RP:Corny Runs the Gauntlet, Part Two

From HollowWiki

Background

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


Cornelius' trials are not over yet. On and on his memories drawn him closer to his own darkest heart while the mind-vampire Eldritch feeds and stops Corny get any closer to preventing Jolie from killing Kurgan's severed soul at the same time.


Somewhere Not-Really-In-Vailkrin

Cornelius knows he has time to spare. The marketplace might as well be his backyard, so frequently does he pass through it, and he has a jolly good idea how the silk merchant was going to sell his last roll of fabric. With the appointed time not for another day, he takes a carriage home by a roundabout route. And then, he is home. The old ebony-inlaid oak panels of the main doors engraved in silver with the spread-winged raven of Penzance. Above it, in scrolled script, the admonition of his family to all visitors: Nemo Me Impune Lacessit- none may harm me unpunished. Grim though the warning is at the entrance, his children, bless them, dance about with delight as he strolls into the mansion with a cheery 'What ho!'. Their delight trebles as he produces two paper sachets of candied rose petals for them. He spends an hour enthusiastically telling them a tall tale about how he had just single-handedly conquered the inhabitants of the second moon with only his wit and a wheel of Gualon cheese. True to form, they laugh merrily and call him a liar at every stage, but stay to listen to the whole story. It is a moment he could relive forever, over and over, and be content. But this strange dreamscape allows him no such respite. Time and his memory warps, and suddenly it is night-time, and he knows he needs to appropriate a certain herb for the deed tomorrow. He puts his children to bed, leaves instructions with the butler, and quietly quits the house. His wife had been absent, which was not uncommon, no doubt swanning about at some soiree or other, increasing her social standing with that cold and focused ambition he admired. They were well suited to each other, their dark and oft-hidden passions complementary to each others goals. His leisurely stroll takes him along Hemlock way, and he spins a silver coin through the air and into the Blood Fountain for luck, an action based more on habit than on belief - an old ritual paying blood money for the blood which would soon be spilled. The night air is crisp, and the growing anticipation of another deadly game of chess sends a thrill down his spine. Killing the merchant would be easy. Making it so that the plentiful market guards and witnesses would be compelled to call it self-defense - there was the challenge which even now has Cornelius' eyes gleaming.

The coin spun like a tiny, gleaming moon tumbled from its orbit and made its faint ‘plunk’ in the viscous liquid churning around the central statues; the moment it hit the blood, a thin tremolo rose from nearby, a high-pitched note blown from a harmonica, soul-weary and sad, music as only the lonely know how to make. The figure played on, a slow, grinding tune that spoke of never-ending, empty horizons and heavens never reached, of heartbreak and bitter resignation. The player’s hat was tilted across his eyes, and he leaned on a lamp post by one shoulder, his left leg crossed over his right. On he played, his morose but oddly fascinating tune drawing him a small audience, primarily women of a certain type – well-dressed and lipsticked, but with a salacious cast to the way their hips swayed to the harmonica’s rustic refrain. Not one of them paid the slightest attention at all to Cornelius Von Penzance.

Cornelius grimaces at the sound of a harmonica. It grates against his cheerful mood, and he increases his walk to a brisk stroll until the sound is but a faint memory. He slips down a side alley, knocks on a rust-dusted steel door twice, four times, once more, and then gives out the soft whine of a hungry dog. Cornelius has, on several occasions, considered killing the alchemist for his unusual choice of password, but has thus far held off on account of the man's usefulness. He was a queer chap, but knew his stuff well. Cornelius had learned a lot from the old man/creature/whatever the hell he was. It was amazing what the gift of fresh organs could do to win you into the creepy old bastard's good graces. Fortunately, tonight's purchase would merely require some gold.

It took almost a full minute, a groan and a deal of thumping, before the grate of metal sounded and a peep-slot was flung open. The eyes that peered through were narrow and bloodshot, piggish and wary. The slot snapped shut again, and then Cornelius would hear the grind and snap of several bolts being drawn, and the rattle of a chain, and a thick, clotted-sounding voice dull beyond the timber, “Gawsluvvit, Penzance, gimme a blummin’ conniption…” The door opened. The entire lower half of the doorway was filled with the most corpulent, bloated example of halflinghood seen outside of the ranks of the infamous Southside Tooks, and even they weren’t so grossly distended, so globulously sloppy-looking as this barefooted creature, who was holding some sort of meat sandwich that dripped gravy down his grubby shirt, one blubbery cheek and his sparsely-haired chin. “Gerrinside, willya? No tellin’ oo’s about.” Those piggish eyes slid left and right before the halfling made an almost-hasty backward waddle to allow the dandy entrance to this most jumbled abode. The place stank to high heaven, but not of the body odour and food remnants one might expect from such a baggy-pantsed slob as Jobbie F. Bunglewort, Esquire. It was rather a heady mix of bitter and acrid, sweet and metallic, smokey and minty, sharp and flowery, all the essences of odor mingled in one conglomerate pong, permeating the soiled wallpaper and carpets, the furnishings and nests of paper and parchment littered about and certainly Jobbie himself. The halfling shuffled back to his seat, actually an overstuffed ottoman, stuffing another bite of sandwich in his gob and chewing it while he added, “Come back for anuvva bit ‘o lovely have ya? Dose ‘o the old toes-up? Make way for th’ camel herder, if yannow wha’ I mean?” He winked, his jowls wobbling as he wheezed a dark chuckle. “Siddarn, I’ll finish me sammich afore seein’ to beeswax, old son.” On the broad bench behind him, an alembic sputtered and farted, liquids bubbled through tubes, dripped into beakers. Clumps of mold and bars of platinum, shaved fungus and bowls of what might have been human hair littered the surface in a mind-boggling display of the sheer untidiness and unsafe work practises that Jobbie’s puckered facial scars and missing eyebrows would attest to.

Cornelius reminds himself forcefully why he hasn't killed the disgusting blighter - makes of it a mantra to keep his mind busy while he waits for the obese blemish upon halflingkind to finish the triple-layered excessive article of so-called food Jobbie had referred to as a 'sammich'. Cornelius had seen Fermin nests cleaner than this place. When the disgusting proprietor finishes his meal Cornelius murmurs "I hardly need anything to keep my sword sharp, old bean, if you know what I mean. No, I've something a little more insidious in mind, and I know only you have the skill to make the medicine." He holds a rose-scented kerchief to his nose as he takes a deep breath before continuing "I've someone I need to enrage in a particularly well timed fashion. You once gave me something which caused a man's senses to become over-stimulated for an ...interrogation I once completed. He screamed excessively, but it did the job. I want something similar, which will make a man more ready to anger. Something I can put in a needle-ring, to surreptitiously injected in the victim at just the right time. Do you have what it takes to make it work? The gold, of course, will be enough to keep you in pork brine for months."

Jobbie nodded, working a sliver of gristle from between his teeth with his tongue, and wobbled himself, one buttock at a time, into a more comfortable repose on the ottoman. The scrap sucked free, he peered toward the door and hissed, “The bloody door, Penzance. Like a bloody thoroughfare, innit? Lock up proper behind ya, innit?” The porcine Halfling sniffed, his nostrils flaring at the forgotten ritual, which wasn’t forgotten at all but another of Cornelius’ moments of sheer bastardry that he’d enacted upon Jobbie on every single visit since his first, many years ago. The paranoid alchemist, sheened in a light sweat, wiggled his toes that were now happily free of the dank floor and wiggled his bratwurst-like fingers too, in preparation for the task ahead. “Delicate business, this old son. Tricky, like….” He reached for long, wooden box, his stubby arm extending as far as it could, and was forced to lean a bit so his fingertips caught its edge and the item could be dragged closer. Flipping orange rind off the lid, he opened the box, wherein sat a surprisingly neat row of glass vials. Selecting one, as a greedy child might choose a chocolate, he grinned widely, which made him resemble a malevolent hamster. “Ghoulbane and tovesoot, gavvered at the bark o’ the first rabid wharg, at midnight on the double blue moon, mixed with a dash o’ black powder, clove oil and…” his chuckle was more phlegm than laughter. “… that’d be tellin’ wouldn’t it? Anyways, this’ll have yer mark foamin’ at th’ chops an’ throwin’ punches at his own shadder one minute after y’prick him. I’d stand back, were I you, old son.” The vial was waggled Cornelius’ way.

Cornelius lets the mantra continue in his head: "Don't kill the blobbish bastard, the bastard is useful, don't kill the blobbish bastard..." It helps enough to keep him from backhanding the fat blighter at the presumption of Cornelius' obedience. 'Diplomacy, old bean' Cornelius reminds himself, 'diplomacy' even as he closes the door left open by the sedentary halfling. Still, as 'Jobbie F. Bunglewort, Esquire' settles in on his second great passion in life, Cornelius feels that he can stop reciting the internal mantra. Now they were talking in a language both could understand and appreciate. A smile lights up his face, as he says in friendly fashion "It had better not have any bloody datura in it, old bean. I don't want him punching at undead shadows, I want him punching at my shadow." He puts away his kerchief and adds "And if I hear one more jot of Wharg's bark out of you, and double blue moons, and maiden's cleavage at midnight, I'll slap you silly myself, wot." He flicks his gaze across to the accoutrements of Jobbie's trade "You don't go putting these things through your glass retorts and alembics because of their mystic properties, you melodramatic old geezer - you do it to concentrate their chemical virtues. Save the theatrics for your regular customers, my good man. How much is this going to set me back? I know tovesoot is hard to come by."

All pretense at jollity left the halfling, then, his eyes squinting down into vicious little slits, his mouth a purse of babyish aggrievance. “Three donkeys and a mule, for you.” He might’ve left the mule off, for anyone else, and made it an even three thousand gold, but for Penzance, no price was too high. “An’ I’d not be throwin’ threats about, Lord Muck, lest y’find yesself a slice o’buttered bread an’ all.” Jobbie was paranoid for a reason, he was wanted in three regions for arson (made to look accidental), murder (made in all cases but two to look quite intentional), and one act of public indecency (thankfully never described in detail) and was quite a deal more dangerous than he looked. The obese alchemist huffed, and tugged a battered-looking buttered crumpet from his grease-darkened shirt-pocket, munching on it nastily.

Cornelius grins "Anything for the one alchemist in Vailkrin who can actually get something done. Three donkeys and a mule it is" He retrieves an obsidian writing box, one well known by Jobbie, although the first time it had come out, three years prior, both men had almost died in the explosion of defensive devices the paranoid halfling had activated. Things had eased off a little since then, and the obese alchemist simply glowers as Cornelius dashes off a quick paragraph on fine parchment, watermarked with the Penzance heraldry, and signs it. "There you are my man. This particular dealer in livestock is known for their discretion. I have the misfortune of having discovered why, so the individual owes their life so long as either of us live." The note, when Jobbie reads it, is simply a directive for the merchant in question to hand over three donkeys and a mule to the bearer, with invoice to be sent to the House of Penzance. The halfling would not find this unusual - it was a typical way for Cornelius to do business, and never once had the dandy stinted on payment.

The alchemist studied the paper, his jowls twitching. “Three thousand, five hunnert-gold- y’limey tosser, innit? Not a feckin’ barnyard…” He paused there, though, his lumpish forehead buckled in thought. “…ackshully, I –do- need a test subject for me next batch o’ haemorrhoidal agitant. That’ll do brilliant. Now.. do’s a favour old son and .. piss orf.”

Cornelius chuckles "Gladly, old bean. Usual drop-off instructions. If it isn't with the scrimshaw merchant by Elevensies, I'll drop by to pick it up in person - and I just know how much you love having me visit. I may even bring my violin for a rehearsal. I've been practicing my lastest concerto: 'The Cat screams at Midnight'. You'd love it, I'm sure." With a wave he makes his way out, closing the door behind him to find his exit accompanied by a chorus of locks clicking and bolts being rammed back into place. The halfling could move fast when it suited him, if only for short periods.

Cornelius strolls down the alleyway to find Belladonna Court, where a skilled, if eccentric and specialist, jeweller already had a new needle-ring prepared for him. The old one still worked, of course, but it didn't match Cornelius' new jacket, and it never hurt to have more than one of them. The door is opened almost immediately after Cornelius' first sharp rap, and a manservant takes the presented calling card. With a bow, the servant gestures for Cornelius to enter "Please enter, Von Penzance. She will be down soon."

And no sooner had he said it than a rustle of silk and taffeta sounded on the stair, and a woman more akin to a praying mantis than her own species swept down, her smile red and wide as a murderer’s trademark. “Cor-NE-lius!” she cried, throwing her arms wide for an embrace he’d know was sheerly symbolic and never to be enacted. “Dahhhling, how I’ve missed you, positively –pined—away, how mahhhhvellous to see you.” Her hair was piled perilously atop her head, her nails long and just as scarlet, her thin wrists weighted with a pirate’s trove of gold and platinum bracelets, Petunia Jones (her maiden name), known by all as ‘Miss Petty’, had outlived nine husbands and several “generous benefactors”, all of whom had conveniently left her the entirety of their fortunes. The jeweller, by trade, who had not needed to ply her craft in twenty years or more, still enjoyed tinkering over these “special orders”, and thus Cornelius was wafted toward a wall safe, within which was another, within which was a single, very small black box. Plucking it up, Miss Petty placed it delicately in the dandy’s palm. Her heavily-mascara’d eyelashes fluttering, she smiled again, which caused her layers of face powder to crack a little around her eyes and mouth. “So diviiiiine, my dear, dear, Cornelius, to be of service,” she murmured, huskily, edging forward so he’d get a good long look at her sunken décolletage. “You know… you can call on me, any time.” Her hand raised to her mouth, Miss Petty giggled like a schoolgirl, her clumped lashes fluttering like a pair of spasming, many-legged insects.

Cornelius executes an elaborate and courtly bow as she descends the stairs, then addresses her with the affectionate nom-de-guerre he'd granted her many years prior upon his skilled removal of her third husband. "Ahh, Madame Petit, always an -utter- pleasure to be graced with your brilliance." The old ritual is completed as he returns her offer of an embrace with a kiss blown from a safe distance "Delightful to see you well, M'dear, and your manservant is as attentive to his duties as ever. None could ever doubt the wonders of your hospitality." Cornelius accompanies her to the safe, and accepts the gift with the expected salacious grin and brief ogling of corsetry. With a wink, and a brief movement as if closing his hand, he palms the box before, with a flourish, he presents a black rose in its place "For you, m'dear, the most deadly beauty in all of Vailkrin. I plan to hold a little salon-meets-soiree in a week's time. I shall have my best man send you the details tomorrow." The attractive 'footman' he'd send would have to be replaced, of course, but even those transactions masquerading as gifts have their own peculiar price in Vailkrin.

It seems then, to Cornelius' mind as it struggles with the plethora of memories it is being subjected to, that hours pass in conversation with Madame Petit, but suddenly he finds himself again walking along Hemlock Way, approaching a high class establishment situated near the markets. Compelled by the power of the illusion, and by his own desire to relive the past, his mind brushes over the inconsistency. The building he will soon be approaching was sought by most men for pleasure, but for Cornelius it served merely as a discrete place to rest quietly the night before a tricky negotiation. None of the ladies there had shared his room on those nights, and he paid a premium to ensure he is left undisturbed at all times.