useless parts the second the wind blows a bit too hard.

*As familiar as the thing might be and as pleased as Jangles is to see another person from the same stagnant mud-pool as himself… its appearance does little to assure him. He didn't expect other Dreglanders to pop up this soon… This isn't claimed territory and all who'd shown interest in this endeavour had been accounted for.

*Curiosity has gotten the better of him after an hour and he stalks down to the communal area, chest puffed, head tall and eyes cast just over people's heads. A heavy brow casting deep shadows in his sockets. His bionic arms swinging along to powerful steps, loose nuts rattling gently against their bolts.

*He pauses as the individual doesn't register the sound of his namesake, a framework of metal folds itself in front of him until he finally catches the stranger's attention. A few fingers raise from their position in a half-arsed greeting.

[Jangles] Y'be needin' some help there…?

*Cassius becomes carefully still. Facial expression unreadable as he studies the man before him. Tucking both pegs and hammer into the sling, he brings himself to his full (impressive) height and wipes his hands on his thighs. Unsure of what to do without Amor by his side to do all the talking. He recognises the voice. It is one of the voices in the message his Dregland-companion had insisted on following up on. So Cassius assumes this man was the Authority.

*An Authority figure is one whom he can engage with. Use his voice. Even though he’d really rather not. The right hand side of his body feels cold and alien as there is a leopard-print adorned shape missing. Cassius isn’t used to make decisions on his own. Even when he is making decisions for Amor. It is still with the man present and involved.

[Cassius] Think I’ve got it covered. Who am I addressing?

*The shift of Jangles’ neck craning back to remain eye-contact with this stranger is one he is rather unfamiliar with, a small smile settles on his lips to further welcome the potential-Dreglander. It is however when the man opens his mouth that the smile wilts away.

[Jangles] Well now… 'addressin'…

*His head cocks to the side, deep-set eyes almost dramatically shifting from the unmistakable truck to the individual before him.

[Jangles] I've heard some Dreggie-accents 'fore but y'ain't Dreggie, can tell y'that.

*He twitches the remaining muscles attached to the iron-shop on his torso, once more jingling them.

[Jangles] I'm Jangles, I reckon y'followed the broadcast here? That lovely voice's entirely me. Now if y'd let me be a bastard and shoot back the same question… Worded a bit less stuffy tho. Perhaps work in how a stuffed shirt like yerself gets hold offa Dreglands truck, that'd be real sweet.

*Cassius takes a few moments to simply take the other man in. From his bionic arm to the sharp eyes that study him right back, Jangles isn’t like anything he’s seen before. And he’s spent quite a long time living in the Dreglands now. Chop-shop limbs and rust-dusted skin have become commonplace. But this man…? Looks a little different from the rest. Is something about him that… Never mind. It isn’t his place to ask or to insinuate. Every man is a predator in his own right. Pointing out that this one seems to have dagger-teeth and a serpent’s tongue would seem rude.

[Cassius] I did. We did. My…

*Friend? Boss? Owner? Cassius is unsure of how to explain Amor to this stranger. They’ve played many different roles with each other over the years, each one a disguise, each one to keep the other safe. But they hadn’t really made plans for what to do in this arena. Amor’s head too full of other plans and Cassius all too willing to just follow his lead.

[Cassius] ...Companion and I heard your message. I am Cassius, Mr Roy’s… Ward.

*What caught Jangles off guard was a niggling little name he was all too familiar with. His lips curl back in a wide smirk.

[Jangles] Vice? Vice Roy?! Vice's always had a dull taste, hadn't quite figured he'd find it in a Ward, mind yeh. Where's the snippy yapper anyway? Lil’ fuck's doin' me a disservice not sayin' hi to 'Mister Jangles' 'pon arrivin'.

*There was also that little word that explained so much yet held surprisingly little meaning to Jangles: 'Ward'. He's seen them in all shapes and sizes, all faiths and believes. From them finding stragglers to the bastards finding them as deserters. Seemed they kept popping up years after the motherlands had groaned its last breath.

*He looks over Cassius again, his head tilting forward and back. The man surely is impressive in size and width, not a real wonder he'd survived Mother getting her teeth kicked in. Man has done a decent job of at least trying not to show he'd been catwalking shirts and uniform pants his entire life.

[Jangles] Wherever he is lemme take some o' my words back and welcome y’properly in our little home away from home. Welcome, Cass.

*His bionic creaks as it untangles. A cold, metal hand extending in kindness.

*It would be impolite to simply ignore the hand outstretched in welcome. And even though Cass’s skin prickles at the mere thought of taking ahold of that metallic hand, he does so. Chin raising a little to add the slightest fraction of extra height. Shoulders rolling back ever so slightly. Making himself look bigger as if Amor was standing right beside him and needed Cassius’ bulk to cover him.

*There is a flicker of shock in bright blue eyes as the brother is mentioned. A twin but declared elder. Two minutes and forty-two seconds. A mantra he has heard banded back and forth on many an occasion. And this man knows him. A flicker of an image in Cassius’ mind. The man who owns the truck. Has seen him behind the wheel on many occasions. Worn, tired old camo-gear and occasionally something that passes for a General’s uniform. The army has matured him in ways that Amor has not lived through.

[Cassius] Amor Roy.

*A twitch as he makes it known in the slight tremor of his arm that he’d like his hand back. Ready and willing to attack should the name of the younger Roy develop a sour taste in Jangles’ mouth.

*There is a challenge behind Jangles's handshake, a test as his skeletal fingers envelop Ward-skin and press down slightly harder than he would otherwise have. When his bionic rattles just that slightly bit harder, when he lets his rickety wrist beat it further into this man that he isn't in the Capitol any longer.

*A good-hearted, if a bit chaffing test that allows him to see just what this man is  made out of. Just a run-of-the-mill Ward who'd retract his arm like it touched a hot plate or one of those who slipped as easy into the Dreglands-lifestyle as in another pair of pants. The latter did often lack the pronounced tongue of Cassius though.

*He's looking over the Ward's face, checking for any sign of discomfort, his sadistic little smile in place as always. If a man couldn't tease a ward what could he do? However his little cruel joy was swiftly forgotten at the mention of the other Roy…  

I*t takes less than a second for his face to go through shock, confusion only to settle on a wry smile.

[Jangles] Well y've gotta excuse me for t'mistake… There tend t'be only two 'Mister' Roys 'round… An’ one o' them's older than me.

*The challenge is noted and there is a glimmer of Cas’s own in the darkening of his eyes. There will be no making enemies here, not if Cassius can help it. But walking the last five years with Amor has made him more paranoid and suspicious than all the Citizens and their secrets this world can show him. There are people out there who will cut you down on an order. For being… Different. For something that you can not help. Years ago, Cassius would have been one of those people. Someone who would have been a danger to his charge. But his eyes are opening wider every day and the things he has seen… Jangles would have to try a little harder than a firm handshake. As soon as his hand is released, Cassius does not tear it away. Simply moving so that both arms are by his side. Standing to attention. Waiting.

[Cassius] The Commander and his son, the General. I know them well.

*The Roy twins’ father is a stoic man, but despite a shaky start has never treated him badly. Has many kills to his belt and has lead an army of Dreglanders. The toughest man Cassius has ever met. However… It is the mother he fears. As well anyone should. If Vice is his father’s son, then Amor is his mother’s boy. And many will meet the knife strapped to her thigh should anyone touch him.

[Cassius] Amor is a good man. An honest and just employer.

*Not exactly a lie… He wouldn’t call Amor completely honest… And just is pushing it a little… And… He isn’t really his employer… Okay, so that whole sentence is completely fabricated. But it sounds good.

*The Ward succeeds. He's the best Jangles could've hoped for. His nose not stuck in his ass, actually useful but not a trouble-seeker neither. Despite Vice's moaning about his brother, this one time it seemed the 'youngest' Roy knew what he's dragged along on his new outing.

[Jangles] Good, honest an' just… Ain't he just a dream come true…

*He mulls the words in his mouth, not the words he'd last heard Amor been described as, but not his place to make judgements based on Vice's griping and teeth-clenching. He'd have a look at the other Dreggie-leopard on his own time.

*Jangles shakes his shoulders loose, feet moving towards the truck, his head bend down and shoulders hunched, scanning the frame for a touch of white paint, a hint of a serial mark.

[Jangles] Y'know 'em well 'nough t'realize that they'd be smarter than to lend military-gear on whatever yer purpose here might be? Don't think Amor's made it through the ranks since last I heard Vice curse his name...

*His body stiffens and there is a spark of worry in his eyes. Amor hadn’t asked his brother to borrow the truck. A post-it note and an x under his name doesn’t really count as asking. But Amor has assured him it would be absolutely fine; that his brother wouldn’t be angry. And if he did get angry, it wouldn’t be for very long. Amor is sure of it. By the time they got back, he would have forgotten all about it. And it wasn’t like their father couldn’t lend Vice something if it was needed.

[Cassius] Business between the brothers is none of mine. And I certainly do not meddle in the affairs of the father. I am merely Mr Roy’s Ward

*Belonging to. Owned by. Indebted to. But in ways that didn’t leave a bad taste in his mouth. Not like his previous owners. Only one secret to keep. And none that were like rusted nails through an already fragile mind.

[Cassius] The army did not call to Mr Roy… My Mr Roy, I mean…...

*Jangles stops, one finger tapping at the glass of the headlight.

[Jangles] Heard nothin' seems t'call t'Amor… Well 'sides his dick an' a nicely shaped gal. Gotta be a nice life, don'ty think Cass? Lookin' out for nothin' but that empty space in yer bed at night.

He has a smirk and his reptilian eyes glisten deep in his skull.

[Jangles] Don' really care… Perhaps a bit jealous, but not my business.

His neck cranes back to the grounds of the settlement, specifically to the large board placed in the midst of it detailing the rules in writing and crude images.

[Jangles] The noticeboard just might… We ain't lookin' for more trouble t'be added on. Got a full schedule as is. Don't start any shit or drag any shit inside y're not willing to finish whilst lookin' at my face wearin' it's prettiest scowl.

*He doesn’t work well without Amor by his side. And it isn’t the first time that Cassius has realised this. Only a handful of times has Cassius been in the position where he had to act alone. Without order. Amor does not give orders, but there is a comfort in his presence. Something warm and… Oddly inviting. Makes the cold marble of his skin feel something other than the plastic sheen of man-made toy. Makes him feel like a real person with a real personality and a real life and a…

[Cassius] He is a great lover of women. Likes a comfortable life. Has made sure that I too am comfortable.

*To call the persistent parody of flirtation and cheeky grins the combination that makes a great lover of women is pushing it a bit. But there is something in Cassius that makes him want to defend Amor. Even though it would be much easier to simply shrug and agree with Jangles’ words.

[Cassius] We’re not here to cause trouble, Sir. We wish to make trade. Nothing more.

*If Jangles has caught any defensiveness in the words of the Ward he doesn't show. Instead he simply smiles, eyes relaxed and mouth stretched just a tad too far for normalcy.

[Jangles] 'The beasts pushed the farthest love their commanders the most…'

*The Dreglander muses with a sharp tongue.

[Jangles] Ain't the State anymore, Wardling. The other Roy won't break if he'd help out in getting y'settled in... As long as y're having fun, ‘suppose. This here's a new start for a whole lot o' us. Chin up and cut a bit loose, 'll do y'good in the long run.

*His eyes wander back to the Compound and his little tent off to the side.

[Jangles] Words that put a jingle t'my step, friend. We'll get on famously. Can already tell.

*He steps away from the truck, pausing after a few strides and looking back at the partially put-up tent.

[Jangles] Y've got some more work cut you for'y and I know what I need — same as you. So ‘less there's somethin' more, Cass… Look if y're needin' anything — power, water, help,… Y'can ask around. Need me specifically go to the tent with the hairy elephant outside and ask for me.

[Cassius] Thank you, Sir.

*Wren sits on the recycled metal steps at the rear of their crude trailer, looking down into the small fire. They stretch their legs, their pale arms ending with black, corroded scarring at the elbows; beneath, baked clay appendages rest against the surface Wren sits on. Their stubby, ceramic digits flex a little bit as the remaining organics of their arms feel the chill breeze.

*It’s been a long few days travel. Their horse, Payment, rests towards the eastern side of the trailer, half-heartedly chewing grass; thinner and more weary-looking than when they had both set out, pursuing a signal of some interest to her rider.

*Wren’s ears perk as they begin to hear… metal… scratching and grinding on the winding mountain path they had so recently been traversing. Standing up into the cool clearing, they open and close their small, golemantic palms, awaiting the encroaching party onto their quiet rest.

*Kylar wanders down the trail, gently pulling his brown plough horse, Tera, along whilst she carries a sled full of scrap metal. Wearing mottled grey clothing his shape broken up, Seeing the small fire he smiles and approaches, carefully but with a soft smile on his weary face*

*Arriving at the camp Kylar sees Wren and offers a hand with sharp metal claws out*

[Kylar] Hello.

*Wren’s guarded eyes drift over Kylar as they raise to their full, fairly diminutive height. They raise a calming palm to Payment, who snorts, and begins to walk forward slowly.

[Wren]  Traveller.

*They nod respectfully, eyes never leaving the other.

*Kylar coughs.* S...sorry, throat is a bit dry, *He goes to his pack and grabs a canteen, leading Tera to the side, taking off the sled before sitting at the fire taking a swig.* The names Kylar, are you heading to the signal as well?

[Wren] Yes. My name is Wren. I am a healer.

*They take a long pause, before returning to sitting on the cool metal steps of their caravan.

[Wren] I was involved in some. Problems. In my old community. Offering my healing to another place seemed fruitful.

*Wren motions to a dull-black kettle hanging above the fire, rocking slightly from the heat of the flame.

[Wren] Nettle tea. If you’re so inclined.

[Kylar] Thank you. *Grabbing the kettle he fills his canteen* You’re a healer huh? *Taking a slow sip* Strange for one to leave a town, normally they’re so loved. What kind of healing? *Drawing into the ground with one claw*

*Wren shrugs lightly, taking the warm kettle’s wooden handle with one faintly-glowing hand. They fill a tin mug, and take a small drink.

[Wren] Normally so loved, I suppose. People around these parts are not always so. Trusting. Of things they do not grasp.

*They motion with their hands, an open shrug or a gesture enveloping themself, perhaps.

[Wren] You bring the new township… metals? Odds and Ends?

*Kylar laughs*- In a way, I’m a smith, I’ll take these and hopefully make whatever I can for the town, might not be much but hopefully it’ll help. You need something simple, a hoe or a pulley I can make it, I do dabble in other areas, mind you. *Still making scratches into the ground*

*Wren nods slowly, as if filing the information away carefully.

[Wren] That’s good. You sound useful to a growing town.

*They nod again, for confirmation.

[Wren] Are you trustworthy? We travel down the same road. Literally at this point.

[Kylar] I’d say so, I mean I do have a bow and arrows but they’re in the sled and they’re not used on anything living, I’m about as honest as a tradesman can be *Smiling* But…. *His eyes swirling grey, blinking to clear them they return to black* Everyone has their secrets.

*Wren keeps their hooded eyes focused on Kylar for a little while longer, and then returns to their tea.

[Wren] Do not touch a patient of mine. We will not have a problem, Grey-Eyes.

*They take a long sip, tilting the mug back and swallowing slowly, baring their throat. Apparently at ease.

Kylar- I’m not dangerous, I just have… demons, but if you’d rather I stayed away I will, my shop will always be open to you. *Taking another sip of the tea* Delicious tea *Pouring a small amount on the floor he mutters a few words and the tea freezes in the shape of a carrot, he gives it over to Tera.*

*Wren snorts, stirring their tea.

[Wren] There is fresh enough grass here anyway.

*They tilt their head towards Payment, who is chewing ineffectually through overgrown wild grass around the edge of the encampment.

[Wren] Wasteful magic use. Also.

*They fold their arms, apparently judgemental but with a small wry smile on their face. Still wary, but opening up slowly.

[Kylar] I don’t see it wasted, she’s had a long hard day and needs a treat, a simple trick nothing compared to what my school could and did do. *Smiling he scrubs out the runes he made on the floor, taking off the metal claws to show tough calloused hands with jet black nails, stretching out he smiles* So… *looking round* Travelled far?

*Wren pauses, looking back the way all four of them, human (Wren assumes…) and beast.

[Wren] Far enough. I hope.

*They nod with some small certainty, but their eyes don’t leave where they’ve come from. After an idling pause they shake their head softly, turning to face the smith once again. Look back into their caravan, and appear to come to a decision

[Wren] Have you eaten, Grey-eyes?

*They attempt a smile. It seems strained, tired beyond the small medic’s years.

[Wren] If we must travel together... The roads are dangerous. You being healthy would be safer. Not far now. To this signal, at least.

Kylar- Not yet, I’ve been looking all day for metals I can use to set up shop, I have food to share, unless you have something in mind? Sorry about the eyes, he likes to remind me sometimes.

*Kylar mutters a few words, a spell, smiling afterwards*

*They match his smile, putting less force into it. It’s more like a baring of teeth.

[Wren]  I have fish. Caught fresh, earlier. I can cook, if you want. Perhaps you reshoe Payment when we arrive.

*They incline their head towards the tired horse, her slow chewing a constant as the two mages speak, develop understanding.

[Wren] Allergic to anything? Butter? Fish?

*There’s a mirthless exhale of breath.

[Wren] Cold Iron? Inconvenient for a Blacksmith…

[Kylar] No allergies that I’m aware of and I’m sure I can find some way to make that work. *He goes to his sled a takes out a few different horseshoes* I’ve always got spares in case Tera throws one, just need to find the closest size and I won’t need heat.

[Kylar] *Walking over to Payment he carefully approaches with calming words* What’s their name? *Close enough he gets on a knee and compares shoes*

[Wren] Payment. She was the cost of healing. For a patient.

*Wren explains slowly, as if instructing a child. Methodically, over-pronouncing each word. They watch, outwardly blase as they tip two wide fishes, slightly crushed around their tails, into a dull iron pan. There’s a hiss that echoes as cooking begins to eat at and change the skins of the ex-fish.

*Kylar looks confused at the name* Strange name really, do you do that with all transactions? Or was this special?

[Kylar] *Finding the right shoe he lines it up* Ahhh a perfect fit, that’s lucky *He carefully hammers the shoe in place, making sure it’s secure before checking for other loose shoes*

[Wren] Depends. If they can pay, they pay. Or I take possessions. Like her. She was named otherwise before, but is mine now. And was payment, so it fits.

*They poke the fishes as they cook slowly, awkwardly swimming in the thinning, hot oil. Their ceramic fingers stir the pan carefully, clutching a thin pair of prongs between several thick digits.

[Wren] Do you only take money? You don’t look discerning enough for that.

[Kylar] Depends on the person, a farmer can’t work with a broken hoe, and being a poor farmer a broken hoe might be feeding his family or not. There are things however that I do ask payment for, even if it’s big or small, weapons for one, and trinkets imbued with spells.

*Getting up he dusts off his knees before sitting back down by the fire.*

[Wren] Wise. Magic should be kept… Secure.

*They nod once, tipping a fish onto a hewn wood plate and offering it to Kylar in one fluid movement, their ceramic fingers flexing softly, never particularly still.

[Wren] Eat while it is hot. Perhaps this can be a regular deal. If you are hungry and I need metallics.

[Kylar] Sounds like a good trade to me *Taking a small bite* Ooo hot hot hot… But very nice, I think a meal is good for work, need anything else done?

*Wren shrugs, chewing through the fishmeat, picking the bones clean and depositing them back onto the plate.

[Wren] Not yet. See what has survived the trip intact. Perhaps when we arrive.

*They motion to their crude caravan, once a State goods truck, picked clean of engine and gears. Stripped bare enough to be pulled by a single, weak horse, and laden with a temporary-looking array of medical paraphernalia and common survival gear.

[Wren] Probably enough there to keep you busy, Grey-eyes. Gear and my tools and things to repair. I’m sure.

*They shrug, setting the plate down after a relatively short time chewing, the bones now bare.

[Wren] When we arrive. Depending on how ‘Where we arrive at’ is.

*Wren stands, looking towards the source of the signal as they pick meat from between their small teeth. They look tiny, child-like against the wide sunset.

[Wren] Do you trust me to guard you? It will be a long night.

*They tilt their head, looking back at the blacksmith.

*Kylar laughs.*

[Kylar] I trust you, I’ve got very little to fear. *Grabbing a blanket from his sled he lies down by the fire.* Wake me when it’s my turn to guard. *Shutting his eyes.*

* At exactly 18:03 they venture from beyond the tank trucks and their nest of rusted metal. There are five of them, at the head a well-build man with a shorn head and small, deep-set eyes, a mishmash of metal set onto his torso to function as arms, a feature shared with some others in the small group.

* At his side a woman, or girl, with a stiff, reddish mohawk and several cables draped from her collarbones to her back like an odd cape.

* A sharp, shrill whistle silences the muttering crowds, the five continue down their path towards the immense noticeboard in the middle of the settlement.

* The man sets  foot upon the base of the giant structure. He locks eyes with the woman for a brief moment before he crawls up against the mesh of metal and plastic with surprising ease, like a lizard slithering up a wall.

* Once at the top he remains crouched for a while, eyes seeking the crowd. When the last of the crowd turns towards the board, his arms open and his smile widens.

[Jangles] There we are.

* His deep voice growls lowly as he rises to his full height, never lowering his arms.

[Jangles] Settle down. It's time for ya to look at my pretty mug an' listen to what I gotta say. I'm Jangles — Mister Jangles for those wantin' to keep a professional distance. It's a fucked word but I'm what substitutes for a leader 'round here. Does that mean y’gotta skirt ‘round me like I've got rabies? No it don't. I ain't looking to lord over y'all, only lookin' for common sense an' dignity. I'm here to ease all o' ya worries and take care a' problems.

* He lowers his arms slowly, joining the metal appendages in front of his chest.

[Jangles] I'm sure yer all lovely as can be! I'm sure all yer moms an' pops would vouch for all a' ya through a shithole an' back… But I know I ain't the same 'round my sweet mom… So I'm gonna play advocate and not assume I've gotta bunch o' heroes an' saints sittin' in front o' me. Which I don't really give a fuck about. Y'see this here's a judge-free environment. Y'wanna start a charity-case for every damned leper out there or y'wanna start a lil' factory run on the blood of your workers… I don't give a shit. You do you. Yer all old an' wise enough to know what yer doin' with yer lives.

* The man snaps upright, finger pointing to the sky.

[Jangles] But… Y’don't wanna get us involved. We're here to protect y'all — to a certain degree. We ain't yer private army. So when people come knocking on our door pushing a picture o' one of yer lovely faces into my mug… We might just hand you over on a silver platter if we don't wanna be bothered. 's A Dreggie complex. We don't take well to bein' bossed around without havin' a say in it. Otherwise we're real friendly-like.

* The man clears his throat, the woman at the bottom of the board snaps to attention, a lengthy pole suddenly tapping to the top-most sentence written on it.

[Jangles] We've got some rules just to keep this shithole from going to the dogs. So listen up. First off, ya'll've seen the little area beyond the tank trucks… That's our Compound. We ain't snoopin' between your sheets, we expect the same. Only with an escort or valid reason ya'll be allowed.

* The woman snaps her pole to the second point on the board.  

[Jangles] Second, ain't none of you startin' any sort of trouble in town. Y’wanna bash some heads, club some faces or burn a body… Not in fucking here yer not. Any beef, any frustration, go work that out outside of these walls.

* The pole ticks the third sentence.

[Jangles] Let's not start any shit either way, by keeping yer paws in yer own fuckn' pockets. Ya want stuff? Ya work for it. Nice an' simple like that. Short version: If y’think the affected party'll come running to me to complain… don't fuckn do it.

* The fourth one is addressed, the man goes silent for a little while, looking over the large amount of people in front of him. His metal fingers curl under his chin, he scratches the lengthy stubble in thought.

[Jangles] From the look of y'all I can already see some of yer special… not in the way that yer mom sees it neither. Some of y've got literal fire in yer blood, got a beast hidin' in yer heart or just wanna jump on the chance to bend some metal with the power o' yer mind. Lemme boil it down for all a' ya… Keep it in yer blood, in yer heart and in yer skull. Lotta these guys ain't comfortable ‘round that type a' shit and some of 'em are downright trigger-happy 'bout it. Is a bad quality… We're workin' on it, but ‘til then…

* The pole snaps to the image of an unhappy face surrounded by pickaxes, the symbol of coins and a running stick-figure.

[Jangles] Now we, Dreglanders, are one hell of a people. We're all talk and action. What's to happen to-ya should any o' you forget one of these easy-to-remember rules? That'll depend on the circumstances and how big of a deal y’made this into. Most of the times ya'll be payin' for it… Literally. We'll see y’starve if yer a familiar face for all the worst reasons. Y’can't pay? Ya'll be doin' labour for us. Can be anything from gathering slob, pickin' rocks or scrubbin' our trucks an' much worse as well. Now let's say y've been a massive lil' shit and just keep appearin' before me with a list, the length of my kindness, statin' all the things y've been doin' wrong… Yer gonna leave. Out the fuckn' door an' any attempts to return will be met with a lead kiss.

* His deadpan expression slowly melts away to reveal a smile — a smirk.

[Jangles] Now… That was some serious talk, scary talk even, but needed talk. We're lookin' to establish somethin' more than a wolf's den, a lil' piece a' home out in these lands to share. Rules're needed to keep some semblance a' peace. I'm sure I'll be best buds with all o' ya lovelies in no time at all. Any o' the rules not sittin' well with you? Any questions, concerns or just wanna see my pretty mug up close… ya'll can find me at the General Tradepost. It's the buildin' with the fake, hairy elephant outside… Real hard to miss.

* He takes a step back, his arms widening once more.

[Jangles] I've taken up 'nuff of your time now, so my lovelies… Get out there and do what you gotta!

* Another wide, lopsided smirk concluded with an eccentric bow.