Of Booze and Burlesque IC

Jeremiah Albright hated lawbreakers. A self righteous man from his induction into the One Church, Jeremiah despised all that pictured themselves above the law, especially those that did so out of greed. He had been overjoyed during the aggressive reforms 5 years prior, and adopted the outlawed activities into his library of hate. His righteous anger had eventually led him to join the local police, and eventually he was adopted into the CID. He was frequently lauded as a savant of investigation, even if his coworkers were put off by his religious extremism. It was this line of work that had led to his involvement in the shut downs of speakeasies all over the city, and even the destruction of some of the coveted stills.

This is what led him here. He wrapped his trench coat around himself a little tighter and glanced over his shoulder to where his team stood, cowering under a newspaper stand, trying to protect themselves from the rain. The office could only spare him and his partner for this bust, and the they had to recruit cops from two precincts over, since no one in the local blocks wanted to risk the mob pay out by acting against a local speakeasy. He grunted at the thought of peace officers skewing their sworn duties in favor of a pay cut of dirty money, and turned his attention instead to the building in front of him. It had a red brick storefront, and barred windows, which was more in place at a bank than a gun store. Alvin's Guns and Powder adorned the bright yellow door way, with a heavy set brass handle. As he pushed the door open, a light jingle was heard from a bell above his head, and his nerves nearly made him pull his revolver at the noise. He quickly shook off his nerves, steeling himself with a quick prayer before facing the man behind the counter. He was ordinary enough, bald with a thick beard, which was an odd style for the city. He wore gloves and a craftsman's clothes. He seemed to study Jeremiah as much as the detective did him, and didn't seem to notice when Jeremiah's eyes wandered to the thick steel door located behind the counter. "Can I help you?" the man asked, his voice rasping out like a sled being pulled across gravel.

Jeremiah swallowed once, quickly going over the plan in his head. "Yes," he said, nodding quickly, "I represent a local business man. He's unfortunately had a string of break ins at his home, and was hoping to purchase a firearm to better protect himself."

The gun store owner nodded, quickly unlocking a sliding back of the windowed counter in front of him. "Do you know what exactly he's looking for?"

"He asked for a shotgun. Something high end. He made it very clear that price was no issue," Jeremiah said, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a handful of bills.

The clerk's eyes greedily landed on the mass of bills being set before him. Nodding quietly, he reached into the case and pulled out a nasty looking pump shotgun and a case of shells, setting them heavily on the counter. He picked up the bills as Jeremiah picked up the shotgun, quickly noting the tube magazine. THe clerk turned to set the money into the register and document the sale, just as Jeremiah opened the box of shells and loaded the magazine's capacity. As the clerk turned to give Jeremiah his change, he was met with the sound of a round being chambered, and the sight of a shotgun pointed at his nose. Jeremiah's face had changed from the eagerness of a potential customer to a scowl of righteous rage. "Open the back door," he said through gritted teeth, motioning with the barrel.

The clerk's hands were quickly in the air as he made his way to the door, inserting a heavy key into the lock and pulling the door open, "I don't get paid for anything that goes on in there, I just watch the count-," the rest of his sentence turned into a sickly gurgle as Jeremiah made his head vanish in a spray of buckshot.

Keeping the gun still pressed tightly to his shoulder, Jeremiah swung the door open. He was immediately hit with music, sounds of revelry, and the undistinguishable smell of alcohol. Officers flocked in behind him, drawn by the shotgun blast, pistols drawn. They gave the corpse next to Jeremiah a wide eyed look, finally realizing the fervor that the detective carried. Jeremiah led them into the next two rooms, before kicking open a wooden door, opening up to a large bar room. "Freeze, this is a raid!" Jeremiah shouted, firing a shell at the ceiling and racking another one into the chamber.

A few women screamed at the gunshot, but he paid them no mind. Instead he kept his eyes on the men in the room, and the red haired gal behind the bar, trying to determine if any of them were reaching for a gun. "Down on the ground, all of you!" He yelled, officers fanning in behind him as he pointed the shotgun about, wary of anybody who might sling spell or lead.

A blonde hair woman stood up quickly and made for the door, trying to push past the detective. He quickly turned his gun on her, "Get down on the ground!" he shouted, his face contorting in a scowl as she made no attempt to get down.

Instead, she smiled deviantly, as smoke rose around her. He snarled, quickly pulling the trigger, and heard a scream that was quickly cut short by hot lead. Still, her sacrifice was not wasted, as a large cloud of smoke filled the room, limiting visibility. His officers quickly panicked at the shots fired, and Jeremiah let loose a rare curse as shoots rang out all around him. He swore even louder when he felt a bullet rip through his thigh, forcing him to the ground. "Officer hit!" he shouted, tired of the weak willed officers he was forced to work with.

His partner quickly found him in the smoke, and pulled him back out the door they had entered from. They continued past the downed clerk, out into the rain, where he was placed into a car. "I'm not going anywhere," Jeremiah said, struggling against his partner to try to get back into the speakeasy, where he could still hear shots ringing out.

"J, you're useless right now. I'll clean up here, and fill you in later," his partner said as he shut the door, and the car pulled away, headed for the nearest hospital.

Jeremiah watched his partner duck back into the store, pistol drawn, and couldn't help but feel jealous. This was his bust. However, he knew deep inside that this was only the first of many. There would be more, and he would see to it that every single drop of booze was dried from his city.

Jolene was absently cleaning glasses from behind the bar and scanning the room for those in need of a refill. The place was lively enough, considering theirs was a mobile operation that was only as popular as the rumors. The sound of music and chatter filled her ears. She fondly took note of each customer. Some were regulars, who followed them from front to front, and some were newbies, just looking to wet their whistle. They sat on old barstools with worn-in cushions. Their glasses had surface scratches to match the tables they rested on. One could tell that this was not a lavish operation associated with the larger gangs. Some décor was rag-tag and showed sign of obvious wear or of being packed up in a hurry. It was a far cry from the grandiose front she had as a Lady.

But it was home.

She greeted her friend, Monro, with a warm smile. They had a nice friendship, she thought. They originally bonded over bartending until Monro moved into another position. She hid her disappointment with jokes, saying that Monro had to be a runner because that’d be the easiest position to chase tail. They chatted for a short while before the entry door swung open.

“Freeze, this is a raid!” Jolene heard. The intruder fired a shotgun into the air, triggering madness. A few men followed behind him, around 4 or 5. She watched their movements with careful eyes, not daring to move a muscle. Then, she confirmed Marty’s location, knowing that things were going to get messy. The hair on her arms rose, and she felt time slow down as her adrenaline kicked in. Before she knew it, the blonde woman had died and smoke filled the room.

“Marty!” Jolene called. She reached underneath the counter and grabbed the shotgun stored underneath. In a fluid motion, she tossed it towards Marty, praying it reached him despite the little warning. Then, she reached for the revolver on her hip.

Gunshots seemed to be firing off randomly at this point. The officers were untrained and apparently not used to taking down small operations like this. If they were, they would have known to confirm people’s locations before firing. Jolene ducked behind the bar and moved behind cover. Her goal was to take a few customers out the back door. She knew she couldn’t save everyone, but she’d be damned if she didn’t try.

“Officer hit!” She heard. At the same time, she was creeping out from behind the bar and watching the flashes of gunfire in the smoke. She knew there was a customer sitting at a table just a few feet away. She creeped towards the table, gun drawn and ears perked ringing.

She saw a cowering man ducked underneath the table. His arms were over his head as he rocked back and forth. His head was tucked into his knees and she could barely register his mumbling over the sound of gunshots. Gently, she reached out her free hand to touch his kneecap. He jumped at the feeling, nearly falling over with the movement. She brought a finger to her lips and then motioned for him to follow. She tried to look around as they made their way back to the bar. It was hard to see in the smoke, but she wanted to make sure her coworkers were alright and see if anyone else was taking customers out the back.

The rain pounded down, and off of the sides of the weary little inn creating a sound like horses rampaging across a tin roof, as the winds shook the poorly constructed structure. A brown-haired young maiden stirred somewhat, before deciding to just lay under the sound of the rain. Spreading her arm out, she felt a void beside her causing her to sit up somewhat. The room was small yet cozy, tucked away in the attic of the inn. In the center of the floor, a tall lean figure sat cross-legged and silent listening to the rain and focusing on his breath. Holding two fingers out and blocking a nostril, breath, switch, breath, switch, breath, switch, breath...he stopped….”Well...there goes my concentration.”  He let out softly in a bemused tone, as he felt the maiden’s lips upon his neck.

  She had draped the blanket around herself, and come over to him. Gently kissing his neck as he leaned into it. She traced her fingers along his skin ever so lightly, letting them linger. “Oh, you can`t complain.” She muttered as she contuined to feel his body, bringing her fingers to gently trace his ears. “What`s it like?” she asked entranced in the moment, and not thinking.

“Hmm?” His eyes closed, wrapping an arm around her.

“Being hal…” He pulled back instantly, silently moving her off of him as he stood up and moved towards the wardrobe suddenly and silently.  “I didn`t…” She started, moving back to the bed not really sure where she was going with it. “Like, idk. What`s your mother like?” She offered up hopelessly, at least maybe this answer could even bring some emotional intimacy from him finally.

“Dead.” He called back flatly, packing what little belongings he had into his bag before stopping and looking into the mirror above the wardrobe and staring blankly at it for a minute. “Well...probably..”

“I`m sorry...probably?”  He didn`t respond,  doing something with pestles and jars. She couldn`t tell if he was focused, irritated, or in some other place altogether. “Monro….” She called pleadingly, to which he tossed a cloth package bound with string to it, emotionlessly, setting the bag`s strap along his shoulder.

“Make sure this gets to Boragard, downstairs. Needs it for his boils, tell him not to use too much at once or he`ll have problems with the numbing agent. He doesn`t owe me anything for this, tell him the stew from last night makes us good.“  He directed as he slipped on his rings, looking into the mirror instead of at her. He took the last thing off the dresser, his pendant and froze as he traced the insignia with his finger.
 
 “You`r, moving on now then?” She broke his thought, bringing him back to the present. He could see her reflection, in the mirror, looking sad and confused. She hadn`t done anything really, he was uncomfortable with it but she wasn`t at fault. How was she possbily supposed to know about any of the things he never talked about? He looked at her in the mirror the blanket still wrapped around her form, brown curly hair, a dimpled face, and eyes that shone like diamonds. She was the tavern maid here gentle yet fierce and dam it as much as he tried he did find herself liking her. Why was he doing this? What was even the point? He wasn`t mad at her not really, though this was gonna have to happen at some point. Better now he supposed.

 
  “I`ll see you if I come back this way.” Is all he could muster as he swiftly shuffled out of the room and down the narrow stairs, passing the hustle of the inn like a blur barreling out as fast as he could into the harsh rain. The cold wind felt bitter on his face as he walked, ignoring any attempt at processing what had just occurred there was no time. He`d wallow in his circumstances forever if he let himself wallow in those feelings. Still his mother...why`d she have to mention her...she was so ill when he was taken it….he stopped the thought as he heard his breath visibly shake. None of that work to do, he wasn`t set to run any shipments until later but his landscaping clients all wanted things that couldn`t quite be done in the rain and there was no way he was going back to that inn. The bar it was, and he made it there with the good haste via the back streets.

 Ta-ding, he hated that bell. “Hey Gary, no Dave today?” He called out to the guy running the counter, who smiled as he looked up.

“Nah it`s just me today. You want a gun”  Monro laughed, and shook his head.

“Not getting my commission that easy buddy. How`s the kid?”

“She`s good, Daddy`s little princess.” Gary took the key out and held the door open for Monroe, just beaming with pride. Monro smiled and patted Gary on the back as he descended down the stairs. For purposes of degrees of separation and deniability, it would be best for him to not be overly friendly with the frontman but he couldn`t help it. Gary had a half elve daughter who`s mother had died during the birth that he did everything for.  Providing for her was the only reason he even took a job like this in the first place, also why he refused to get in any deeper than the gun store. He was a good man that Monro couldn`t help but respect.  

The bar was lively and full of energy which Monro adapted to quickly, smiling and schmoozeing his way through the crowd. Monro didn`t quite like any of these people but they sure thought he did and that’s what mattered. While charming when the situation required it he was generally more introverted and not really one for much social interaction. Still, there was something about just standing and watching the people, feeling the energy of the room. The bar wasn`t anything opulent by any means, but he preferred it that way gave it character. Nothing in this world as pure as an underdog. If you don`t struggle and fight for what you have you don`t really deserve it. Mhmm maybe that`s bias. Monro shook his head it didn`t matter.

He sauntered up to the bar and smirked at Jolene, he liked to keep his distance from others in general but she`d somehow managed to eek out a friendship and a fondness from him back when he first weaseled his way onto the crew from behind the bar. In honestly she may well be one of his only friends.  In truth he missed it her, the bar, the energy, and all of it but alas he had to be born restless. He took another package from his bag and slid it onto the counter with a self-satisfied look. “Here, to help you knock people dead with something other then you’re loo…”
 
“THIS IS A RAID!” BOOM!

 
  What even is today. Everything happened in a burst as sudden as that man’s dam gun. God I hate guns. One minute they`re being forced to the floor the next the rooms full of smoke and gunshots. Absolute chaos, another day in the life. Jolene and Marty already had their own guns ablazing, Monro had already had his dagger in hand since the first warning shot went off, hiding the movement as he would have back in the pickpocket days. Now what to do with it, not one for upfront combat he figured his best bet was to get people out since in the very least he could heal the wounded. Wounded, woun...he saw it a man bleeding from the shoulder leaning against the wall with a trigger happy cop closing in on his face. His nature magics weren`t gonna help much here but...

Let`s hope this works.

 
  He threw his dagger in the cops direction with one hand before quickly bringing both of them up into the proper position. If I can conjure the wind just right, carry the dagger on it the right way, and….it`s in his throat. The dagger was lodged in the cop’s throat.

He was aiming for his side.

No time to focus on that, he moved swiftly through the chaos to the man and helped him stand as much as he could leaning on him moving towards the bar, herding whoever else he could between using little bursts of wind to knock some cops off there feet.  Once under the bar, he found Jolene and another patron. “Great, now we`ve just gotta get out.” He said lightly, trying to look for a  way to the back door.

She'd always found it soothing. The murmur of chatting folks, the pleasant smell of liquor drifting out over the sound of clinking glasses. Every place they holed up in had it's own pleasant charm. More than one day she'd snuck her way in here on her off days to just sit in a corner and absorb the atmosphere while watching their patrons.

That was the atmosphere she fought to foster and protect. Her runners risked their necks to keep the place alive. So it was only right that she'd risk hers for them in a heartbeat. Tonight was promising to be a pleasant night. She'd seen several new faces, plus a good number of old ones. For now, she was on break. By which she meant her runners weren't out running and she didn't have any shipments herself. So it was that she had a glass of rum in her corner of the room, sipping quietly until-

Gunshot"Freeze! This is a raid!

Kinleth ducked under the table rapidly as gunfire began to shower the room"Ah feck. An' it was shapin' up to be such a pleasant night." She reluctantly put down her glass, saddened she wouldn't get to finish it, and then tipped her table over to put it between herself and the officers, and drew her sidearm.

"Officer hit!" Really? That quick? Te boys n' blue are gettin' sloppy. That or me boys are gettin' te be much better shots she pushed the thought aside with a smile.


Staying behind her makeshift cover she called out, "Ifa! Kin we get a lil' smoke an' fire? Ah like te give new friends ah werm welcome!" She hoped she got the message. And hopefully her mates were getting the customers out of dodge. She took aim at where she knew the doorway to be, ready to fire if she saw a target, but not wanting to hit an ally through the smoke that already existed.

The overcast sky kept the alleyway rather dark and dreary, threatening to douse Ifa with a torrential downpour within the hour. She stood leaning against the brick wall, tapping her foot with a bored look on her face and her pocket watch in hand ticking away. Late, as per usual. She groaned internally. Why did she even bother waiting for these CID agents with their precious information? If they truly valued her information you’d think they would come running. But no, she had to waste her free time and potentially risk getting drenched.

It was another 5 minutes until someone skidded into the alleyway, slightly disheveled. Probably some green trainee they sent for the hand-off, but it didn’t really matter to her. He looked about frantically, attempting to adjust his noticeable cheap tie, before his eyes eventually landed on Ifa. “Excuse me, a-are you…?” he tripped over his words slightly, puzzled by the young lady before him.

“The informant, yes,” she mumbled, ignoring his attempt for a handshake. “Ifaana. You didn’t notice me instantly on purpose. Let’s not pretend to be acquaintances.” She handed him over an envelope, stamped with a dark blue wax that made the imprint of a fox, guaranteeing the documents to be from her. In return, she held out her other hand for a thick envelope that she knew was filled with cash.

While she moved to put her payment into her backpack, he examined documents with a scrutinizing gaze as if not quite believing her. But whatever was written on those papers (mostly about a speakeasy across town with some pictures of Jade Snakes moving crates into the shopfront), the CID trainee gave the nod of approval. He kind of shuffled in place, looking a little lost on what was next.

“You know you can leave now, right?” Ifa questioned sternly, prompting him to quickly leave the alleyway and heading back to headquarters. She waited a few moments before following out, adjusting her blue beret on her head to slant and cover more of her face as she hurried to Alvin’s Guns and Powder.


Ifa gave a polite hello to Kinleth, Jolene, and Marty at the bar, asking for a quick glass of beer before sauntering to a small table in the corner of the room away from the rowdier customers. She brought out a book. It was a constant process for her to improve her illusions and she studied just a bit every day--besides, there wasn’t much else to do on her morning off. It was just playing out to be a slow day, an especially gloomy one with the rain starting to come down outside.

That is, until there was a loud bang at the front with a rather familiar voice shouting “Freeze, this is a raid!”

You have got to be fucking kidding me! Ifa thought as she hit the floor, flipping the table (as practiced) over for cover as a barrage of bullets flew across the room. Who the fuck let this idiot come here?! It was pretty obvious that the man was Jeremiah, an infamous detective that Ifa had heard about. But given she was assured that nothing would compromise her job by the higher-ups, she was really peeved that this kind of violent mess of a raid was okayed by them. Of all people, they let Jeremiah come crashing in here?

As Ifa popped her head up and down to shoot with the gun that was hidden underneath the table, she mapped out what she would say to the department of investigation. She’d start out with the unnecessary violence, note the casualties, and hit them with the ultimatum that if they wanted the information she provided, they needed to keep her in the game! But her planning came to an abrupt halt as a bullet grazed past her right shoulder; she yelped and hid behind the table instinctively, trying to think away the pain. Fortunately, she heard Jeremiah scream and get escorted out, leaving just a handful of obviously unskilled agents shouting blindly. At least someone made his day worse.

"Ifa! Kin we get a lil' smoke an' fire? Ah like te give new friends ah werm welcome!" Kinleth called out to her over the shots. If it was anyone else, they probably wouldn’t have guessed Kindleth was saying something of consequence. Ifa could barely understand her a year ago with her thick accent, but now she could easily figure out the gist of what she was saying. She dropped the gun and closed her eyes as she tried to block out the chaos around her, focusing on the cracking of glass on the ground and a bright, dancing fire rippling throughout the space in front of the agents. She felt the heat, saw the thick, black smoke that curled to the ceiling of their small space, even the taste of soot in her mouth.

In a few seconds, there it was, a bright wall of flame blocking the agents from the rest of the bar and briefly shocking them to stop the firefight. Ifa went to a few customers near her and grabbed their arms, gesturing to Monro to do the same as she sprinted to the trap door behind the bar and guided people down the ladder from above. In a matter of a few moments, they’d cleared the bar of those who couldn’t fend for themselves. She rushed Monro to drop down before her and she looked up at Kinleth to make eye contact. With a nod, she jumped down into the tunnels while her fake fire dissipated to give the others a clear line of fire.

The other speakeasy goers were shaken and some were obviously injured, but she and Monro had been trained to do this plenty of times and they were all safe. Despite being frustrated out of her mind with the situation, she turned to her colleague in the dark tunnels, lighting up an oil lantern at the bottom of the ladder with a match. “Should we head out?” she asked softly, ignoring the stinging pain in her shoulder.

The cellar of the Lucky Lamb was pitched in darkness. The sole operator of the microbrewery staunchly opposed the installation of any sort of electrical lighting, and guests were expected to bring their own lanterns. This little hole in the ground was the one place in the city that still felt like home to Belwar, and the darkness was a big part of that, as was the smell. He loved them all in their own way. There was the rich grain smell of mash on brew days of course but even the rotten sulfurous stench of the fermentation process had become a familiar friend to him. Anyone who disagreed could take a long walk on a short cliff for all he cared.

To those blessed with the keen eyes of a gnome the room would appear cluttered at first glance, but further inspection would reveal that this is not the case at all.  The master’s workshop is not cluttered, but merely full.  The center of the room was filled with barrels, boilers and stools arranged into neat little corridors too narrow for oafish humans to navigate. Hoses, brewer tools, hops, and other mix ins of the magical and mundane variety for compartmentalized against the walls. A small cotton stuffed mattress and wooden chest adorned the south east corner. Members would always joke how Gramps slept in the cellar…. until they took the time to visit, which most never did.

The only thing out of place was the odd little statue placed next to one of the tapped barrels. The detail was exquisite, perfectly capturing the likeness of the subject down the crow’s feet around the eyes and the arthritic knuckles in the hands. One hand held a stone mug. A look inside would reveal beads embedded to the sides like droplets of water. A golden stop watch ticked away atop of the barrel nearest the statue.
As the seconds passed the statue began to wiggle it’s fingers, then it’s ears, and finally it’s bulbous nose. Pebbles fell out of the gnome’s clothes and facial hair as he came back to life. “Wooooooooo-eeeeee” Gramps exclaimed after checking his watch. “Nothing makes a man feel alive like being turned to stone. No sir-ree” he continued muttering to himself. “And twelve seconds to boot. Right at that happy medium. Long enough to give you a good shock, but short enough that it’s over ‘fore hell breaks loose ‘round you….or you get stuck that way.  ‘spose that is a distinct possibility though, maybe I ought to put a disclaimer on the-“
Gramp’s rambling monologue was cut off by a thunderous noise upstairs. Gramps figured it must have been one of those new-fangled broomsticks the humans were so found of. The name escaped him at the moment. Two centuries after immigrating to the surface he still didn’t see the appeal.
The commotion continued for several seconds pushing Gramp’s to intervene. All this noise would wake the spirits, he figured. “There’s a spell for that” he muttered to himself as he worked his way up the stairs.

About half way up he stopped at a sign, freshly engraved and placed conspicuously at gnome height. It read, “Fireball isn’t the answer to everything.”
“Right, right” he conceded. “I ‘spose it’s best to let the young folks handle it. They’ll come get me if things get too serious.” He stared up at the door a few stairs ahead. The wood was old and partially rotted. The hinges had begun to rust. It was ready to fall to a stiff wind. “There’s a spell for that.” With a toothy grin he walked to the door and waved his hand around it, locking and reinforcing it. It could still be broken in, but it would take a lot of time and a lot of noise by the end of which Gramps would be long gone.  Of course, anyone he actually wanted to come in would be able to open it with ease. That was the beauty of magic.
With that matter settled he crept back down the stairs to resume his work. “I hope the boy is okay” he pondered aloud as he pulled a hose to barrel his latest batch of Angry Quarry Stout. “There are so few people in this world who appreciate my work”

There were accents, and then there was fire. His own cries appeared to have been muffled in the chaos but thankfully the boss`s voice was a lot harder to miss. Monro didn`t quite understand her most of the time still but smiling and nodding seemed to have worked this far. Whatever she had commanded must have been heard as a sudden wall of fire burst up from nowhere stopping the disorganized wave of agents in their tracks. Ifa quickly appeared behind the bar with them baring her own gaggle of poorly timed drinkers sprinting to the exit. Time to leave then  Quickly turning to Jolene telling her to be safe, not fond of the idea of losing his only friend. He gestured for the man with her to follow him and his group as they joined Ifa by the trap door. Once the civilians had been cleared into the tunnels, Monro himself dropped down shortly followed by his cohort. He had never gotten too close to her personally but he respected her abilities and trusted her to be able to fill her role. Despite the utter batshittery chaos of today they had been trained for these scenarios given the group had enemies at all sides.  Now that they had gotten to the tunnels the way out should be simple enough

 Monro returned to the wounded Patreon from earlier, some balding older gentleman who`s shoulder seemed to be bleeding at an alarming rate wrapping the good arm around his shoulder as to provide support. Monro nodded in response to Ifa`s question and gestured for her to start out ahead with the light. The walk through the tunnels was done largely in silence. People were wounded, in shock, and just largely melancholy. Gave time for the events to fully sink in for Monro. The absolute violence, the CID liked to moralize and hide behind this shield of decency, order, and a system. As if they were for the monsters for defying it. A system that let his mother die, that despised him based on race, and a system that fired loaded guns into crowded rooms over gin and tonic.  That was a system that needed to be defied. Monster`s, they were all monsters coming in there and ...Gary...there's no way he…he had spoken to him just moments before. His poor daughter all alone. Surely bound for a state school. Monro could almost feel the lashes upon his back one more just thinking about it.


Monro shifted the weight of his passenger again and turned around the bend as anger and hate set through his body. Monsters, all of them undeserving of remorse. Remorse.. A image flashed into his mind of blood spraying from a neck and it hung there. The look in the eyes and the sound as the blade went in and the man dropped. He was attacking us I had no choice. He would have done the same thing to be given the chance, in a way he had signed up for it...deserved it...deserved it? What would mother think, hearing that? He could almost hear her voice now teaching him about how everything and everyone was connected and every action mattered one way or another. Every action.If he hadn't taken action... His teeth gritted subconsily under the weight of the thoughts. He shook it off a bit as they came upon the manhole.

   Letting Ifa head out first and help the others up, Monro passed the man up to her before pulling himself up. The rain had let up some, not as intense as before but still damp and unpleasant. A majority of the crowd scattered once they hit the pavement not wanting to stick around any longer. Mostly only the wounded remaining, Monro set the man from before up against a wall and bent down to examine his wound sucking on his teeth. He couldn't remove a bullet and he was far far from a doctor but he could at least do what he could and get him well enough to make it to whatever hospital or less than legal medical establishment he chose to. Through a mixture of the balms he had on him and his own magics he managed to get first the man than the group in general in at least hobbling shape. As they began to saunter off he cleaned up his supplies, wiped some blood off of his hands, and stood up towards Ifa just glad this was coming closer and closer to over.

  “Alright then, just let me take care of that,” He said pointing at her slightly bleeding shoulder. “And we can be on our way to the safe house.”

Marty stood at the end of the speakeasy, opposite the main entrance. This gave him a clear line of sight across the entire place. Most patrons didn't cause trouble, maybe getting a bit more rowdy than was for their own good from time to time, but there was rarely a time where heads had to be busted. Leaning against the wall of the bar, Marty's hand casually thumbed the pistol he kept tucked into his vest. He wasn't expecting trouble,but it always kept him feeling ready and prepared.

And it was a good thing he was prepared, too. A police raid, spawning nearly out of thin air, suddenly and violently barged through the door. Someone was gunned down, and smoke began to spill into the room. Almost immediately, Jolene tossed the shotgun from under the counter over to him. Catching it in both hands, and quickly racking the first shell into the chamber, Marty fired off the shell into the grouping of officers, and then another.

As the chaos unfolded, Marty quickly gathered up whatever patrons were left, and were willing and able to fight, and rushed to provide them whatever weapons he could pass out in time. Pistols, revolvers, even the odd shotgun or rifle were quickly ripped from hiding places in shelves, cabinets, drawers, and more. Those armed opened fire as the distractions holding the officers at bay gave way, and the ragtag group within the speakeasy quickly banded together to keep the officers occupied. Marty and those alongside him took the chances they had to round up more arms and ammo, pile tables and chairs into makeshift cover, and anything else they could to keep themselves and those escaping safe.

Rapidly, and in no small part due to Marty's prepping for exactly this situation, a makeshift stockpile of guns and ammunition was built, and the band of gangsters and crooks were in a good position to hold out at least until the initial raid officers were fully withdrawn. Gun barrels poked from every nook and cranny towards the entry to what was once a proper bar, desperate to hold their rat's nest of a haven for as long as made sense, while also preparing to leave through the same trapdoor those unable to stand their ground had fled through, should the moment call for it.

"Feck" Kinleth cursed under her breath. "Feck, feck, feck." Of course the trigger-happy veteran was fighting back. Not that she could blame him really. The cops had come in shooting. That was not standard procedure in any way shape or form. That being said, it wasn't like they were going to be punished for it.

She could feel her blood starting to boil. Damned bastards had killed. With no warning. They needed to pay for that. And even while she knew, rationally, that they needed to retreat without killing any more of the officers raiding...it was damn satisfying to watch a few of them fall. But even as she watched, the officers fell back and started to regroup, now knowing that the people inside were armed and prepared to fight back.

Every moment they spent here they were running out of options. Their rag tag group had taken individual actions, each according to their own capabilities, and it had bought them some time, but they didn't have much. Given their current situation....the officers were fools if they weren't calling for reinforcements. Of the 5 or 6 she had seen, 3 were down. In comparison, they had Marty, plus 3 patrons that were actively fighting. The rest were evacuated. Ifa and Monro were out. That left Jolene, Marty, herself....and the gnome. The gnome probably was sitting, sipping some new drink, and otherwise oblivious to the chaos above him. One more thing to worry about. Well, Marty holding the door was good for one thing.

"Marty, keep holdin' tae door. Joley, we need tae get Gramps outta bed!" The orders were frankly redundant, Marty knew everyone needed to get out. Jolene was probably already worried about the old gnome. Probably. But Kinleth had a soft spot in her heart for the bugger. She ducked from cover to cover until she made it to the doorway that framed the basement.

"Oi Gramps! Wake up ye fecker! The president o' Cecreules brought a lil' honorgaud just fae us!"

It seemed that the world erupted into chaos, even worse than it was previously. Kinleth was giving orders in her hard-to-adjust-to accent, but Jolene understood the gist of it. Fire rose from thin air. Marty gathered up some of the fighting types and was holding the raiders back. Monro and Ifa took the patron Jolene rescued and proceeded to run out the back door. Monro spoke a couple words of worriment but Jolene just smiled and nodded.

“I’ll catch up soon,” She reassured him. She watched their retreating backs for a split second, taking a head count and inventorying where people were. She waited til there was a pause in the firing and then swiped the present Monro left on the bar, knowing she didn’t want that to fall into the wrong hands. She removed the vial from the box and threw the box across the room, over the barricade and into the small crowd of officers. She discretely tucked the vial into her bust and started to make plans of laying a trap to cover their escape.

She wasn’t able to think long about that, though, before her ringleader directed an order at her. Kinleth’s manner of speech and accent had originally thrown Jolene for a bit of a loop. However, her Lady’s training managed to skate her by until she became fluent in “Kinnese”. Kinleth’s sentence was barely finished before Jolene was scurrying across the floor and into the basement, charging down the stairs as safely and as quickly as she could. It wasn’t long before she was standing in front of the gnome’s workshop.

Normally, Jolene would offer a few knocks and wait for the gnome’s permission to enter, but she was in such a rush. She rapped on the door twice (primarily out of muscle memory), and then swung it open with more strength she thought she had.

She was probably a sight to see, especially in contrast to her usual put-togetherness. Her emerald eyes were wide, her auburn hair a bit frizzy and disarrayed, and there was even some dust on her palms and knees from crawling across the floor.

“Gramps,” Her voice was a bit breathless from her run down the stairs and the adrenaline, “I was wondering if you got a spell for us.” She pleaded.

It certainly didn’t take them long to bungle the whole ordeal upstairs. By tie Gramps had finished gently hammering the cork of the first barrel in place with a small wooden mallet when the door to his cellar flew open with a bang. Light flooded into his Gramps’s tiny chamber. He never cared for the light, and as such hated it when people opened the door all the way. It’s not that it hurt him physically, it just felt wrong somehow, even after all these years. However, the extra light from the fully open door was enough to let Jolene scamper down the steps without breaking her pretty little neck, so he’d forgive the intrusion, this once.

Even Gramps, who rarely got a clean look at the faces of the tall folk, could see the panic behind her disheveled appearance. He knew better than to say anything though. His ex-wife had taught him that, eventually. Besides now wasn’t the time. She wouldn’t be here if things weren’t already gotten out of hand.

He quietly dropped his mallet and stood up. As he did so an unseen servant quietly swept under him to put the carelessly discarded tool back in its proper place on the shelf. With his thumbs tucked into the top of his suspenders he gave her a rare smile. The girl sure knew how to butter the old man up, figuratively that is, though he was open to the idea of making it literal. “Do I have a spell for that? Of course, I do. Who do you think I am?” He boasted confidently, still not knowing what “that” was.

As he cleared his way through the workplace and approached the stairs the gears started turning in his head. It wouldn’t hurt to know what he was walking into.

"How many we lookin’ at Jolly?"

"3, gramps"

"They got those fancy boom sticks with ‘em?"

"Yes, they have guns"

“That’s what I said.” He retorted stubbornly. Now having all the information, he needed he began formulating a plan. His hands darted into his components pouch and nimbly dug for the materials he would need. Jolene continue rambling on as he dusted his fingers with powdered quartz. Something about barricade, providing cover, and a trap. Was he supposed to trap them? No, she was setting a trap, typical. No one ever trusted him to handle things on his own. Kids never learn.

As he neared the top of the stairs, he could make out the top of the bar. At his height it provided more than adequate cover, even while standing. There definitely more than three guns pointed their way. Kid couldn’t even count right. When he stepped into the light, he began waving his hands wildly and shouting in a thunderous voice powered not by magic but decades supervising incompetent fools.

“I CAST FIREBALL!”

A moment of silence passed. The more skittish agents who had dove to the floor picked themselves up and joined their allies in sending another volley of gunfire focused on the make shift barricade. The bullets stopped suddenly in midair then fell to the grown, mangled by a collision with an impenetrable force that split the bar neatly in two.

Gramps strolled leisurely in front of the now redundant barricade, smiling triumphantly as the less intelligent agents continue firing, filling their half of the room with a cloud of smoke. His thumbs were once again tucked away into his suspenders when he turned to face the group.

“That will buy you 10 minutes. Less if I stub my toe and lose concentration. Can I go back to work now?”

Jolene was thankful for Gramps’ quick agreement to help. Usually, it was difficult to pull him away from his work. She became more stoutly rooted in the idea that Gramps was just a big softie, jaded by his past. It made him fit right in with the rest of the group. Everyone had their history and was weighed down by their baggage.

Her personality analysis would have to wait, however, as Gramps started to ask her some questions. When he asked about boom sticks, she had to give pause for a moment. She wondered, briefly, if he never heard of them being called “guns”. Either that, or he was just being stubborn about it. She offered a gentle confirmation and provided him the name.

“That’s what I said,” was his response. Despite the situation, she had to stifle a giggle. So it was stubbornness, then. She followed him up the stairs, trailing behind with a smile.

Her humor faded quickly, though, as he shouted, “I CAST FIREBALL!”

She didn’t -think- he was trying to kill them all (after all, it’d take time and resources to find other people to sample his liquor), but she was hard-pressed to fight the urge to make another dash down the stairs. Instead, she flattened against the wall and shut her eyes tight. When she didn’t burn up into a pile of hot ash, she peeked one eye open. She was surprised to see bullets slam against an invisible wall. Ever impressed, she placed her hands on her hips and offered a grin to Gramps.

“You really do have a spell for everything, don’t you?” She said liltingly, “Magic never ceases to amaze me.”

Heeding Gramps’ warning about the ten minute timeline, she nodded and went to work. Her job was to collapse the trapdoor leading into the escape route. Even if Gramps’ wall bought 10 minutes to run away, it was possible that the police would give chase later. Considering the number of patrons and employees in the room, 10 minutes may have cut it close. This way bought them hours.

“Please remove yourself quickly and escape through this corridor,” Jolene said politely to the patrons behind the barricade. She motioned to the trapdoor. She gave a nod to Kinleth and Marty, subtly letting them know to grab what they could and go. In the meantime, she took some of the higher proof alcohol and started to prep it for a Molotov cocktail/small bomb trap. Once everyone was free and clear in the corridor, she would place the trap on the top ladder rung and detonate it from afar.

"I CAST FIREBALL!" Is not the set of words that you are hoping to hear on most occasions. There are very few people that wake up in the morning thinking, "Oh boy. I hope someone casts fireball near me today!" It's a big, dangerous, noisy spell that has a bad habit of roasting enemies and friends alike. So while Kinleth didn't exactly dive to the floor, being already behind a barricade, she did start violently with her hair standing on end. Her accent, already thick at the best of the times, became nearly unintelligible as she began cursing violently.

"Yae feckin' camel blower! Cooldnae gie us some warnin' coods ye? Nae enaw 'at we're in a gunfecht but ye hae tae gang an' make us hink yoo've turned suicidal in th' meantime! Christ oan a bike warn us next time ye piss-spackled mutated runt ay a neep!"

She let herself indulge in profanity a bit longer before standing up. The wall was going to be there for a little while, and began gathering essentials out of the bar, along with a few little mementos that she knew some people wouldn't want consumed in the flame. "Ae wouldn't be gettin' tae work jest now ye codger. We're found. Pack yer bags and git movin'."

They walked through the tunnel in silence, thankfully. Ifa was far too busy stewing in her irritation at the sudden attack to make any sort of small talk. Though she knew they all needed to re-group and make further plans at the warehouse, she knew that once she was able to be on her own again, she would make one angry visit to the CID. And if she got the chance to see Jeremiah face-to-face, she couldn't promise that she wouldn't at least land a good kick where it hurt most.

Once they arrived outside and back into the light rain, Ifa leaned against a wall as she waited for Monro to finish his healing work on the poor bystander. Her little wound stung a bit, but she felt it didn't really need any attention. She was sure he coworker had seen it and would probably insist on helping her, but Ifa knew that she didn't want the guy to see her arms.

Who would've guessed that she would end up from dancer to bootlegger? She could imagine her other gals laughing at the prospect-- why go from a less dangerous line of work to something where she could potentially be shot at? It wasn't like she had made that choice though; her old work made it for her. But part of her missed the role of playing a pretty girl who could move her hips and feet to any melody, paid just by the fact she could do it well. At least she didn't have to fear getting shot at. But there were other fears...

She snapped back to reality when Monro spoke to her. She looked around, realizing all the bar-goers had disappeared back into the city background, leaving the two of them alone. He peered at her cut with slight concern, but she shook her head. "I don't need it, it's not that bad of a cut. We need to get a move on."

Monro hesitated, but nodded. He handed her a small pot instead, presumably for the wound. She took it with a grateful nod, tossing it into her bag before heading towards the group's warehouse.


It wasn't too long before they reached their meeting spot, an unassuming brick building with doors and a larger car entrance. It blended in with the city, making it hard to tell it was a lair of any sort. You would say it was hidden in plain sight, which was why the CID hadn't made any moves on them. Well, until now.

Ifa fished for her spare set of keys to unlock the back door, ushering Monro in. She looked behind them for any wandering eyes or followers before closing and locking it again behind them. Once inside, she looked around at the boxes and chairs that were stacked neatly in a messy but organized way. She took off her soaked hat, tossing it on a nearby table. She was grateful for finally being dry again, but now she found herself slightly hungry in the aftermath of the raid. She spotted Allen not too far away, and internally hoped he had snacks on him.

"Since you weren't too much of a help back at the raid, you could help with getting us food," she said with a little edge, taking one of the chairs and flipping it down to sit on. "We can't risk going out for a bit."

Allen's leg swung widely out to his side as he hauled ass down the street towards the warehouse. A street urchin had just brought him the news of a large police presence near his speakeasy, including the Priest himself, led Allen to assume his place had been raided. He had known he needed to return to the warehouse, but after overseeing the delivery of a number of things for the old brewmaster, he had decided he needed to get something to eat. The street urchin had found him at the pizza parlor, and it was here that he found himself with three pies and a parcel from his home in his hand.

He shook his head to clear it as he approached the entrance, rain flinging from the brim of his hat. He opened the door and entered, setting the parcel he carried on the countertop in from of him. He quickly shed his soaked coat and fedora, hanging them near the oven and throwing a bit more wood into its gaping maw in a vain attempt to dry out his garments. He pulled the pistol from his shoulder holster, setting it on the counter to get just a little more comfortable. He reclined heavily on a stool, absently rubbing his bad leg as the ache of it started to seep in. His hands quickly found a cigarette, and it took him longer to light it than usual, his hands shaking from pure nerves. He was worried, plain and simple. He never took loss of personal well, and with every eventual raid, he feared the worst. He took a long drag of the death stick in his mouth, abestly flipping open the parcel he had brought with him. He had quickly returned to his home, picking up all papers that had belonged to the "Eli Fizben" that had owned the gun shop. He had paid for it in cash and registered the deed with the county, a copy of which sat in their records room, probably already seized by police. His copy sat with his papers, along with any documentation that claimed Eli ever even existed. Allen's hands shook a little as he tossed the papers into the dutch oven he kept in the corner of the warehouse, part of a bare bones living space that he and a few others of the gang used once in awhile. He swore as he tore up the identification registry of Eli and burned it. He had been one of his favorite covers. A southern gentleman who had a pension for gunpowder and colorful personality, Eli had come up to make his fortune in the big city, about forty years late. Allen made a mental note to ask for ideas for a new cover, as he was running low on papers. It seemed as if more and more speakeasies were falling in the city every day, and he wondered if this was because CID was getting more competent, the mobs were getting sloopy, or if someone was feeding someone information on the various operations.

Eli's musing was interrupted by a shuffling outside the door. His eyes quickly went to the gun beside him, and he quickly scooped it up, drawing the hammer back with one thumb and readying it, pointed towards the door. The other hand he planted on a switch to his left, that he could flip and set the entire warehouse on a timer to explode. His eyes widened though as Ifa led Monro into the warehouse. Allen visibly deflated, letting the hammer down and standing up stiffly. "I'm glad you two are okay."

Ifa quickly made her way to Allen. "Since you weren't too much of a help back at the raid, you could help with getting us food," she said with a little edge, taking one of the chairs and flipping it down to sit on. "We can't risk going out for a bit."

Allen turned as quickly as he could, picking up the three pizza boxes he had ordered. His original plan was to surprise the gang at the bar with the pies, but this seemed as appropriate a time as any. He made his way to the table in front of Ifa and set the boxes down, before grabbing Monro by the shoulder and giving him a quick embrace. He would do the same to Ifa, but he knew she preferred her space, and didn't want to set her anymore on edge. "I'm sorry for not being there. The old gnome had me out running down hops for him. Please, tell me about the raid. Was it really the Priest? Where is everyone else?"

He knew of Jeremiah mostly from rumor and second hand information, though he had met the holy man at least once during the early days of the speakeasy era. He had been delivering a large shipment of booze via plane, and had nearly been shot down by CID planes. If not for a few well placed warning shots and a load of cowardly officers, he would have been in deep trouble. He tapped on his leg, still nervous over the fate of the others but relieved at the appearance of these two.

As usual no one sang the praises that Gramps expected and frankly, deserved. Maybe one day they would learn to properly appreciate his magical talents. He couldn’t rightly make out more than a few words of Kinleth’s ramblings without the aid of magic, but she was clearly displeased. No sense of humor at all on that one. Nothing at all like his last boss.

His supervisor became more intelligible as her anger faded. Gramps understood, just barely, that she wanted him to gather his things and make his way out. “A simple thank you would’ve sufficed” He grumbled as he snatched one of the unbroken bottles from the floor. He casually polished off what was left in the bottle, causing his skin to quickly shift through the colors of the rainbow as he shuffled to the threshold of his basement. “Don’t wait up,” he called back before closing the door behind him.

Gramps let out a deep sigh and let the darkness embrace him, wrap itself around him like a blanket. He would miss this place. Not only had it been his home for nearly a year now, it reminded him deeply of his first home, of his early days, of simpler times. While he was lost in days of his youth, a floorboard creaked in the room above him. Instinctively a ball of flame formed in his hand, illuminating his face and the barrels surrounding him, remind him of where he was now. Maybe Subterrainia wasn’t such a great place to live after all. He dismissed the flame and looked over his belongings.

Various tools and materials for brewing made up the vast majority of the room’s contents, nearly all of which could easily be replaced easily enough. Despite acquiring a vast fortune when is profession was not only legal, but venerable, Gramps lived a modest life. Besides the slush fund he kept in the ethereal realm, nearly all of his personal affects rested in the small chest at the foot of his bed.
He stuffed a few more spell components from one of his workbenches in his pouch before kneeling over the chest in the corner. He needed to disarm the glyph inside before moving the chest. He knew moving it more than 10 feet would break the seal. He just couldn’t remember if that would render the spell loaded inside inert or trigger it, and that wasn’t a risk he was willing to take, not with his most cherished items. The password was old phrase in under common. A simplistic language used to assist trade between the various races native to Subterrainia. Only the most studious of linguists on the surface had even heard of it. The phrase translated roughly to “Not in the face” in common.
Gramps felt compelled to take inventory after disarming the magical trap. A large worn tome with extra pages glued in and a large metal padlock sat on the top. It had served as Gramps spell and recipe book for nearly 200 years, and by his count, the second most valuable possession he owned. The little space that was left was occupied by his only spare set of clothes, a coin emblazed with a spider, the calling card of his old business partner, and a small leather-bound book wrapped in fine Elven thread.
He picked the book up cautiously, as if was made of glass, unwrapping it slowly. Then he touched the letters carved into to the cover in foreign script, traced them with his finger. He placed his thumb on the corner, then suddenly stopped, tossing the book down into the chest as if had burned his hand and slamming the chest closed. A deep swig from the flask at his hip pushed him out of his body. His stared down at his corporeal form below, tethered to his spirit by a silver chain. A second later he jutted back in, clearing his head. He’d be ready one day.

“Well, enough of that then.” He carefully slid a small veil from his components pouch and placed a drop of mercury on the floor in front of him. A wave of his hand and a few whispers latter the chest rose to eye level on a small invisible disk. Now he just needed to get it out of the room. He walked along the basement wall, hands behind his back, approximating where he would need to place the path. At his command a path formed between him and escape tunnels. As he walked away the disk began trailing behind, as did one of his barrels, propelling itself on black little caterpillar legs, an old anniversary gift. Gramps had nearly forgotten about it, had wanted to forget about it, and promptly pulled out his flask to try and forget about it, but to no avail. It really is true what they say, you can’t run from the past, especially if said past was crafted with sapient pearwood.
Prior to leaving found himself pausing to backtrack, realizing he couldn’t leave his magically crafted tunnel standing. Jolly’s trap would only destroy the entrance to the secret tunnel and his path connected the basement much further in. If left alone his shortcut would stand for an hour, more than enough time for it to be discovered after his wall faded. At the same time, he couldn’t just let some knobs from the CID have there way with the place. A scorched earth approach was in order.

He stood at the far end of the passage, staring back at a year of his labor. Though it was only a minuscule fraction of the size of his old distillery, the thought of destroying it pained him. A small flame shot from his finger tips and flickered down the corridor. He dispelled the passage before the fire connected with one of the barrels, but the violent tremors caused by the resulting explosion confirmed he had hit his mark.

With the last of his business attended to he exited the passage with his belongings following obediently behind. Droplets of rain fell on him intermittently. He never liked the rain. Growing up underground he found it unsettlingly alien. Overtime he grew to hate it. It made him remember things. It made him feel things. In desperation he touched his flask to his lips once more tipping it back to buy himself a moment of anesthesia.

His coworker crashed back to reality with urgency. Of all the times to zone out, Monro wasn't too fond of the idea of leaving the wound, yes it wasn`t major but all the more reason to take care of it quickly rather than let it become infected. His skills weren't very advanced, but a cut like that would take minutes to clear up. He handed her a balm, and supposed they had proper medical supplies at the warehouse but still….growing up caring for his mother...leaving a wound that he could heal didn't feel right. He shook his head, she was right though standing out in the open was a fool's gambit and they had a plan to stick to.

They made their way to the warehouse swiftly and silently, as two fugitives would. The warehouse was large and unassuming. Monro always loved that, sitting gently right under the CID`s noises. As they approached he reached for his own ring cluttered with the keys to various doors but Ifa beat him to it as he tried to recall which key was for what and ushered him inside. Bossy The warehouse was spacious, half legit warehouse half safe house. A modest living space, that Monro himself had used a few times between taverns. He could feel the tension in his shoulders lessen in a familiar and safe setting. Granted he didn't much like having yet another gun pointed at them but couldn't blame a guy.

Allen was a sight for sore eyes, and Monro let out an internal sigh of relief as he hung his drenched and now slightly blood-stained coat up on a nearby coat rack. Allen was always a comforting presence, his demeanor did share some semblance to that of his father but that would never be voiced out loud. Ifa made some snide remark or another and Monro rolled his eyes while returning Allens embrace. Have some respect. He couldn't fault her for being on edge but Allen didn't just run the crew he took care of them. He certainly never needed to take a shot on some kid running scams and picking pockets on the streets.

Monro ignored the pizza altogether, unable to even consider eating after all of this, and set his bag down on the counter. He`d been living almost solely out of the same bag for a while, it had already begun to tear and was now soaked with water and other people`s blood as was his shirt. “Preacher? HA!” The half elve scoffed as he pulled it off over his head and flung the garment across the room happy to be free of the dampness and exposing both an athletic build and a canvas of scar tissue upon his back with smaller ones of varying types darting around his body. “HAHLOKRH!” He practically shouted with a mouthful of loathing failing to explain his Elvish.

He turned to start towards his bag again to sort out whichever shirt was the dryest but paused bringing a hand to his face. “The others. They...they should be fine.” He let out in a shaky breath as if to convince himself. “They were fighting back when we left, though Gary is prob” He stopped himself, dead or taken..better left unspoken. Before anger and guilt had begun to the kernel, but the main function was still escape and survive. Now as they stood safe and away it all began to sink in, and stop in his chest. Anxiety, fear, hatred, guilt, loathing, shame, concern, grief, and all of it making his chest feel weighed down by bricks but he kept on. “We got the patrons out, patched up, and safe. I……” He stopped dropping first his hand to his side then to his knees bowing his head silent for a moment.

“Sal…. sal have mertel…” He let out in a broken, far away sounding breath not looking at them, calling out to somewhere else in the most elvish he had spoken in years bowing his head lost in his self. “O'Si forgive tel'quiet.”

After she finished the trap, she gave a little sigh and a wipe of her brow. As everyone was gathering their items (or polishing off bottles of booze), Jolene grabbed a rather worn plaque off the wall. It was one of the surviving pieces from their many moves and she was determined to take it to the next place. She waved at the policeman on the other side of the barrier and gave them a wink before disappearing into the corridor. After confirming the headcount, she gave everyone a warning and encouraged them to go a little farther before she activated the trap. The makeshift bomb collapsed the passageway with flair.

She usually tried to keep on a brave face, but as she walked behind her coworkers, she let the façade fall. Her fear came to the fore. The only sound that Jolene could hear was the blood rushing through her ears. Her heart was still pounding in her chest. She vividly remembered taking the same plaque in a rush a few times before, but it never got easier. She tucked the plaque under her arm and did an inventory of her senses. She gently touched her flushed cheeks with her shaking hands, feeling around and making sure everything was still intact.

She exhaled sharply and gave her cheeks a little slap. Then, she furrowed her brow and faced forward. No sense in being afraid over something that already happened. The only thing left was to keep going. She did a few facial exercises and wiggled her jaw before resetting her expression to a lighter one. They reached the outside rather quickly and were greeted by a soft rain.

Gramps seemed to be in a mood, frequently sipping from his flask. Jolene wasn’t sure if it was the raid, the loss of his distillery, or something else. She also knew that everyone was dealing with their own problems at the moment and it wasn’t her place to bring it up. Maybe she would talk to him about it at another point. Gramps didn’t seem the type to open up often, and she knew those types were usually the ones who hurt the most.

Marty paused for a minute once they reached the outside. Jolene stopped and looked at him quizzically. Her body went a little numb when he announced the fact he was leaving. Maybe permanently, maybe temporarily, but this was too close of a call. It wasn’t the firefight, but there were other factors that drove Marty away. Jolene could only managed a nod. She was grateful for the rain as they hid the water growing in her eyes. She gave Marty a tight hug and wished him the best.

The rest of the trip to the warehouse was uneventful. She took out her key and unlocked the warehouse door. She barely walked in and was smacked in the face with the tension in the room. She caught the tail end of Monro’s Elvish musings and was disturbed. She also noticed the pizza on the table and the fact Monro was shirtless and the hickies on his body.

Since everyone was okay, she figured it was her job to relieve some of the tension. She slyly made her way to the small group.

“Hmm, is this a new kind of pizza party?” She asked. She wagged her eyebrows at Monro and pointedly looked at his hickies.

Casually, she opened up a pizza box and tried to think of the easiest way to break the news about Marty. She figured she’d go good news first and then delve into the bad. Her fingers playfully danced across the table as a distraction, “I saved the plaque today. I figured it was my turn this time, considering that Marty got it last time.”

She inhaled gently, and then blurted it out as gently as she could, “Marty said he is not following us this time. Just too much for the time being,” She barely paused before she pointed at one of the closed boxes, “Is this pepperoni?”

Kinleth was quiet, on the way back home. Losing a base was always sobering. Not everyone made it every time. Hells this time....this time Gary hadn't made it. She'd never talked to the man much, they just worked in such different parts of the business. But he'd always had a smile and a wave for everyone that came in. She was gonna miss that...

Even as she walked her fists clenched involuntarily. What kinda bastard made it legal police procedure to shoot first and ask questions never? Granted, they were a small operation, but even they saw the occasional important individual come along. The underworld weren't the only ones who wanted a drink now and again. What if they'd shot a fellow cop? Or a prominent business mogul? Or a politician? It made no damned sense, and that made her angrier. A man had died for no damnable reason whatsoever. Except maybe the sick satisfaction of whoever it was at the front trying to take them out. Bastard.

Such thoughts occupied her until they had made it safely, if somewhat damp, to the warehouse. She followed Jolene inside and raised a hand in greeting, not capable of anything more cheery. "Evenin' boss. Whe've got most ever'one out safe...most." she was quiet for a while "The lads aight?" She glanced around, making sure Ifa and Monroe were at least there and not bleeding out "Ged. So. I'm afraid with all te smoke o' their entry, ah didn't see much of whew was leadin' the raid. Whew is it on our arse this time? Actually. ferst things ferst, here."

She reached into her boot and pulled out a small flask "Ah got this off our stock afore we left. Let's calm te nerves afore we get inta the bleedin' details." She opened the flask, took a swig of the contents (whiskey, as it happened) then passed it to Allen.

Allen raised a rather quizzical eyebrow at Jolene, wordlessly taking Kinnleth's flask and doing a considerable swig. He thought for a minute, wondering if he should inquire further about Marty, though he suspected he knew what the issue was. He and Marty had been rather close, and had talked considerably, and Allen knew better than inquire much further. Instead he put the flask down and picked up a piece of pizza. "I'm glad you all are safe. Even if we couldn't all make it out, I think it's good that most of our major members are accounted for."

Allen turned around and took a few bites of his pizza. With his free hand he dug out a ledger and few rolls of papers, setting them on the table. He took another bite and poured himself a cup of coffee, setting the pot on the table for anyone else who might want some. He poured a bit of Kinleth's flask into the mug and handed it back to her, before finishing his pizza and wiping a hand on his pants. He flipped the ledger open, quickly scanning the page and found the entry he wanted. He pointed to the unrolled sheet, showing a map of Vangate, indicating a small building marked with a rough x, about twelve blocks away from the warehouse. Allen took a long drink of coffee, whiskey burning his throat. “We’re moving here, to a private library I recently acquired in a game of poker. It used to be owned by a prominent religious leader, who died recently in a car accident. There are three floors to the building. The first is a library, the second houses a smoking club, and the third is currently vacant; that’s where we’ll set up shop,” Allen said, taking another drink and rubbing his chin with his free hand.

“There’s a bar and shelves on the top floor. We’ll set up a gatekeeper on the second floor to control traffic up, just like we did at the last place. It’ll take a day at least to set up, as there’s no tables or chair and we’ll have to cart it all in. I’ve got some chores for everybody, and I want you all working in pairs. It’s too dangerous to be off on your own right now,” Allen looked at Gramps pointedly, “there’s an attic above the top floor you can set up in. It’s smaller than your last place, but it’ll do.”

Allen pulled a folded sheet of paper from a stack on the table and looked it over once and passed it to Ifa. “We’re a bit low on general supplies. Gramps and I made that list last week, but I haven’t been able to get everything. I need you to get the rest of the stuff on this list and get it to the new place. Take Monroe with you.”

Allen tapped his hands on the table, before pulling another list out of his pocket. He handed it to Jolene, “directions to the new place. I want you and Gramps to start setting up and getting the place situated. I already called the regulars to start moving some tables and chairs. They’re teleporters, so don’t be surprised if they pop in and out while you work. That sheet has directions on it. Try to come up with a name while you’re at it please, we’re going to have to start advertising again.”

Finishing the rest of his mug, Allen pointed to Kinleth and said, “you and I are going to do some recon at the old place and try to grab some of the essentials we left before it gets carted off to evidence. Before that, though I want an action report.”

Allen reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. He counted it out evenly and handed a sizeable amount to each of his gang, “I’m paying you all now since this week ran short. Remember to watch each other. We’re going to be better. Is there anything you all need of me?”

Allen absently waited for their responses, picking up another piece of pizza and digging in.

His musings were lost to commotion as the rest of the group sauntered solemnly into the safe house. His mind didn't even fully register the pizza party comment, something he normally would`ve thrown right back still attempting to process everything else from today, but Jolene's voice alone sent a wave of relief down his spine.  He had forgotten that the hickeys had even existed, the events of this morning seemed so far away now the raid overshadowing everything. Monro was a liar, a thief, a con, and a runner but violence...had never been his forte, always left to someone else to handle. This level of violence...it rattled him….they were just out there trying to live free as all things should and then...hahlorkrh. Monro sighed and stood up finding the strength to compose himself. Mostly ignoring Jolene`s attempt at lighting the mood he rustled through his bag and pulled a fresh shirt down over his form before fishing around for a small metal case and a sliver lighter bearing the symbol of a three-headed eagle.

  “Great, post raid minus the security guy.” He slightly grumbled out loud as he dug a cigarette from the case and lit it. Marty had mentioned some previous run-ins with the law here and there before, a few too many drinks into their poker games.  Still owes me some money from those poker games to Monro, sat and just let the menthol and nicotine hit his system, calming him.  He could deal with whatever new demons he had later, unwise to let the others see him like that. There was work to be done and everyone would have to step it up now.  Both due to the accent and being wrapped up in his cigarette. He barely made out a word of Kinnleths bit other than to reject the flask as it came his way.

 Allen quickly launched into the logistics which is what they relayed on him for.  Monro let loose a light smirk watching the man dig around his papers like some frantic professor. His eyes ran up and down the map of the city he loved and wandered. Smoke club? Can get behind that. He thought letting out another puff, also slightly suspicious at the idea of a religious leader dying in a “car crash”. His smirk widened at the thought of Gramps in an attic as he could hear his moaning already. I'm glad he's ok Monro let himself cast a gentle glance of a mix of concern and relief at the cranky old gnome quickly before returning his attention to the chore wheel as Ifa was handed a shopping list.  Supply run seemed almost maddeningly mundane after all of this but it was good he supposed.  Needed to pick up a few things himself, and see to ..certain things while in town.


He gratefully took his cash, a generous share as always, and walked it back over to his bag shaking his head to Allen's final question. A new bag was certainly something he would need to look at, his current one being a soaked and torn mess. Dumping all the contents out a bit, he tossed the ruined thing aside, going for a small lockbox and flipping it open with one from his key ring. He put the majority of his earnings inside the already stuffed box before locking it again, keeping just enough for him to get by in town. Living below his means had allowed him to save up quite a bit from his various ventures. He finished his cigarette, and pulled some paper from his pile of belongings, and wrote something down quickly which he then handed to Ifa.

“Let's head here first, I need to grab some things from the greenhouse, and I have access to a truck we can take into town from there.”  Monro, picked up his dryest pair of pants figuring heading out in blood-stained ones would be unwise. He`d also have to leave his coat behind but at least the rain seemed to have stopped. “You should grab the first aid kit and put some alcohol on that cut. Even minor cuts can get nasty. I`ll meet you outside after I change. Oh and don't be so bossy this time sweetheart. You don't look a thing like Kinnleth.” Ifa had begun to wear slightly on Monro the last leg of their journey but then again they were both on edge, and he still respected her and had her back no matter what. He grabbed up his pants, the money, his dagger...the one that wasn`t in a coppers throat, an ankle sheath, and his lockpick set and went off to find a more private part of the warehouse.

Gramps needed to let off some steam, or more precisely, some smoke. He pulled a small pipe and some tobacco from a pouch by his spell components. He patted the tobacco down with his finger a lit it with a quick snap. He never saw the need for fancy lighters. He inhaled deeply the smoke fill his lungs before flowing it out several seconds later. Unlike his brews, his smoking habit stayed focused on the simple things, flavor and routine.

He did not like this, not one bit. If gnomes were meant to live that high off the ground, they’d be able to fly. There was a spell for that of course, but that was besides the point. It wasn’t his fault the place got raided or that they went storming the goblin cave by bunking down instead of quietly slipping out the back like an imp in a cathedral. Once again, the burden caused by the young on and the reckless would fall upon the old and the wise.

In a way, Gramps was glad he got assigned to setting up the new joint. Sure, it meant more work for him, but it would allow him to take some precautionary measures to keep mishaps such as thing happening again. Being among the first there meant being mostly free from meddling eyes, and Jolene seemed sensible enough. That is, sensible enough to come to him for help.

Before they could start their work at the new speakeasy Gramps had some cleaning up to do at the warehouse, literally. The boy had carelessly left his sopping wet mess of a bag lying on the floor. Gramps muttered his disdain for today’s youth as he approached the bag. Once there he held is pipe in his mouth to free his hands. With a quick wave of his hands over it, the bag was miraculously clean and dry. Patching it up would take a minute. He took another puff of his pipe before picking up and getting to work. He picked the bag off the floor and ran the material between his thumb and fingers. The fabric slowly patched itself back together as he worked his way up the bag.

Jolene found the downtrodden aura to be rather odd, considering. She felt that people’s reactions to Marty’s disappearance and the bar’s destruction was off-putting. Sure, it was a considerable loss, but not one that they hadn’t recovered from before. People come and go while speakeasies fall and rise. It was the nature of the beast.

 

However, after Jolene got her cut of the cash, things started to fall into place in her mind. There was someone who didn’t make an appearance yet. She glanced around the warehouse, piecing together the unsaid.

 

Well, Jolene was damned if it was going to keep being unsaid.

 

“Gary?” She asked, scanning the warehouse one last time for the doorkeeper, “Where’s Gary?”

 

Her eyes fell on Allen, who shook his head and buried his face in his hands. Her coworker’s reactions, whether oral or not, settled the issue in her mind. The solemnity of the room fell like a curtain, and Jolene’s eyes found the floor. Suddenly, Monro’s sour mood and biting words made a little bit more sense. As reality slowly trickled down her spine, bile rose in her throat. Gary was missing. He was either taken or dead. She nearly wanted to bite her tongue off for her lighthearted comments earlier.

 

However, she already rearranged her face one time today. She wasn’t about to lose it again. She mustered up her inner strength and pushed her panicked feelings below. She hoped that, when Allen and Kinleth went to the old place, they would look for signs of Gary.

 

As she received the directions from Allen, she gently but firmly took his hand. “Find him, ok?” Her request was ethereal, her voice barely above a whisper, but hinted at a desperation for answers.

 

Feeling the tension in Monro bubbling to burst, and finding his words to Ifa to be a catalyst for disaster, she put on her metaphorical peace keeping cap. She gave an apologetic look to Ifa as she scurried across the room. Sorry, she mouthed, I’ll talk to him.

 

Before Monro could tell her no, Jolene embraced her friend in a tight hug. She put her forehead against his. Her feelings, intimate and platonic, reached out to him through her touch. She didn’t know what happened or what Monro was thinking. But she knew he needed reassurance right now.

 

Her words were like magic or song as she breathed the Elvish language, “Afisa torreh, ha ech ú- cín basale. I ambar ruven a ammen gerra tyar ha. Mín all gar- mín eitham na teilien, a yamme hain echa pothita erres. Asa mín adae gar- macc other, nin mellon. Cimma ammen lor hi yare til i meth.”

 

She gave Monro another reassuring squeeze before letting go.

 

After releasing Monro, she made her way back to Gramps. She gave him a small smile and placed her hands on her hips. “Well, then. I am ready to leave whenever you are,” She told him, eager to get busy and put her worried thoughts aside.

Monro sauntered into one of the smaller storerooms flicking on the dim and stuttering light and shutting the door behind him. The room was small and cramped full to the brim of dust and crates that seemed to contain porcelain dishes and other relevant equipment. He set his stuff down on one of the crates and leaned against it taking a moment to just breathe.  He'd gotten this far in this life by just swimming forward constantly and consistently. Still there came moments where you had to just stop and...breath...nothing but breath.  A clearing of your mind and soul or a pause on life as his mother and father would have said respectively. One highly spiritual the other an idealist`s idealist….if they could see him now...never the path they would have imagined for him. Though forces had taken them out of that equation. He had found ways to preserve his freedom without giving into a system that had never served him.  What else was he supposed to do? He stopped and brought his fingers to his nose again trying the method for just a moment but his mind was too cloudy. Many days he found righteousness in it, opposing the system and remaining free but days like today...with the bloodshed, the violence, the loses, and ...and the cop...was this path....he shook the thoughts from his head trying to clear his mind again as someone pushed open the door.

  He almost started calling something out about being in there changing, not that he was yet but it was the principle. Once he saw it was a certain redhead he stopped and relaxed a bit. They were comfortable enough around each other it didn't matter, and it wasn't like he hadn't seen much more than her undergarments walking in post “counseling” sessions. Before he could make so much of a motion he found himself in his friends embrace. Anyone else and he would have resisted a bit but his fellow orphan`s nurturing nature had long since worn through his guard. He hadn't found that from too many other sources in his life. He could feel her reassurance radiating through her touch and her sing-songy words, almost transporting him both with their beauty and the memories they brought forth. She even spoke it like his mother, more fluent and formal than his makeshift dialect. One of the first nights he had ever worked with Jolene he had said something snide in his hash dash speak and she shot it back twice over with better grammar.  Complete with a signature eyebrow waggle.

Her words rang true and he sighed. This scene wasn't quite done just yet and they still had all their roles to play. He had to pull himself together and be...be the role. His shoulders relaxed even more in a rolling motion and he sighed. Jolene left, her duty here was done and they had grown close enough that their communication didn't always need to be verbal. Well, that and her manipulant….communication training. Monro took another steady breath collecting himself again and quickly swapped from one pair of basic brown pants for another. He never was one for too many thrills, especially in terms of clothing.  He sheathed his dagger in the ankle holster, regathered his things, and left the room back to the main part of the safehouse maneuvering over towards where he left his belongings by the main counter in the center.

  A wiry smile crept across his face at both a better then new bag and the supposedly grumpy gnome himself. Monro inspected the wizards work in awe, before repacking his things and slinging it over his shoulder with a grin.Doesn`t like us my ass   “Well we can always count on you big guy.” He said exuberantly, before switching to a more sincere tone. “Really thank you.” He pointed towards Joene still speaking to Gramps. “Keep her safe after all, Sal quarlani'har siin.” He gave her a meaningful glance on the last part before quickly and swiftly ducking over to the other corner towards Ifa turning his motions into an apologetic bow.

“Look, I'm an asshole I know it you know it…”  The smarmy grin he'd pulled onto his face the second his head had bobbed back up fell and he stopped, bringing a thumb along his jawline with a smirk. We need to work with and rely on each other. I can`t try and con this. He sighed as his eyes fell down to Ifa`s feet a bit, and his voice lowered with his esteem. “I'm not…” he struggled for a bit before finding something. “I`m not good at this...any of this...from being shot at to….emotoins…I`m on edge, you're on edge, we`re all on edge, and I didn`t mean to…” He was floundering, and sighed bringing his eyes up to meet Ifa`s “You did good work, I respect that, thank you and I`m sorry.”

Not wanting to linger on the awkwardness of that sincere but band-aid apology he moved to hold the door open for her. “Shall we then?”

After she gauged everyone had sipped from the flask that was going to, she took another swig before stoying it away.

"Ah ye. Report. Aight ten." She took a deep breath "Weren't pretty. Weren't no wernin' sins neither. One moment, we was all on ar own, the next moment, ginshot, a thud, an shootin'. Didn't see who were shot, but we've not 'eard from Gary yet...."

She let the phrase float meaningfully, and her accent thickened noticeably as she continued, "Didnae see wha led th' raid. Bit thir's few polis whit care enough aboot oor line o' wirk that thay shoot afore asking questions. Micht be best tae adopt sic a policy ourselves. See a cop, shoot foremaist, ask while they're bluidin oot oan th` pumpin' ground whit th' dear boaby wants wi' oor braw establishment. "

She took a breath to calm herself "Nae. We cinnae take that approach. But it's dem tempting, that's fer sure. Regardless. We held em off, pretty sure most of te cops were rookies what didn't know te score. One of em' was shot what before we even had a weapin te fire. Finally Gremps managed to block off te fight an we got te hell outta dodge after grabbin wet we could carry. Jo dropped the shortcut behind us, so they weren't followin' wit any great speed. Though I wouldn't count on that any more. No doubt they dug that lil' gem up. Bet perhaps not, she rigged it wit a lil flame, so likely te place is in ashes nao. Nit much te find nao. I dinnae know."

She spat on the ground. "Wetever we do, we need te be ready fer the cops te come in shootin'. Unless yew git some higher up to come down on te cops, but I doubt either o' us got te connections te dew that."