Deceits & Deviations...

[The Cinderella Man]

((Closed to Abbie.))

The rain barraged the benighted landscape as if the mirky sky decided to flood the Radasanth streets and purge the filth with the infinite icy fingers. It was a galling rain, perpetually dancing on the thin line that separated it from turning into sleet, turning every tree into a manifesto of damp sadness and every clogged ditch into a sickly stew of decaying chunks of civilization. Every winding street was a battlefield lost to the saturated melancholy, reflecting the street lamps inertly, wearily, in blurs that seemed more fit for a genuine nightmare. And sure enough, Radasanth shadows could provide a monster or two to run from, hopelessly patting your feet on the glutinous tiles below, breaking mirroring puddles like mirrors with each panicky step. It was a disconsolate evening, a paradise for thieves and vampires, and hell for those that found themselves victims to the ceaseless pelting from above.

Strangely enough, tonight Victor was not one of the less fortunate. He was on a roll. Well, no, not really. Two back-to-back victories couldn’t exactly be called a roll, especially when they came as a result of sheer fluke. Two days prior he was set to fight Esien Swarsworth, a smalltime local puncher barely old enough to buy himself a pint of ale. Hell, the boy didn’t even have a proper ring nickname. Most just called him “The Kid”. But he had the jive, he moved like a cat on drugs, like a hyperactive stage performer that could do all those freaky moves like placing his legs behind his neck while yodeling. He could sneak a punch through an opening you didn’t even know existed, nipping at your cheekbone all night long. Unfortunately, the boy was like fireworks, he burst in the first round then faded away in the rest of the bout. Victor took the punches, then crashed a piledriver at his face once he burned out. It reminded him of the first time he wore gloves and got pounded by a rookie. Hasty fighters always overextend themselves.

The second fight was the one that took him away from the rain tonight. He was paired with a favorite, Swen Sears, “The Crowbar”. The picturesque nick came from the performance that preceded his every fight. He would take a crowbar, set it on the back of his neck, then bend it forwards with his bare hands as if it was made of tin. Needless to say, he was a landmass of muscles, a machine set to bludgeon to death. Losing the fight was nothing compared to what this guy could take away from you. Strangely enough, he fell in the first, after mere thirty seconds. Victor clinched, rifling a pair of rights right below the ribs just so the time passed. The big sweaty pile of meat before him yelped, clenched for his side and fell as if stabbed by a dagger. The surgeons mentioned something about the damage taken from the last fight, some technical smartass way to explain that they have no idea what really happened, though they were pretty certain it was...

Well, who cared at that point anyways. Victor won and he couldn’t believe it. His temporary handler couldn’t believe it. The bookie didn’t want to believe it. It was then that he was approached by a sleazy aristocrat with a toothy grin, an ironed dark blue suit, a pair of scandalous vixens on his flanks and a golden chain thick enough to feed half of slums. “You earned me a lot of money today, sonny.” he spoke, jingling an ample sack of gold coins. “Here, to pay you back. You’ll need some leisurely time after this.” He pushed a piece of paper beneath the thumb of his glove before he nodded to the two dames to follow him out of the arena. Victor pulled his hand out of the warmth of the glove and turned the card. It was an invitation to the ball tomorrow. Some big kahuna from some elven lands paraded through Corone with his jewelry collection and tomorrow night would be the grand opening of the exhibit. Victor didn’t care about any of that sparkly mumbo-jumbo. Balls like that meant free food and lots of it. He went to the market, bought a new attire from a local smuggler for some twenty-odd gold pieces and entered the realm of barracudas that would devour each other for a fistful of gold.

Suffice to say, he was sticking out like sore thumb. Courtesans and dames - heavily powdered, clad in gigantic voluminous evening gowns, carrying strong scents of expensive perfumes - were prancing around with gentlemen with oily pulled back hairdos, tail-coats and a stick up their behinds. They drank and ate and conversed about how the price of gold in Raiaera is effecting the Corone lumber market and how the service on this party is slow and overpaid and how the baron’s wife is either pregnant or gaining weight. This meaningless jabber alone was enough to make Victor regret ever coming here. None of them came here because the jewel, the fabled “Rose Red” that stood in a separate chamber, surrounded by vigilant guards, twinkling in its scarlet hue like a bloody teardrop of the gods. No, they came here to mingle, to present themselves and prove just how important they were.

But the food was good, so Victor stuck around, subtly circling around the laden table, careful not to reveal just how much of a stranger he was here.

[Abbie]

Rose Red... All day long, the pooka had been seeing large gems in everything. Her hair in the mirror, the pocketwatch that man had been using, even some child's lolipop. The headlines had been clear in the paper, stating that a ball would be held to celebrate the display of the artifact, which was said to have some kind of mysterious power. Practically drooling over it, she was too distracted to choose an outfit, and instead pickpocketed enough money to have someone else dress her.

"Dreamscape Tailoring Company" was a small but busy shoppe, and thankfully quick. After telling the head tailor of her need for a gown for tonight's gala, he counted her gold and led her to the fitting room. Within a few hours, she was draped in gold silk, the material hugging her every curve from the waist up, flaring at the hips to accent her figure, and falling gently to the floor. The top alone was a work of art, the bodice firm enough to press her breasts up deliciously, and low enough to show off the resulting cleavage, with strips of fabric encircling her upper arms passing as sleeves. Adorning her dainty feet was a pair of two inch heeled sandals that laced around her entire foot and up her calf to just below her knee.

Entranced by all the gold, Abbie wasn't even aware of how it brought out the green in her eyes, or enhanced the red of her hair. Slipping it all off carefully, she left the stolen gold in the capable tailor's hands, boxing up the gown and shoes and stepping out the door. I have just enough time to get a bath before the ball, so I'd better hurry. With hurried steps and light feet, she hurried back to the tavern she was staying at this week, the Golden Porkchop. Waving at the inn keeper, whose name she had forgotten, she stopped long enough to request a hot bath and some lavendar soaps and oils. Ever since that strange night a few months ago, she had been addicted to the stuff...

An hour later, she was clean and wet, smelling of fresh flowers, and standing in front of her mirror in her underpants, trying to work out a hairstyle. Twisting the flaming strands in every direction, she finally decided that she would pin it into a sort of seashell shape on the back of her head, leaving her bangs to sweep gently over one eye and tuck behind her left ear. Next, she slid the silk confection over her body, pulling it up to her chest, before realizing she couldn't fasten the clasps on her back.

Clutching the fabric to her naked chest, she opened the door, yelling rather un-daintily down the hall for assistance. Within a few minutes, a barwench appeared, and kindly hooked her up. Thanking her, Abbie gave her a gold she had pilfered earlier and told her not to let management know about it. After she left, the pooka adored herself in the mirror for a few minutes, dreaming of a crown upon her brow. With a faint sigh, she turned away, quickly locking her belongings into her beloved chest and sliding it into it's spot under the bed.

Half an hour later, the pooka was arm in arm with a diplomat from some other country, though which one she couldn't say. Her smile and charm had convinced him that she belonged at the ball, so he took her in himself, despite argument from the herald. Once inside, Abbie complained of thirst and, ignoring her 'date' and his protests, headed for the hors d'oeuvres, her love of free food taking over for the moment. As she collected food down the line, she failed to notice a rather burly gentleman toward the end of the table, and gently bumped elbows with him. Turning quickly, she apologized, her voice soft and sweet. "I'm so sorry, please excuse me..." Her voice trailed off as she looked into his face. Not bad...

[The Cinderella Man]

Victor wasn’t certain who was responsible for the meticulously arranged appetizers, but whoever it was earned the scorn of the boxer within minutes. Aesthetic aspects and picturesque arrangement aside, the food was as edible to him as if it was made out of wax. Half of the trays filled with hors d'oeuvres seemed like they forgot to kill whatever they served (especially something that looked like slimy squid rolls filled with caviar) and the other half was exquisitely seasoned in the manner that made him want to vomit. This mostly referred to the multitude of meat fragments that found themselves trapped in lilliputian skewered sandwiches, alongside pieces of various fruit that seemed to mistakenly wind up in the midst of something that ought to be salty. Victor wasn’t royalty, he wasn’t even well-off to enjoy these kind of delicacies, but there was a simple rule when it came to food. Sweet equaled desert, salty equaled entrée and the two weren’t supposed to mix. Ever.

So while the refined crowd around him continued their endless yammering, exchanging partners like socks, he wound up measuring the loaded table like a picky nobleman that couldn’t decide whether or not would the food sit right on his sensible stomach. Truth was, he just couldn’t force himself to try another sweet-sour-whatever combination that would make him swallow hard. Again. But the wine was good - he had to at least admit that to the organizer of this convention of pompous pricks - and he was out of the rain and that was reason enough not to count the gifted horse’s teeth.

He was just done with placing a couple of oddly colored shrimps (For how else would one describe a greenish shrimp?) on the porcelain plate in his hand when something struck his elbow. His forearm’s balance was disrupted, the curly arthropods rolling from the plate and splashing into the half-empty punchbowl. Victor thought that was maybe for the best; they didn’t look too well to him in any case. The reason for the shrimp’s skinny dipping in the scarlet liquid apologized instantly, her voice dulcet and soft as she looked up at the boxer’s face. Despite his demeanor that usually stood between melancholy and acrimony, he responded to her apology as he responded to all apologies; with a courteous smile.

“Don’t worry about it. I wasn’t going to eat that anyways. Green colored shrimps aren’t really my favorite food.” he responded, his voice so obviously mundane and un-noble that he almost felt ashamed given the environment and the tantalizing woman that stood before him. She failed to deviate from the profile of the women that pranced around these halls at regular basis, grandiose and perfect and breathtakingly beautiful in her golden attire that simply hooked your eyes and forced them to her cherubic face, to her fiery hair, to her bare flesh. She wasn’t out of his league. They weren’t even playing the same game. At the end of the day she probably lay in a bed that cost more then he could earn if sold himself as a slave. But just for the fun of it - and because he would probably never get a chance to court such a dainty dame - he decided to play along.

“Funny, I thought Rose Red was in the other hall.” he spoke, his smile widening ever so slightly, maybe even a tad knavishly, as he made the remark. “Maybe we could go and check if I’m right. To tell you the truth...” Victor paused, his eyes straying from her captivating emerald eyes and making a swift survey of the proximity. “...I’m getting tired of this portentous bunch and their jabber. I’m Victor, by the way.”

He offered his hand to the woman, once again displaying his roughness around the edges when it came to manners and secretly expecting a pouting rejection. Women like the one before him were mind-readers, able to look into your eyes and see both your pockets and your heritage. They were trained their entire lives to catch the big one, the fat juicy nobleman with coins seeping out of his ass. He obviously didn't fit the profile, but he played along all the same. When you had nothing, you had nothing to lose.

[Abbie]

As the target of her accidental bumping turned toward her, the world seemed to fade. Musicians playing only a short distance from them sounded as though they were in another building. Dancers swaying and twirling blended into the background, like figments of a dream. For a moment, Abbie could only stare at the man, his burly mass breathtaking to even the most chaste of women. Imagining how silly she must look with her mouth curled into a small 'o', here eyes wide as jade saucers, she smiled tightly at him, hoping she didn't appear judgemental. His offer to move to the next room at once frightened and intrigued her, and her eyes moved over his shoulders as she considered the idea.

Let's see, get closer to a man that could snap me like a twig, or try my luck with Mr. Snootypants? He's gorgeous... And I would get near the jewel without much suspicion... But being alone with him? Can I handle that? Play it cool, Abigail, you can do this. Take a deep breath, look up into those eyes, smile graciously, and walk away with him.

Focusing once again, the pooka looked down to see a large hand being offered. Stretching out her own, she rested it on his in the most courtly of fashions, then tilted her chin upward to facilitate eye contact. As jade met dark chocolate, she felt her heart skip a beat, utterly bewildering the virgin thief. Fear touched her heart, causing her to tremble slightly, but she ignored it. Jewel, just remember the jewel... Though it wavered against the emotions conflicting within her, her smile shone brightly as she nodded acceptance to the giant of a man.

"I'd love to accompany you, Mister...?" Her soft voice sounded strong to her trained ears, belying her internal struggle. Still clutching her plate with her other hand, she no longer cared what was on it. Most of her thoughts were a jumbled mess, her heart was pounding insanely within her ribcage, even her breathing was odd. A light blush went over her porcelain features, coloring her flesh from forehead to cleavage with just a hint of pink. I don't know what's going on, but I'm not going to let it take me over. I need to focus, and get the gem, and this man will help me whether he means to or not! The thoughts, though stern and determined, were weak compared to the confusion in her.

[The Cinderella Man]

She smiled like only true dames could - stunningly beautiful and cryptic enough to make it certain that there was some work in progress beyond those emeralds, but that the process was kept safer then the jewel in the room adjacent to this one. She even accepted his hand – her touch suave and warm enough to raise the room temperature – despite the fact that he failed to display the appropriate manners and kiss it like every clotheshorse in this pompous bunch probably would. But still, Victor felt the distinct urge to put up his dukes and prepare his defenses for the scowl that was bound to follow the initial surprise.

Oddly enough, the response that came from the stunning maiden before him wasn’t the one his mind projected. Her smile stayed on, dissolving his bitter shell like acid, and she responded affirmatively to his proposition in a delicate mellisonant tone. She even developed a blush, vague and almost indiscernible, just brushing over her perfect tan like a puff of cherry powder. His mind begged his eyes to follow that faint rosiness down her neck and to her stately cleavage, but he kept them fixated on her own. He was no noble, but he wasn’t a jerk either. Despite being somewhat of a lonewolf his entire life, he had a good perception why women wore attires as revealing as the one the majestic girl wore. It wasn’t just because they liked to be looked at, but to tempt a man, to put him to a test and make him sneak in a devilish glance. If you looked directly, you were a bastard. If you didn’t look, you were an ignorant bastard. But if you used some discretion...

Hoping to get a chance for that later, Victor first had to fend of his own surprise at her acceptance. His inquiry was a long shot and his pessimistic mind already designated it as a failure. That was why for a second or two he didn’t register her question, but rather just stood there with a perplexed smile, searching for a sensible response in the lively viridity of her eyes. He failed to find any, but his mind managed to jumpstart his tongue once again.

“Uhm... Callahan.” his head shook a little bit, his smile widening in apology for his lack of focus at the moment. “Victor Callahan...” and then, after a short pause that wouldn’t be there if he was a true noble. “...my lady.”

He hated how he was never a ladies man, how he couldn’t walk into a room and own it with his presence, how he couldn’t woo or solicit or whatever the people smarter and more charismatic then he could do. But you play with the cards you are dealt and right now it seemed that he played the right one because, at least for a short while, he would have the pleasure of her company. He offered her a crook of his arm – it was one fragment of conduct he noticed other men do around the room rather often – and once she accepted it with her disturbingly soft hands, he led the way through the room.

Eyes fell on them like the torrent outside. He was certain he wasn’t the reason for those spearing glances, but irregardless he never felt in the center of attention of such magnitude. Not even when he fought in Scara Brae for the title of the champion, where thousands cheered his name. Arena crowd is different somehow, their eyes are more mundane, more simple, they stared without the guile and concealed thoughts that now surrounded him like infinite unspoken whispers. He didn’t feel like he was leaving the room, but rather that the multitude of eyes somehow pushed him out. Either way, he nearly sighed in relief once the two found themselves in a short hallway that connected the ballroom with the room where Rose Red was displayed.

“So, do you have a name or should I just call you Rose Red? Not that I mind either way.” he asked, feeling like he’s stumbling over his own words and feeling a little bit like a schoolboy that just walked hand in hand with that girl from the class that he liked. He knew this was nothing like that though. Her kind seldom associated with his kind and even if they did, it was strictly superficial. Unless she was one of those renegade daddies’ little daughters that liked to cause a fuss just to spite her strict upbringing. Victor didn’t mind either way. He was lucky just to be amidst these lofty walls in the first place.

[Abbie]

Treading through her inner turmoil, the beautiful thief stayed alongside the handsome, burly fighter, drawing eyes from every corner of the room. His gentlemanly behavior was not lost on her, and despite her best efforts to ignore it, she felt her heart warming to him. Focus, girl, focus! Once he introduced himself, she felt a slight flutter in her stomach as he tripped over his own name, and a thrill in her mind at the term 'lady' being applied to her. Don't get too excited, he doesn't know! If he did, you would never be a lady to him. That dream is far away, Abigail.

Coarse, dark fabric tickled her soft fingertips as she entwined her arm with his, the warmth of his body further seducing her senses. Behind her, she could hear whispers of jealousy, but they melted away, along with the faces of the cold hearted as they made their way past them to the display room. Beneath her feet, the carpet even seemed to fade, replaced by air, though they remained aloft. Glancing down while he asked for her name, Abbie forced herself to imagine chains bracing her ankles, the sheer weight a reminder of the dangers of relationships. That firmly in mind, she turned to him slightly as they stopped just before the case that held Rose Red. "My name is Lady Abigail, though in my homelands my status is slightly more elevated. My friends call my Abbie."

Moving her eyes along his arm up to his face, she felt trapped by the heat in his dark eyes, her heart beating wildly. Swallowing a bit, she tore her gaze from his, looking around the room, searching for sanity. This was a bad idea... I need to get away from him, he's making me crazy! Instead her eyes met darkly panelled walls, tapestries of untold richness draping along the surfaces; pale cream, gold-threaded marble flooring reflecting all that stood in the room; and archways leading to darkened rooms directly ahead and to the left, not counting the one they had come through. Her gaze once again drew to the ruby, the large stone encased in a cream colored silk prison. No glass, this should make for an easy steal. What a pity. With inexplicable care, she avoided the eyes of her companion, terrified of losing sight of her goal, or worse.

[The Cinderella Man]

Victor didn’t have a slightest idea what were these homelands where she was held in a higher esteem, but wherever it was, the folk there obviously had an eminent sense of discernment. When it came to Radasanth royalty, royal wasn’t really the word you wanted to use to describe their demeanor once the curtain was down. Decent wasn’t the word either. The prizefighter thought mucus seemed like a good description, but that was an expression that only his mind’s voice spoke. Because you couldn’t go around Radasanth traducing the big guns and expect to get a legal bout within its walls. So it was a truth that he held to himself, a little behind-the-scenes factoid that lowlifes like him couldn’t afford to whisper about.

And it was the truth. He was certain that nine out of ten of the self-proclaimed gentlemen in the ballroom would be more then ready to pay a hefty sum for what they titled pleasure of company of the girl that walked beside him. The remaining one wouldn’t pay not because he his coffers were running low or because he wasn’t a sleazeball, but because he was, most likely, impotent. Either way, the pleasure of company was more often then not everything but pleasure for one of the parties. Victor knew this firsthand not because he was one of those sly bastards, but because, while he was at the top of his game, he had a peek behind the curtain. And on parties such as this one, few of there gentlemen wound up in a bed with their wives. Fidelity certainly wasn’t one of the paramount characteristics when it came to royalty.

Abigail (Victor was rather certain that he still wasn’t enough of an acquaintance to call her Abby) didn’t seem like one of those money-hungry floozies to Victor and his judgment of character was something he was proud of. Even if didn’t work as often as he wanted it to. Right now it was telling him that the delicate redhead was everything but a sly minx. In fact, this fabled judgment of character that he believed in was screaming at him that she was the purest fairest creature that ever graced the world of Althanas. It also stated that she was the kind of a girl men gave their lives for, the one-in-a-million. Of course, the fact that most of these truths weren’t coming from his sensible head went overlooked, shadowed by the improbable closeness that even his wildest fantasies failed to predict when he got up this morning.

He rummaged through his mind for a touch of charismatic wittiness that would enable him to form a compliment with finesse, something about the ungratefulness of these lands towards somebody like her, but verbosity and getting hit in the head for the living seldom went hand in hand. The best he could come up with was: “People here are rather slow to catch up, but I think if you stick around parties like this one, your reputation is bound to leap up soon enough.” He paused, his eyes managing to survey her luscious figure in an inadvertent look, before he looked at her face that stood locked on the majestic jewel. His mouth opened in an attempt to add something about how people on these kinds of gatherings liked to parade around with their titles, but a part of him decided that it might be inappropriate. The other part of him was just stunned by what his eyes observed. His mind found enough sense to close his mouth before his muteness started to look conspicuous.

“A real beauty, isn’t it?” he finally said, then decided to clarify and join her in the observation of the ruby that stood on the suave plush. “The stone, I mean. There is a rumor that it has some magical properties, but the owner refuses to reveal anything about it. I think it’s either something rather powerful or it’s all a bunch of...”

He wanted to conclude with either horseshit or baloney, but never had a chance to do either. Because even as he was about to conclude – in a manner rather unfit for a gentleman role he was playing – a pair of narrow stained windows that stood some ten feet above the floor burst inwards, spilling the colorful glass like a rain. And even as the sound of the broken glass ripped through the monotony of the party and the guards – four of them, all clad in heavy shinny armor, wielding halberds – snapped their heads to the source of the sound, the torches that enlightened the room all went out at once. The armor-clad guards rattled like a tin cans as they tried to protect Rose Red, the one closest to the boxer and his companion seeming awfully jumpy. It was enough for Victor to pull both of them backwards a little bit as what sounded like something sliding down a length of rope could be heard from above his head. The neighbor room, where the lords and ladies discussed and congratulated themselves on being rich only seconds ago, fell into a mayhem of murmurs and whispers.

Victor didn’t care much about wither the sizeable jewel or the commotion in the ballroom or the thieves that lurked above. His prime concern was the guard that, despite the darkness, had a very good idea where Abigail and Victor stood. And he seemed pretty certain that they had their fingers in this thievery attempt. But instead of reaching them, the four armored figures fell almost simultaneously, their metal apparel brattling on the polished stone floor. And then all was silent.

[Letho]

Letho knew anonymous tips were a lot like chestnuts that managed to survive until early spring in a canvas sack, stashed somewhere in the basement. He knew that because, come autumn, he liked to grill the chestnuts and eat them. Myrhia didn’t quite understand his ardor towards grilled chestnuts because, truth be told, they didn’t taste all that good. She didn’t know it was about that specific smell that he liked, the smell of autumn that was simply too unique to describe. But, as most chestnut grillers knew, if you tried to save some for the winter or even spring, you were bound to find more spoiled ones then the edible ones. You grilled them, opened them out, found them rotten, and did that with at least two thirds. The same went for anonymous tips.

From the moment that he heard the news that some stuck-up elf is coming to present his distinguished piece of jewelry known as Rose Red, he knew that trouble was bound to come in tow. Radasanth Crime Syndicate was never more powerful and there was little doubt that a fist-sized ruby would pique their interest. Though the usual canaries that spilled their beans for a fistful of coins spoke of no particular preparations when it came to the RCS. But it didn’t matter, because freelancers were almost as common as those that certified themselves as a part of the Syndicate. And freelancers, like most filth, gathered around opportunities like this one like horseflies around a fresh piece of dung.

All of this, however, wasn’t Letho’s usual business. The law and order within cities was upheld and maintained by the Corone Armed Forces and he was a Ranger with a station in a small town in the sweet middle of nowhere. His dominion was the wilderness, not the stone of the Radasanth streets. But Leeahn Festian, one of the few people that Letho actually called a friend nowadays, asked the Marshal to oversee this matter for him. The captain of the town guard said that the protection of something as high-profile as a visit from a Raiaeran merchant wasn’t just a matter of preservation of order within the Corone realm, but the maintenance of good diplomatic relations with the elf countries. Letho thought it was just a sugarcoated way to say that he didn’t trust his usual legion of buffoons and wanted somebody from the outside on the job.

The anonymous tip only amplified the doubt. Letho suspected that somebody was going to make a move, but when he received a crummy piece of paper, there was little doubt left. However, instead of making the stone safe by tightening up the security or being at the ball himself, he opted for a different approach. Instead of disabling the thieves from stealing Rose Red, he decided to lure them into doing just that. The four guards in the lobby were mere token figures that were supposed to give out an illusion of casualness, while Letho and about two dozen guards hid around the museum, creating a perimeter. When the ruckus started, they would charge in and catch the perpetrators with their hands in the cookie jar. It was a simple plan and it started to unravel as the first window shattered into a thousand of pieces.

When Letho came crashing through the backdoor (that were supposed to be sealed shut), the only light in the benighted environment was the flash of his gunblade and the only sound was the thunder of his high caliber weapon. He saw two dark figures hanging from a rope above the display case and shot them down, sending their bodies spinning and sprouting blood like a fountain. Two more prowled down on the floor, their movements agile and uncannily fast, but the Marshal was faster, unloading the spent casing with a flick of his wrist and loading a fresh one. A fraction of a second later, the figure’s lung was splattered on the red-and-gold tapestry that must’ve cost a fortune. Letho reloaded again and shot down the last remaining figure just as it started moving like a cat, climbing up the wall with desire to escape. The adjacent room packed with royalty was in evident tumult, most men asking just what the hell do you chaps think you’re doing? and most women saying that this is just preposterous! All of them seemed to shut their traps once the gunfire started and seemed smaller then a mouse when it ceased.

In the room where the Rose Red rested on a velvety cushion, the petroleum torches flickered lowly at first and then came back to life, enlightening the room gently. The four armored guards were dead, daggers sticking out of their scruffs, and they were joined by four figures dressed in flexible black skin-tight clothes. The smell of gunpowder was an unwelcome guest in such refined environment just like the splattered blood that tainted the walls and the glass the crackled under Letho’s boots as he advanced through the room. He noticed with a corner of his eye that the display case was empty, but seemed undisturbed by it. Why should he when the perpetrators stood before him? The Winchester rifle mechanism reloaded his massive gunblade as he approached the pair that stood near the showcase. He knew them both, one a small time crook and the other a washed-out prizefighter that fought like a bum. And suddenly, they too seemed like they didn’t belong in this environment. He picked up his weapon – the Lawmaker inscription prominent on both sides of the tawny blade – and pointed it towards the pair.

“Alright, you two. Talk! Where’s the rock?”

[Abbie]

<please leave open as we are simply waiting for the end of another thread before continuing>

[Letho]

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