RP:Rocks, Hard Places and JiggeryPokeries

Part of the Venturil's Bane Arc

This is a Necromancer's Guild RP.

The Remains of a Castle, Cenril

Krice ventured through the fish market and toward the castle at a leisurely pace, every so often slowing as he caught whiff of something; be it a scent, or a sound, or a sight. He followed his acute senses as best as they could direct him; and ultimately, found himself at the remnants of a castle. Furrowing his brow in portrayal of how unexpected the discovery was, the warrior moved silently across blackened stone and sand alternately, until he noticed the trail that lead into the sea. He stopped at the edge of it and crouched, reaching his right fingers to the surface to feel the multi-coloured grains--tracking, as a ranger might.

Where blue shallows dropped away sharply from the continental shelf into the darker abyss of ocean proper, the necromancer's familiar sat on the sea floor, indulging in its favoured pastime. It was a good day for watching squid, but as the afternoon lengthened into evening the myriad cephalopods were drawn to deeper waters still, and the gaunt found itself bereft of company. Its leisurely stroll through forests of kelp and corals brought it back to a spot near the shore many hours later, where it would manifest for now as a pair of curved horns poking now and then above the waves, and a general cacophonous panic among the local seagull population.

Krice could not hear, see, or sense those families of squid despite his overdeveloped ability to, because they were too far out at sea, and too deep. As he mulled over the structure of that glistening path, and traced its surface with curious fingertips, the constant roar of waves was interrupted by something only the keenest of ears could hear; nature's rhythm disturbed by something cresting the surface from below. The warrior lifted his chin, looked up, and cast his gaze out across the dark waters beyond where, under sporadic flashes of moonlight through cloud, he spotted something. He squinted and rose to his full height, venturing closer to the castle and then along the shoreline to follow that pair of horns with great interest. Though he had a hunch that they belonged to a certain bat-like creature with the ability to create illusions, he had seen many things with a pair of horns before. That, coupled with the distance between himself and Maladroit, prevented Krice from identifying the horns as -definitely- belonging to his object of intrigue. He remained on the beach, with the ocean tide spreading foamy beards around the frames of his boots, and watched.

Maladroit eventually surfaced, appearing to drift toward the shore as horns, then a blank, horned head, and so on, until some way up the beach from the watching warrior it was leaving sets of knuckle-prints in the wet sand at the water's edge, its wings fanning out with several swift snaps to dislodge adherent moisture. In the distance, a faint luminescence revealed the squid school's farewell to the gaunt. Maladroit appeared to notice neither cephalopodic leavetaking nor the perusal of Krice, but merely sat upon its haunches on the shore and tilted its blank face toward the stars.

Krice 's body continued to face out to the ocean as his eyes traced the progression of those water-borne horns en route to the sands of drier land. His attention was unwavering on Maladroit as it surfaced, tracing the large, black figure with vague familiarity and distant caution. Once the creature was fully on shore, the human who watched it diverted his attention to the sky, noting that once more its attentions were pointed toward the world outside of this one. Krice looked out to sea again, idly sweeping the waves with a thoughtful glance before a gust of wind, pushing into him from behind, thrust itself through his hair and obscured his vision. This wasn't a problem, however. As the winds encompassed him and blew past his tall frame, they no doubt took with them his scent. The warrior's eyes sharpened on Maladroit, observing the creature for changes in its body language that would allude to its awareness of his presence.

Maladroit needed no scent to know precisely where Krice was. Indeed, it had no nose - and had known even while still on the ocean's floor that the stranger to this strange land was present on the beach. Maladroit was just playing casual, really, sort of war of aloofness being quietly waged between the two, for as long as Krice would bear it. Maladroit had potential centuries, after all.

Krice felt no measure of impatience rise within him as Maladroit presumably continued to look up at the sky; for whilst he did not have centuries, he at least had patience. Lots of patience. Again the silver-haired man glanced up at the sky, tracing the stars overhead in curiosity and thoughtfulness, searching perhaps for a glimmer of a sign hinted at the existence of Maladroit's home. After some time, he spoke a casual, " I don't know if it's up there."

Maladroit knew it wasn't there. The stars here were different stars entirely, its home in a different dimension. But it found the vastness of space comforting, all the same. It nodded, a ponderous gesture, and turned its blank visage toward Krice. That was as good as invitation for further communication as it got, in the gaunt's present state of mind.

Krice 's eyesight shifted across Maladroit's head until it locked onto the featureless face that turned toward him. He pressed his lips together, perhaps contemplating further speech, before he lifted his shoulders in a shrug and, as such, dismissed the idea. The silver-haired man turned his head, looking out at the ocean again.

Maladroit could not smile but it could remember once doing so. And by way of reward for evoking the memory, it gifted Krice with its surrender, treading in its oddly graceful way along the sticky sand toward the warrior. Perhaps, though, that last flick of wing that sent the last drops of brine spattering out toward Krice was something to do with its recall of what being amused was all about. Behind it, the gaunt shed bits of kelp.

Krice turned his head when Maladroit moved, watching in silence as the creature approached him. It was with evident bemusement written in his features that he shied away from the wing-borne splash of droplets; not as though he felt insulted, but just that he was as he was - baffled. Looking over the black beast's blank face, the warrior arched a brow and asked an incredulous, " Really? You're -playful-?" Judging by his tone, he didn't really expect an answer, and busied himself with wiping those droplets from his face.

Maladroit had once been a lot more playful, back when it was housed in less grim flesh. But now it only shrugged, in kind, and parked its narrow rear on the sand beside Krice. Another dip of its bullet-shaped head would accompany the next surprise, if Krice's mind was receptive to the strange flashes of alien knowledge that crept toward his own awareness - Maladroit's attempt at conversation, in the peculiar lingo available to it. ~Thou, Man of Silver and of Gold, Who Art Strange and Thus Akin To Me~ There was a pause, in which Maladroit waited for acknowledgement he was being 'heard', before the ostentatious conversation-by-the-bestowal-of-titles went on.

Krice swiped the pad of his left thumb across his right cheek, removing the last obvious droplet from his skin; the remnants of the water would dry on its own. He didn't look at Maladroit as the creature sat beside him, but the swivel of gold-freckled red eyes its way would be sign enough that he was, indeed, open to the strange method of communication. He looked up at the beast's blank face and squinted slightly, waiting in silence for what he anticipated was elaboration on its first comment. He had 'heard' the creature just fine.

Satisfied, Maladroit continued. ~Seeker of Fortune and Fate, Who Must Make Me Captive~ Another pause, filled with a sense of gravity, inevitability. ~And Who Now Knoweth My Time Is Short, and That They Cometh For Me: Make Fast the Bonds Now~ Here, it offered its rubbery-skinned forelimbs to the warrior, its narrow wrists held together. ~For it is Better You May Profit From My Doom.~ Then it pointed its head away from him, toward the direction of the wharves. ~Thou Who Makest Haste, for There Is a Pricking In My Thumbs~

Krice arched an eyebrow. 'Who must make me captive'? 'Fortune and Fate'? The warrior regarded Maladroit with unwavering attention, his intrigue now fully blossomed as a result of its unspoken words. He glanced down at the offered black wrists and then back up at that empty, featureless face, before expressing his bemusement in the form of his own words: " Who is after you? And why?" Had this creature hurt people? It certainly seemed capable of such violence as to warrant its capture, including that stomach filled with teeth-bearing tentacles, and that strange ability to invoke memories inside illusions, but still...

Maladroit only shoved its wrists toward Krice again, emphatically this time, the gesture clearly indicating urgency.

Krice 's confusion was only further compounded by Maladroit’s insistence that he capture it. After only a few seconds of hesitation, he turned from Maladroit to look around at their surroundings, searching the sands with quick but astute glances for some kind of binding thread. In short order he spotted a thick, tattered rope amid the sand and moved toward it, crouching to retrieve the item from the golden grains. Still crouched, he pulled at it once with both hands, testing its strength. Despite that he himself was much stronger than the average human, he didn't pull the rope with the intention of breaking it--which is exactly what happened. Glancing over his left shoulder at Maladroit, the warrior shrugged in a 'well damn' fashion before he stood and continued to search; this time for a chain or some other more reliable material with which to bind the black creature.

Valentin had felt the presence of the abomination in the shifting shadows of Cenril. The necromantic butcher had laid out tendrils to shadownets throughout the city, all linked to a ritual circle laid out in one of the hidden rooms below his shopfront. Others would search elsewhere - his bounty would hopefully see to that - but Cenril was Valentin's home, and he'd ensured that he'd have some awareness of his prey entering his domain. Certainly It did not do to fail the expectations of the Haruspex Leifong - for that way lay a plethora of fates to which termination was infinitely more preferable. Thus it was, as the gaunt had been doing whatever strange things it happened to do, Valentin had taken up the tools he'd require to attempt to bring in the blasted thing. And now Valentin approached, boots tromping heavily through the sand as he takes in the castle. The burly vampire muttered to himself "O'blimmin' course it's a feckin' castle. Damn blighter's been hangin' round th'mistress too long". The butcher would not yet be in sight of Maladroit or Krice, but it is likely his heavy footsteps could be heard.

Maladroit, to aid in that sense of urgency, pressed upon Krice's mind his own seerlike visions of the permutations that may spring from this moment: in the first, he is captured, and a terrible blight came upon the land, dark shadows looming, fires, screams. In the second, he went free ... and the world became a dustbowl, an utter and barren ruin. Rock and a hard place. Maladroit had chosen self-sacrifice as the most expedient option toward its own survival. Or anyone's for that matter, and by the by. It lifted its head toward the wharves again, its tail lashing, impatiently. More than the gaunt's freedom and a few gold coins hung in the balance.

Krice saw those impressions of the future and they shocked him; but on some deeper level, he must have felt that both paths would lead to similar outcomes. This creature was too strange in its existence, and too well-armed with its arsenal. Before he could glance toward it again, he paused on the spot and his gaze shot sharply in another direction, shifting through the layers of distance and darkness that separated them to focus clearly on the other male's face. Perhaps Valentin would sense in Krice what Maladroit had a day or two prior; his amplified and perfected humanity in all aspects, the purity of his blood, the steady strength of his heartbeat. Whatever the case, Krice did not stare at Valentin for long. After three seconds, long enough to scrutinize and make judgments, the warrior stooped low and searched the sands again. Interlocked metal made dull clinking sounds beneath the sands and he wrapped his fingers around it, pulling clear a chain half the width of his wrist and longer than the span of his arms. Slightly rusted, but definitely better than the broken rope that lay a few paces away. He rose to his feet and spun on a heel to approach Maladroit again, grains of sand spiralling outward underfoot. When he reached the black creature, he hesitated just for a split-second to be sure that it didn't change its mind and had decided to shred him to pieces. Once convinced of the opposite, of its desire to be caught, he would weave that chain around its wrists in a figure eight, and he would hold the two ends in his right hand, between both of Maladroit's wrists; for he was lacking a lock.

Unlike Maladroit, there was no sense of urgency to Valentin. Rather, his steady and implacable advance bore in it a hint of night falling: slow, heavy, and with shadows lengthening unnaturally around his burly form. The stained white of the butcher's apron stood out in stark relief to the encroaching pall of darkness. Tendrils of shadow snaked outhead of the necromancer , scouting the approach, and so Valentin would not arrive completely unaware of the dual company awaiting him. When Valentin finally enters the compound to witness Krice weaving a chain around, he puts two and two together, and makes the assumption it added to four. Touching the brim of his bowler hat in greeting, the shadowy butcher rumbled to Krice "Evening Guv, evenin' Critter. From th'length o'chain you carry, should I take it as written that you're 'ere to earn th'gold I've put on that there troublesome beastie?"

Maladroit did its best to look cowed and beaten, though a sly bit of mind-speak would whisper faintly in the back of Krice's head. ~Thou Who Art Best To Nod and Smile, Knowest This: We Shall Meet Again~

Maladroit swayed then, as if exhausted, its head drooping almost as low as its bony chest.

Krice regarded Valentin in his typical stoic way; without a smile, and with eyes both unreadable but thick with intelligence. He glanced sideways at Maladroit after it spoke its mental speak, followed by a quiet, " He called you 'critter'. That's kind o'cute." No doubt Valentin's vampiric ears would help him hear the warrior's words. Turning his attention back to the burly butcher, the toned warrior asked, " You must be the butcher, then?" When Maladroit swayed, Krice offered it stability by tensing his arm and keeping his hold of the chains wrapped around its wrist. He was considerably smaller than the black creature, but by no means weak. He stood by Maladroit with the confidence of a man who had full control of the beast. Whether or not he actually thought he did remained to be seen.

Valentin grunted "Y'powers o'perception amaze me, guvnor. I'm Valentin, jus' like the sign on m'shop says. What was it gave me away? The cleaver or th'apron?" Valentin ran his eyes over the form of Maladroit, the infernal abomination which had followed his Guildmistress around like some kind of nightmarish elf-eating puppy. Damn thing wasn't struggling. That was suspicious an' a half, an' no two ways about it. Still, maybe th'blimmin' thing wanted him t'send it back to Her Supreme Malevolent Bitchiness. It was contrary enough, that was for sure. "You've done well, guv. Earned your gold, an' no doubt. What's your name?"

Maladroit chilled its aura so far that Krice might be inclined to shiver, and this is what the creature radiated toward the Butcher of Cenril, its meaning abundantly clear. It couldn't really groan as such, to play up the mummery of being all beaten up and sorry’ instead, it sulked as loudly as a silent thing can.

Krice responded to Valentin's initial query with a simple, "The signature on your bounty note." He glanced sideways at Maladroit then, sparing the creature a moment of his attention. He was aware of the shifting temperature around the creature, but it didn't cause him to shiver. Just as Maladroit was its own gamut of mysteries, so too was the warrior. Glancing back at Valentin, Krice answered the request for a name with a simple, " Definitely not 'Guv'." In his periphery, he watched Maladroit closely, his wide field of vision ensuring that he was aware of his surroundings throughout the entirety of the exchange. " Want me to escort it back to your shop? Or... d'you wanna try your hand?"

Valentin seemed destined to come across folks unwillin' t'do the basic courtesy of exchangin' names. "I'll need th'name for the promissory note. Cenril bank is run by bureaucrats, innit. You'd think they'd be happy to let me give m'savin's to anyone I damn well pleased to, but they say 'It's for the paperwork.' d'ye get me?" The butcher wasn't inclined to ask a second time, though. He'd leave it to the mystery man to find his own manners, In the meanwhile, a shadow tendril snaked out, melded with Maladroit's shadow, and something seemed to break off. Talking to the gaunt, Valentin said "Oh sure, mate, a sudden chill and I'm t'believe this man has you well an' truly cowed, eh? Well, alright. He's beat one o'the mistress' creepier pets to a pulp, an' now you're all docile. Have it your way." The butcher didn't believe it for a moment "You know I'm sendin' you back t'her, so if it suits you, we're goin' t'take a little stroll along the beach into th'city, an' then head back t'my shop. If y'want to take a souvenir with you, I suggest y'pick one out now." Valentin was interested to see if the creature understood the notion of a souvenir, and if so, how strong those chains really were. In the meanwhile, he still maintained some hope of finding out who'd earned the bounty.

Krice got Valentin, loud and clear, but now his attention was on Maladroit, who was the source of that odd chill in the air, and who held his attention by its behaviour; its body language. Whilst Valentin spoke interesting words that answered questions but then revealed more, Krice was staring at the faceless creature that stood next to him. At length, he murmured to Maladroit a simple, " Sorry I stabbed your hand... you shouldn't have thrown that illusion at me." Why he was apologizing remained to be seen; as well as whether or not he was genuine about it. Looking over at Valentin, though not moving unless the black beast did - because he was holding those chains, Krice said, " Name's Grey."

Maladroit shuffled a bit, in the doing so revealing that deliberately-left-gaping hole in its appendage Krice had spoken about. The one in its upper abdomen was still gaping, too, but thick now with black vestiges of repair. It stood thus the while the men spoke amongst themselves, as if truly woebegone, but in truth its awareness was reeling - it had understood the threat to send it back to Tenebrae as an idle menace on the butcher's behalf, a joke.. and the implications of it being otherwise were such, as it pondered permutations that had factored into its visions but had remained misunderstood. that Maladroit would have been entirely gobsmacked. If indeed it had possessed a gob.

Maladroit shrugged disconsolately at the warrior, by way of reply.

Valentin nods to Krice "That'll do for th'formalities then, Grey. I guess yer parents weren't colourful folks." A hint of a shrug "An' if the bankers don' like it, stuff 'em. S'my money, as I'm always remindin' em." Valentin took a moment to take in the strange 'scent' of Maladroit's shadow, gleaned through the umbral contact of a moment before. It wouldn't be impossibly to track him through the shadows, if push came to shove, but by no means would it be easy, and it would most assuredly be costly. Hopefully the bastard wouldn't nick off out of sheer perversity or sense of self-preservation. "Now, Grey, I'm fairly happy t'consider your duty done. I'm happy t'take the chain from here." Valentin pulls a rather ornate piece of paperwork and pen from a pocket. The paper itself was now a little grubby, but the fine printing made it unmistakably from the Cenril bank. The butcher scrawls the name Grey in the field required and signed off on it, then tromps over in his unhurried gait. "This is yours, guv."

Maladroit spent a relatively happy moment, meanwhile, tormenting the butcher's bits of shadow with perceptions of a shadow's version of the lower pits of hell's lowest possible nadir, plus extra nastiness for good measure.

Krice didn't pay too much attention to the strange, bridging shadow Valentin had connected to Maladroit. Instead, he kept his attention above the ground, considered all of Valentin's words without any flare of expression or emotion; calm as he could be beside an abomination that heralded from 'who the hell knows where'. He glanced down at Maladroit's gaping wounds and then over at the burly vampire who was making his approach. His duty was done. All he needed to do was take the money order and pass over possession of the creature to its hunter. After just a few seconds of hesitation, he pulled his right arm forward to ease Maladroit toward Valentin, essentially offering the vampire those bound wrists.

Valentin nods to the man "Good goin', guv. Y'got steel castles, you do. You'll do well, an' no doubt. Plenty o'folks'll pay for a quiet sod what gets things done" The butcher's beefy hand enclosed over the chains with a hint of aetheric whispers in the air, a dissonant sussuration which would grate against the subconscious in an indefinable sense of 'all is not quite as it should be'. Unseen, the shadow within Valentin's grip interlocked with those within the chain's links, forming a much stronger and sorcerous bond than steel and rust alone. He was no fool, was Valentin, and he had some ideas as to just how far south things could go from here. An' given that south from Cenril was pretty much just ocean and ice, that was damnably south, an' all. Valentin looks at Maladroit "What in th'hells did you say that she made you with no mouth, eh?" Probably spoke the foolish truth about her horrendous dress sense, Valentin reckoned. That floral number had given necromantic studies a more surreal edge than they'd really needed. Valentin touches the brim of his hat to Krice once more "Well guv, I guess you're a free man once more, innit."

Maladroit shuffled forward this time, apparently under thrall of the Butcher's umbral chains as well as the more worldly ones binding it. Valentin's commentary was ignored, apart from the slight flinch elicited by the question of its mouthlessness. But as it appeared to give in to the Fate that awaited it, the gaunt would pause to turn its empty visage toward Krice for a final instant. And while nothing existed to be read upon it but a rubbery expanse of ink-hued skin, yet there would be a certain aura of gratitude about it. Then it was back to being cowed and resigned, that horrendously venomous tail behind it curled meekly about its rear quarters.

Krice withdrew his hand from the chains once he was sure that Valentin's grip replaced it; and just in time for that odd, otherworldly reinforcement to make its way through the shadows of the chains. Peculiar. The warrior was now nothing but a watcher, observing Valentin and Maladroit as they moved together away from his location. Before they got too far, however, he answered the vampire's concluding words about his freedom with a casual, " Not in the least because -you- say so, innit," before Maladroit's backward glance drew his attention. Whilst the creature had no eyes, no mouth, no contours with which to form expressions, the silver-haired man was aware of its more human response to his assistance nevertheless. Gratitude was in the creature's body language for only a moment before it resigned itself to that underling facade; diminutive and subservient. He stared after the pair, folding the money order between his fingers before he pocketed it. Perhaps that was his next order of business. Before too long, Krice pivoted to venture back the way he had come, passing the ruins of the castle, the fish market, and leaving the coast altogether.

Valentin didn't respond to the man's apparent witticism. He'd probably mimic the Cenrilli accent again to the wrong Cenrilli person, no doubt, and learn to be a bit more circumspect once the dust settled. Valentin had other things to worry about, though, than learning some kid his manners. Hell was coming, if he couldn't get this damn abomination back to where its mistress was. It was better she reign in hell than rain hell down here, in Valentin's opinion. Less damn work that way. "C'mon, beastie, let's get goin'. I've a room set up for you. It even has a blimmin' skylight." The latter care of Leifong, the bastard.

The Streets of Cenril

Valentin and Maladroit form an unlikely pair in the aftershade of the passing dawn, the burly butcher leading the abomination with a rusty old chain towards the city proper. A sorcerous energy runs through the chain, an umbral binding of some form, typical of Valentin's use of the necromantic artform. The butcher's pace is unhurried, his boots crunching heavily in the sand.

Maladroit appears, for all intents, to be going along with this arrangement, a little hangdog in its body language. Though now and then the darknesses binding it might twitch, as if something quite unpleasant had happened to them.

Redhale didn't appear in his usual guise, to do so in the morning on the shores of Cenril would likely cause quite the stir, and while some part of him might have enjoyed the reactions he could have elicited from the morning walkers and disenchanted youths wasting their days watching the waves he hardly had the patience to deal with the backlash it might get him from the city in general. He still managed to stick out of the scene quite obtusely, though; while his robes had been trimmed to a cut that actually gave sense to his form as a humanoid shape and his leering posture had been dialed back a bit those around him still felt the cold breath of his undead consciousness, although were perhaps more taken back by his choice of thick black clothing and mask as beachwear.

Valentin found himself in an unfortunate circumstance whereby his path led directly to the bizarre and powerful necromancer instinct had previously recommended he avoid. Much like he tried to, yet couldn't, avoid the unbearable lessons with Lorkain. With the strange savoir faire awarded the blue collar class, Valentin led Maladroit right up to Redhale and touched his hand to the brim of his bowler "Mornin' guv. Not often I see you down here in sunny Cenril, innit." It wasn't often the butcher was out 'walking the gaunt' either, so it was a peculiar day all in all.

Maladroit seemed to shrink in on itself as they approached, though its mind was sharply interested in this turn of unforseen events. Fate had its paths, and some of those might be seen, yet others skulked about in the shrubbery of time and space, allowing no clear vision of them but only a sense of -something- or other. And Redhale, Maladroit found, was firmly in the shrubbery. Nothing clear. Just a .. feeling that this Dark Man, as it vaguely recalled its Mistress calling him, was to play an important role in times and events to come. Unlike Valentin, of course, whose role was .. as far as Fate allowed the gaunt to see.. fairly obvious. At least, in the foreseeable future. Amid its musings, Maladroit managed to scare a flock of seagulls passing overhead, the local members of that species having learned to keep well away from the squid-watching monstrosity.

Redhale reached one gloved hand, another unusual wardrobe choice, in a sort of wave-or-salute-what's-wrong-with-your-hat mimicry. He afforded himself a long, awkward moment to cast his attention over the scene the butcher had brought along, pondering why exactly he was walking Maladroit like a dog. A peculiar day indeed, "Not often anybody does, but stranger things happen all around us." He indicated the chain between the two figures, "So it was you who asked for his capture. An interesting move…" Another morning, or more likely another time of day, he would have guessed as to the motives at work here, but right now he was either tired or distracted.

Valentin nodded in taciturn fashion "Aye guv, that it was. Needed doin'. Not right, havin' the blighter flittin' about like some kind o'demented sparrow, preparin' t'sink the world into strange delusions. Messes up a man's business dealings." Yes, Valentin still held the loss of a potential supplier against the gaunt. "An' what about yerself, guvnor? Get tired o'Vailkrin an' thought to pop on down t'Cenril an' say a cheerful hello t'the locals? Or here on business?" Valentin's imagination couldn't quite conjure the former image as well as his tongue could speak it.

Maladroit made sure Valentin's shadows suffered for the sparrow analogy. But not enough to offer the Butcher proof of the gaunt's actual level of captive drudgery. Too, it kept its visions to its own head, its warnings given and taken as they had been. Or not... Now, it was just shooting the breeze, waiting for outcomes to fall into place.

Redhale turned back out to face the sea and simply replied, "Meeting someone." His voice was aching and moaned like the squeaking of the sand underfoot, "Where are you taking it?" Not that there was a home for such a thing, but given the attitude there was some doubt as to whether Valentin had the creature's best interests in mind. If nothing else Redhale thought he should attempt to ensure it wasn't being abused, as its owner had left him in a position of mild responsibility.

Valentin felt another unusual tremor along the shadowy structure intertwining the chains, and now he was certain something was up. Bloody creature was playing silly buggers, the butcher was sure of it. Hell, everything touched by that madwoman was made infinitely perverse in some fashion, Valentin knew. Really, what annoyed him most was the damn thing's mummer's game of obedience. It wasn't blimmin' natural. Okay, yes, Maladroit wasn't blimmin' natural by any definition you cared to apply - but all the same, the damn critter was taking it to a whole new level. However, he had to leave those ruminations aside long enough to answer the question "I'm takin' the'blighter back t'me shop, where I can contain it in a room underground until I can figure out what game th'banker is playin' with its illusions an' assorted jiggerypokeries." Certainly, Valentin knew the correct necromantic terminologies, but be damned if he'd parrot them outside of a formal environment.

Redhale considered the jobs that were already weighing upon his weary mind; there were citizens to be found, people to be killed, and some kind of ceremony was in the works, but outside of Vailkrin he really only had one alliance and for now he had the capacity to stand by it, "If help is offered, it may be wiser to figure out these 'jiggerypokeries' sooner, rather than leaving a creature like this locked in your basement…" He trailed off as the surface of the water broke offshore, and several tall, spindly folk with little but wet rags wrapped about their brittle bodies clambered their way up onto the dunes, eliciting a few whistling screams from nearby Cenrilians, "Are, perhaps my friends here will be able to help. They're also known for their jiggerypokeries…"

Valentin scratches a shaggy muttonchop. "Well guv, if all goes t'plan, he won't be in my place for long." Valentin's vestigial sense of curiosity rallies for a moment, and he nods to the strange figures arising from the water like particularly anorexic artists' muses. Assuming the artists weren't quite right in their head, that is. "Who are they, guvnor. Don't see their like everyday, an' that's a fact."

Maladroit kept to an uncanny stillness all this while, which for that particular creature equated to silence, as well. It's sole condescension to being there at all was to turn its blank face toward the incoming unfortunates, but its thoughts on the matter remianed opaque. Truly, however, it was pondering just what sort of jiggerypokery Valentin himself might have in store for it. For if the meeting of Redhale was unforseen... what else might be?

Redhale greeted each of the creaky undead with a brief handshake and some muttered words as he spoke, with a second voice or something, with Valentin, "Priests, mostly. Those with enough conviction to remain topside after the war, seeing work for them in the new world we've shown them." They were definitely long-gone as far as life was concerned, although most of them had more flesh than the usual rabble of recently raised undead, "And if you didn't feel the need to reside in such a place as this you might well see their like every day."

Valentin was reminded once again that his superiors were all blimmin' nutters. There was a reason he lived in Cenril. When he made someone a corpse, they bleedin' well stayed that way. "I see your point, guv. Spice o'unlife, innit." Still, Valentin had been around enough lunatics with more power than sanity to realise you are best off agreeing with them in principle, if not in actual fact. "Welcoming these fine clerics into the fold, an' all that, eh?" Valentin spared a glance towards Maladroit. Too damn cooperative by far. Very suspicious. But he had little choice exceptin' to see how things turned out, really. "They some of Vakmatharas' lot, or belong to one o'them others?"

Maladroit studied the revenant 'priests', unused as it was after so long spent in its Mistress' new home where the corpses tended to be a bit more.. ornate, then these ones. Their simplicity was somewhat refreshing, as was the relative lack of need to fear being eaten by one. Or worse. Perhaps this perking of interest wuld be visible in its stance, the very thought of 'home' lending the creature a slight slip of its utter passivity. Ah, if the Mistress could only get hold of such raw materials...

Redhale said, "Oh, we're all Vakmatharas' lot, some people just don't know it yet. But he waits patiently at the end of every road to welcome every creature into the safety of his arms. This lot was actually searching for new brethren, but it seems as though we may have picked the shipwrecks clean." The masked man called towards Maladroit. He had no idea how old the creature was, but doubted it was old enough to know these ones, "See any old friends of yours, Maladroit?"

Valentin didn't have a lot of time for religion, except when it came to carving up the priesthood and leaving them on display. It probably wouldn't be politic to indulge in that particular pasttime right now, though. "Can't say fairer than that, guv." A handy phrase, that, one which seemed to have the right kind of ring to it. When Redhale made his enquiry of Maladroit, Valentin watched to see if there was any kind of response from the strange creature. The whole damn thing set his fangs on edge. He'd be happy once he'd taken care of all this and could get back to business as usual.

Maladroit's latest body was new enough that none of the elderly dead would recall it, since its original flesh had been flensed from it so many centuries ago.. But unlike fleshy shells, names tended to stick. And as it happened … while Maladroit stared in its own peculiar manner at one corspe, particularly aged and alack of meat, whose right eye socket was home to a stubborn hermit crab, the dead man heard the gaunt's name and .. stared right back. Maladroit swivelled its blind head toward Redhale, and shook it slowly. The dead man's waterlogged attempts to throttle the abomination were a probable hint that Maladroit was not imparting the whole of the truth.

Redhale watched the exchange with calm curiosity, "I guess they'll be of no help to you around here then. Good luck to finding a place for him, butcher." Redhale surely didn't know what he would do with a gaunt on a chain, who was so out of place everywhere it didn't belong and so uncomfortable with the few places it did, "I'm sure one of us will call upon the other soon enough." This last statement was undirected and about as vague as he got, but probably went for all those present.

Valentin was a gentleman about the whole affair. He let the terrible wreckage of what had once been a man try and throttle Maladroit with no interference whatsoever. It seemed only fair - it had evidently been waiting a long time for the opportunity, and sometimes it was nice to live unlife vicariously through the actions of another. Shame it wouldn't work, but something about the spectacle imbued Valentin with a bit of optimism about the ordeal yet to come. The butcher nodded to Redhale "Y'might be right, Guvnor. Have fun with this lot, then. Ol' crabeye there seems pretty feisty for a corpse. I'll be getting along myself with the tentaclefaced pigeongrubber here. Should all be sorted out within a week, I reckon." Valentin touches the brim of his bowle r hat. "Come along now, stop playin' with your chum there. We 'ave t'get moving." The last was said to Maladroit, engaged merrily as he was in some kind of perverse playtime with the crabeyed corpse.

Maladroit had no breath to lose, but the corpse had very loose gristle. Thus, the gaunt's rubbery neck would wear a still-gripping hand as it tugged itself loose of the fiasco. It skulked past Redhale with a sideways tilt of head that may have been apologetic.