RP:Corny Runs the Gauntlet, Part One

Background

This is part of the Kurgan's Run story arc.

Cornelius Von Penzance becomes the next victim of the mind-vampire Eldritch. And while Corny's no pushover, few can withstand the memory-laced illusions that help the Chaos Lord to feed and grow strong.

Back to the Present, and Elsewhere in the Fortress

Cornelius had watched Amadeo running ahead of him in what was becoming a veritable maze of dark-stoned corridors when, to Cornelius' delight, the man took what the dandy considered to be a wrong turn. As the Lycan again turns left down one junction, Cornelius waits a moment, then takes the right, certain that those scuff marks would have to belong to Mahri. He picks up speed again, sabre bouncing at his hip, adopting the easy lope which would best preserve his stamina. Seconds become minutes and tens of minutes with no sign of Mahri. Cornelius continues, carefully refusing to acknowledge his mind's demand to recognise the sheer impossibility of the route he has now taken. Logically, the number of turns and distance covered should have lead him to any number of dead ends by now, and yet the grim stonework seems to delight in twisting and turning Cornelius down disconcertingly similar passageways, the air becoming cold as sweat from his exertion evaporates. At last, with a jerk of his head, he forces himself to cease all movement, adopting stillness and silence as he carefully forces his thoughts into a place of calm analysis.

Before the dandy's eyes, and from the dark of the obscure ceiling above, a pale and inverted figure descended, slowly and upside-down - a shock of pale hair, chalk-white skin, an equally chalky grin, as though hanged by the feet from some invisible rope, useless eyes obscured by red-glazed goggles and silvery facial rings glinting sharply in the odd and sourceless light there. Hardly food for calm contemplation, Garath snickered and raised his scarred hand for a finger-wiggle of a wave. "Evenin' Guv." The body fell, twisting in a blur of gangly limbs. The rogue elf landing deftly and without a sound. "Got a little job for ya. If you're up for a lark."

Cornelius blinks, tilts his head in surprised curiosity. It had been three hundred years since he had last seen the albino who had, on top of his own Maestro's lessons, taught him the necessary skills to survive Vailkrin's streets. Elf or no, three centuries is a long time for so business-like an introduction, and Cornelius' instincts scream for caution. But nostalgia is a powerful motivator, and so, misgivings notwithstanding, Cornelius sketches a slight salute in the same way he always had "What ho, Garath old bean. I can't imagine what kind of work you'd have going on here which could keep me diverted, my good man. Do elucidate, wot"

The elf poked a forefinger into the aperture of one long ear, twisting it. He pulled the finger out, inspecting his fingertip with a frown for the duration of Cornelius' reply. "Been on the brandy, Penzance?" Garath lifted the glassy red disks that did him for eyes to the dark walls, a white hand stretching forth in a sweeping gesture. "Where d'you think we are? The feckin' Kelay town hall?" And the streets of old Vailkrin came to life around them, carriages and urchins, coarse laughter pouring from tavern doorways, the inevitable shadows passing by in cloaks and cowls. "Still. You're as good drunk as me second best, sober. D'you want the job or not? Nice bit o'lolly in it for ya."

Cornelius puts a hand to his head as if to physically restrain the strange sense of pressure building up. Rationally, this entire scene was patently impossible. But something within him demanded suspension of disbelief. Cornelius could be home again. He could -go home- again, and with the wide grin of success his children had loved so much, for it had always meant an unbelievably tall tale would be that night's send-off to sleep. As the ache in his heart drowns out the voice of reason in his head, he gives in to the illusion, responding to his old comrade-in-arms "No more than usual, you bleached tormentor of ears. The challenge had better be as sweet as the lolly, wot, or I'll charge double the time after. I still haven't forgiven you for overstating the fencing skill of the De Vartzen lad two months ago, old bean. Disgrace to have bloodied my blade on such lacklustre prey. What are we doing?"

Garath said, "There's no 'we' about it, Penzance. One-man job. Fat bastard down th' merchant district needs somethin' cleaned up. I told him I'd send the janitor 'round." The grin he gave the dandy was sickly, "Got Joles on another gig, other side 'town. Figured you for it." From one of the several pockets in his leather coat, the elf tugged a scrap of parchment, clamped between his fore and middle fingers. This was waved, "Job's wet." That grin again. "Maybe y'can convince 'im to stand still while ye gab 'im to death."

Cornelius chuckles, and with a swift movement deftly plucks the parchment from the albino's hand "Every deuced time, we have to play 'pluck the paper'. One day, old bean, I'll be fast enough to pick your pocket and replace your wallet with a scorpion for a laugh." He takes a glance at the paper, one hand fidgeting with his waistcoat "Janitor my spectacular ass. Janitors don't get paid anywhere near this amount, and you know it. I rather think someone's become too influential in the silk markets to survive the attention." He snaps the fingers of his free hand by the piece of paper, causing a small, colourful flame to leap up just long enough to ignite the parchment bearing his instructions. "Consider the trash as good as taken out, my good man." Beneath Cornelius' growing excitement for the job at hand, a tiny voice tries to make itself heard, but its warning is washed away by the strong sense of nostalgia, by the sense -rightness- to this homecoming.

Garath grunted, one leather-clad shoulder lifted and dropped, which might have been a rare moment of genuine amusement. The sociopath's glassy stare turned toward the street as he spoke. "I'd not recommend that, Penzance. Hard to hold a sword with no feckin' fingers, innit." He watched the paper burn, a brief flare in the gloom, "Ten percent o'that's me finder's fee. An' there's a clock runnin', I might add. You saw it. He wants it done at that hour, and no other. One minute sooner'n there ain't no lolly."

Cornelius grins "I'd blind you with the bloody stumps, and put a dent in your codpiece and ability to reproduce, old bean." He ponders the slightly unusual instructions "It's not the first job I've done where the timing has been key to things. I imagine this is to be an object lesson for some other rising star of the commercial quarters, one suddenly made possible by an unexpected but opportune meeting, given the haste with which this request was penned." Cornelius' grin broadens to a malicious, cheshire thing as he says "I think you may be right, Garath. I might indeed 'gab him to death' as you so eloquently put it. I suppose I had best be off to get this sorted, wot."

As ever, there was no protracted farewell from the pale criminal. Garath was there one moment, the next he was a monochromatic absence in progress. The street had grown very quiet beyond the lip of the alley where they'd stood, dim lights flickering from the streetlamps and the foggy yellow glow from a few undraped windows would illuminate the dandy's path. For a man trained to hold peripheral miscellany in his attention, there would be nothing indeed to divert him from his purpose. A dull night in Vailkrin, indeed. Perhaps that's why, as he passed a certain window, the motion of the occupants beyond did not sink in as significant, as anything of import. It would be a passing blur, perceived but not scrutinised: two figures, the tall one a gangling figure in black, a shapely woman in white, their backs to him, a stiffness to the set of their bodies as they conversed. An object passed between them. The window passed, the street and the thrill of a job ahead. Perhaps there's be a faint moment of pleasure in the way that woman has resembled Anastasia from the back, that lustrous hair, but the glimpse was brief enough to leave it a fleeting - and long-lost - scrap of memory, the kind a man junks three hundred times a day to keep his mind sharp on what's important. Odd, how a vision like that can pop back, replayed in the mind's dim and timeless theatre.