Sorry, Rosch. Stocke had gotten himself mixed up in shady business all over again. It was almost a knack.
(That said, it wasn't Heiss's world-destroying brand of shady business, so that was an improvement, right?)
The shade didn't say much, just a silent nod of acknowledgement over his shoulder when Rosch reassured him he'd be able to see, tendrils flickering up and down - in the dark, more suggestions of unnatural movement at his back than dinstinct limbs. It wasn't until Rosch said 'It's like they're afraid of us or something...' that Stocke hesitated. He didn't quite have enough time to answer, choosing words, before the man was asking about the native's protective borders, falling behind to stare at them - and the monsters' responses, more recently. Since Rota...
"'Man-eaters' was no exaggeration," the shade said, quiet, when Rosch caught up once more. And - "They're warding us off." But if Rosch was going to say anything about that, it'd have to wait, since apparently they'd gotten to wherever they were headed - 'Devil's Nest,' words emblazoned above the door exclaimed, soft red light spilling it through the windows and cutting through the evening's gloom. Noisy, too - business was starting to pick up with the night's coming, chatter and a pulse of music and maybe the ocassional yell spilling out into the street.
Stocke slipped through the door, holding it open behind him for Rosch to grab, then scanned the bar floor, the counter. Whoever he was looking for didn't seem to be around - his eyes fell on the twisting spiral staircase past the bartender, jagged, narrow iron.
(Some of the patrons inside turned their heads to look at the door as the two entered, greeting Rosch with a full array of spider-eyes, glimmering scales, mussed feathers. One flicked a wolf-like ear in his direction, then turned dark, canine eyes on the Gauntlet and finally on Rosch's face. The monster nudged another seated next to him - one wrapped around the stool rather than on it, with nothing but a giant snake tail for a lower body.)
(All seemed careful, suspicious - at least until spotting Stocke. There they relaxed - evidently, the shade was a familiar face around these parts, and trusted enough to bring in someone who didn't have any obvious monster traits at first glance.)
Stocke cut across the floor to the bartender, catching their attention. Tonight: young, almost - until you saw the flash of red eyes, the glint of sharp teeth when she spoke, fangs far longer than a human being's. "Is Greed here?" Stocke asked her, arms crossed over the wooden counter; she answered in the negative, and the shade's tendrils gave a small, resigned wave.
"Pass on a message?" The bartender nodded, and they swapped a few more words - a matter of seconds - before the shade trailed back over to Rosch and motioned towards the door.
no subject
(That said, it wasn't Heiss's world-destroying brand of shady business, so that was an improvement, right?)
The shade didn't say much, just a silent nod of acknowledgement over his shoulder when Rosch reassured him he'd be able to see, tendrils flickering up and down - in the dark, more suggestions of unnatural movement at his back than dinstinct limbs. It wasn't until Rosch said 'It's like they're afraid of us or something...' that Stocke hesitated. He didn't quite have enough time to answer, choosing words, before the man was asking about the native's protective borders, falling behind to stare at them - and the monsters' responses, more recently. Since Rota...
"'Man-eaters' was no exaggeration," the shade said, quiet, when Rosch caught up once more. And - "They're warding us off." But if Rosch was going to say anything about that, it'd have to wait, since apparently they'd gotten to wherever they were headed - 'Devil's Nest,' words emblazoned above the door exclaimed, soft red light spilling it through the windows and cutting through the evening's gloom. Noisy, too - business was starting to pick up with the night's coming, chatter and a pulse of music and maybe the ocassional yell spilling out into the street.
Stocke slipped through the door, holding it open behind him for Rosch to grab, then scanned the bar floor, the counter. Whoever he was looking for didn't seem to be around - his eyes fell on the twisting spiral staircase past the bartender, jagged, narrow iron.
(Some of the patrons inside turned their heads to look at the door as the two entered, greeting Rosch with a full array of spider-eyes, glimmering scales, mussed feathers. One flicked a wolf-like ear in his direction, then turned dark, canine eyes on the Gauntlet and finally on Rosch's face. The monster nudged another seated next to him - one wrapped around the stool rather than on it, with nothing but a giant snake tail for a lower body.)
(All seemed careful, suspicious - at least until spotting Stocke. There they relaxed - evidently, the shade was a familiar face around these parts, and trusted enough to bring in someone who didn't have any obvious monster traits at first glance.)
Stocke cut across the floor to the bartender, catching their attention. Tonight: young, almost - until you saw the flash of red eyes, the glint of sharp teeth when she spoke, fangs far longer than a human being's. "Is Greed here?" Stocke asked her, arms crossed over the wooden counter; she answered in the negative, and the shade's tendrils gave a small, resigned wave.
"Pass on a message?" The bartender nodded, and they swapped a few more words - a matter of seconds - before the shade trailed back over to Rosch and motioned towards the door.