Ice For A Cred Additional

[Seydon of Arda]

~Wild Space~
~Kyrikia System~
~5th Moon of Kyrikal~

[Chalca/City]

Outside was overcast, grey, biting, chilly with ice-rain sweeping off lengths of eight thousand meter crags scowling eastward past the Andrzej Roughs. Chalca was a deciduous city playing host to roughly five million lunar colonists attracted by the coniferous environs and ordinarily temperate climes, spanned by width rather than dominating lines of steel-ceramite hab-spires and community blocks choked with unwashed bodies and running power lines. Local construction favoured low-rise habitation; no longhouse exceeding more than thirteen stories though most entertained several sprawling wings connected via foyer nexus'. Myriad inns hosted outlanders venturing from orbiting crop or game acreages; Chalca was the cultural potluck, contributing to an enigmatic character.

Seydon walked in from the storm, concluding a week's worth of tracking northward along the polar-tundra edging. In the spring season, the necklace of distantly chain-linked weather stations were kept manned by voluntary skeleton crews attracted by the off-month pay-grade. An alpha hok-boar, surly, taking on mange, had been reported as responsible for ambushing and devouring six atmospheric experts and a host of sled-hounds. Seydon opted to accept their posted contract. Paid, he'd then come to Chalca.

The inn establishment called itself "Gil's". Seydon trudged in through an auto-door then passed in beneath a rusting portcullis out of the dingy coatroom, still dressed for the field with swords, knife, and axe buckled to his harnesses. Hops, ferment, and honey drifted on clouds of blue pipe-smoke beneath the rafters. Small familial crowds of regulars gravitated around occupied scarred round tables, chugging tin-skinned tankards between bites of served meals. The Dunaan came up to the bar counter... Waiving off the barkeep for a moment. Several on-staff tavern servers, purposefully hired beauteous men and women, were distracted by a presence keeping to himself.

There was a man, four inches over six feet, past eighty kilograms weighing if Seydon had his eye in, lounging against an upholstered booth. Two servers, dark haired girls not yet past twenty seasons, attended him beguilingly. He'd dark hair and a darker beard, bright eyes with unnatural steel to them.

Santhe Corporation utilized Jared Ovmar's likeness as a company identity, a public face making for brand identification. Precisely what was [member="Jared Ovmar"], Company Executive Officer, famed for boasting enough palladium to literally defecate gold on his marble-jade toilet thrones, doing on a Kyrikal lunar backwater?

The witcher strolled up and shooed the servers with a look. Seydon had retrieved an ale and mead from the barkeep in tall wooden beakers, glancing to the booth-seat opposite Mr. Omvar. "Hope you don't mind. I put these on your tab. Mr. Ovmar."

 

[Arage Bao]

[member="Seydon of Arda"]

The Inn had a pleasant atmosphere, different from all the other establishments Jared was used to visiting. Old, worn-down bars, with blood still spattered on the floor indicating a less than savory reputation or classy pompous clubs with patrons whose bracelet could feed a thousand hungry kids for a year.

This wasn’t either of ‘em, slow soft music vibrated through the air and the staff was pretty, in a non-trampy kind of way. All in all a pleasant place, where a man could feel at home without bothering dealing with spice-addicts or ostentatious teenagers with rich mommies and blatant daddy-issues.

Ovmar had been amused by the show which was his own persona, or at least he considered it a show as he watched the girls serving ‘im cast shifty nervous gazes at him, with just the right amount of curl in their lips which suggested that if he tried hard enough he wouldn’t be going home alone today. Which promptly went off the table the moment the Witcher decided to enter the Inn.

Of course, Ovmar knew him. Through association granted, he prided himself in a vast information-gathering network, but a local Monster Hunter would have been beneath his notice. Until said Hunter was the husband to Rosa, even her he did not know truly. Shorn had been lucky finding a way to remove the residue of Ovmar’s imprint on his psyche, he himself had not been that lucky.

Granted, he could have done it probably. But a man needs to stay firm in his convictions, and Shorn’s memories.. they reminded him of what he had lost and what happened when a man reached too far too fast. In the end they were are a reminder of his mortality, and therefore its value outweighed any discomfort he might experience.

Back to Rosa then. Ovmar knew what Shorn had done to her, and he also knew what had followed next. A fallout between lovers, and a surprising union which through its surprise few had expected to witness. Truth to be told, the reason why he had been looking into Rosa and her close associates was simple. There was guilt in him, not his own no. A foreign entity, a remainder of Shorn’s imprint, but it was there. Gnawing on him, and Ovmar did not like this guilt he was experiencing.

So he decided to do the only thing that seemed right to ‘im. He had decided to make things right, make sure Rosa was okay. Which was a fine and dandy plan, until he found out she was actually pretty solid at the moment. Loving husband, a family of misfits making sure she was okay. No amount of gold, toilet-sourced or not would make her situation any better. Such was the situation, the Lord of the Fringe found himself in, whereupon he knew not what to do with himself and the guilt that festered inside of him.

This wasn’t the reason he was currently presiding in a warm and cousy inn on some random backwater planet, few people would know what Ovmar was up to these days. He kept his cards close to his chest, not very trusting fellow he was. Some would even say paranoid to a fault, dying could do that to a man.

At any rate, that was enough fluff for now. Cold blue eyes looked up from his musing and drink, impassive face not betraying a single sign of familiarity.

For all pretends and pretenses, the High Lord had no idea who this man was. Eyes scanned the armory clenched tightly to the yellow-eyed scarpatched man, and for a second or two there seemed to be genuine amusement in those steel eyes. Lip curled into a small visage which could be discounted as something approximated to a smile.

Which melted away again in an instant, leaving the question if it had been there to begin with. A curious individual indeed.

“You seem to have me at a disadvantage, mister..?”

 

[Seydon of Arda]

[member="Jared Ovmar"]

The mead-cup slid over the table finish and skittered a moment before a blemish in the grain caught the tankard's skirt, halting it by Ovmar's knuckles. Tin-banded wood bounced off a small silvertine signet posted on his index finger. Seydon kept the ale but refrained from sipping, adjusting his seating so his looped scabbards stopped digging their chapes and lockets into his skin. The CEO gave up nothing in reply; just caged his face behind implacable expressions that hinted Jared Ovmar was anything but disadvantaged. The Dunaan grunted, chuffing up a smoke plume from his lit pipe.

"Seydon," He said. "Not every day we have someone so affluent coming round for a visit. Thought I'd take the chance to rub elbows. Or at least take up the seating before someone comes by and tries to fleece you. But it's a long way from the Core, Mr. Ovmar."

Up came the ale-cup, Seydon having his sip while looking through the soft screen of rising pipe-smoke. "What brings so much money out so far?"

 

[Arage Bao]

[member="Seydon of Arda"]

Index finger softly ticked against the wooden table, tik tik. It was annoyingly synchronized with the clock that hung on the decorated wooden wall, which brought up another question. Why was everything here made from wood? Maybe they wanted to make it a bit more realistic and genuine, but still. Fire codes, they were still somewhat a thing, presumably.

“What does money ever do? Roll around multiplying itself, mister Seydon.”

As he spoke those words, his head strangely tilted itself. Almost as if Ovmar was somewhat confused, or perhaps just a tad puzzled by some kind of discovery. His eyes swept over a man.. which didn’t seem to be there just a moment before. The moment was yet again gone before it could be remarked on, as Jared looked back at the Monster Hunter.

“Tell me, mister Seydon. What does a man do with that many pointy objects?”

 

[Seydon of Arda]

[member="Jared Ovmar"]

He swept another take of ale over his tongue, measuring both taste and conversation, fixing to stick a bead on Ovmar's demeanor but finding it likewise foiled. Levantine Space took care of its own affairs with a finesse of independence. Despite a scored deal between Abregado-Rae and a handful of Sanctum worlds for a take in entertainment goods, they'd avoided marrying into dependence with any of the major corporate entities. But Abregado-Rae was not Santhe Corporation.

"He sticks things," Seydon said, chuckling. "He sticks them as thoroughly as he's paid to do. They send me after monsters when they'd rather not risk their own helpers."

...Ovmar's glance swept briefly right, outside the booth and at something occupying a seat at a lonely knot-cedar table. Seydon parceled a temporary look. Nothing. The seat was unoccupied; ashes sputtered cold on an scoured pig-steel cigar tray, beside a glass mug fogged with fingerprinted condensation and an unfinished meal of noodles sauced over with mushrooms and chicken. A server strolled over and attended the table, stacking the stoneware plate and cup away, before scouring down the stain-finish with chemical wash-agents.

There was something behind the oily aromas of lho sticks and thick narcotic smoke. Seydon surreptitiously snorted, drawing in a whiff. ...Cloy, terribly subtle, like the scent between whiskey and raspberries, intoxicating but... too rich. He looked again, watching a drifting blue-smoke clouds part gently aside despite a lack of any standing presence of breeze. Overhead particle-wood fans were still. Across the bar, someone with a wet, slick laugh stumbled drunkenly through their guffaws. Seydon leaned his shoulders against the booth plush. Ale and mead idled between them.

...A high-backed chair settled at the booth behind Ovmar's back suddenly kicked off its feet and turned over. The crash jarred a waiter cleaning another booth on along the wall. That soaking laugh quieted. Seydon took another swig of his ale, trying to pointedly ignore the... 'weirdness.' "They're also handy dealing with things outside the normal scope of encounters. Like when you stroll into a place you ought not to be and all the Nine Hells open up to disgorge every horror they can your way. ...Or when you're struck with piles, it's the same thing virtually," Seydon tried to joke. "...Just awfully curious what an owner of several security subsidiaries and a host of contracted ordnance manufacturers is doing on his lonesome in our backyard. I can trust nothing will go up in fire, you're no Padawan on a sabbatical. Just heard some things about Jared Ovmar. Be loathe not to check in."

 

[Arage Bao]

In response to the weirdness all around them Jared Ovmar seemed to be as shocked and aghast as an… well no good analogy comes to mind at this point in time, but suffice to say that Ovmar didn’t seem to be worried at all. In fact, in response to the chair falling down he reached inside of his pocket and retrieved a cigar, two actually. One of which he offered to the Witcher, regardless if the man took it or not Jared lightened his own.

Wasn’t long before a steady smoke raised itself from his cigar, filling their surroundings. Technically, this would prove a tactical advantage too, if someone was using mentalism to hide their presence, the smoke would give ‘em away. If they were bending away the light, it would be even harder to make sure to hide the movements behind the smoke. Of course, Ovmar just wanted a good smoke, of course.

“And how is the job, Seydon of Arda? Is sticking your.. sword into things an enjoyable exercise of time?”

His hand reached for the Ale, and moved it towards his lips. The flavor mixed with the cigar, and a little smile played on his lips. It seemed the man was very pleased with something, maybe the flavor. One strange thing though.. when had Seydon told the CEO about Arda?

“Hmm.. and what is it you that you have heard about this illustrious Jared Ovmar, mister Seydon?”

 

[Seydon of Arda]

[member="Jared Ovmar"]

'Stick' depended on the context and he'd learned through trial and difficulty that the devil resided in both detail and discrepancy. Seydon took the proffered cigar between his fingers. It smelled of Savorium ground down with Marcan herbs into a nondescript fat tube of dried, sourly toughened rashallo leaves hand-picked from Haruun Kal Balawai plantations. He propped it against his teeth, squeezing down his lips, sparking fire off his gloved fingertips. Secondary smoke blossomed in heavy smoke-balls, drifting away in silken, acrid clouds. Seydon dragged in a toke and curled blued vapors out his nose; his pipe laid aside, unused for the moment until the cigar became spent.

"It's work, Mr. Ovmar," Seydon replied. "It's only ever work."

He was picking up on approximately sixteen heart-beats pulsating in the bar vicinity, though a cursory headcount revealed only nine regulars and their usual suspecting culprits idling time, burning pay-vouchers, snacking through basket-fries greased in vat-oils and drizzled in rimes of melted cheddar and ground, seasoned beef. They sat apart in sequestered corners, chatting together in fierce airs. Seydon felt something irritate the air by his cheek; virtually imperceptible save for the hordes of microscopic, fine hairs keyed to vibrating sensations. Altered inner-ear organs and their connecting small bones, auditory tissues and nerve-ends, could pick up sounds into the one-twenty khz range. Unseen bodies were adjusting their positioning. Seydon endeavored to give nothing away and continued to converse in his lowyl, gravel voice.

"I've heard Jared Ovmar is filthy rich," He said. "That's his defining trait. Wealthy, difficult to pin down, has a presence stretched from Fringe territories all the way out to Confederacy space. That he supplies arms, armour, that his subsidiaries are contracted out for security duties by virtually every major political body save the Mandalorians. ...Rumour goes he was maybe a regarded confidant for a handful of Fringe leaders. And I have never trusted anything that had much to do with that lot."

Wolf-eyes peaked up, staring... flicking to Ovmar's left. Standing six feet, immobile, was a bedeviled outline; a faint clear-on-clear profile. Perfectly invisible... Save the pair were now smoking like fiends. No one had seen Seydon draw his sheathe-knife and place it flat across his knees beneath the booth-table. "To the point," He said. "Is Santhe looking to throw its weight around the Tingel Arm? Buy out our worlds, indenture the populations?"

 

[Arage Bao]

Ovmar leaned back a little bit, closing his eyes as he enjoyed the taste of the cigar. All outside appearances made it seem like the man was just casually resting his eyes, sharing a conversation and a smoke with an acquaintance of his. In reality what was happening was something different, as Ovmar blew out the smoke something happened with it.

It changed forms, creating little silhouettes and shadows in the air. At first it wasn’t recognizable, but more and more details could be disconcerned. There you saw a man, a boy really, being beaten up by a group of thugs. Only to be saved by a heroine, the Goddess Yun-Harla. Two armies clashing with each other. a Factory working overtime to produce goods. Rapidly the smoke changed from one scene into another, until it finally ended with a single last scene.

A man with mesmerizing blue eyes in an office, which zoomed out to be a single black Station in the void of Space, and one quality added to that picture. He was all alone.

While this was all dandy and perfect, a cheap parlor trick to score in a backwater Inn. It had a different purpose, reaching out with the Force for seemingly no reason at all.. would have alerted the fiends. Now, it seemed Ovmar had only been interested in impressing his guest. While at the same time, being able to gather enough strength to.. well make their time very unpleasant.

Blue eyes opened themselves again, and looked at Seydon.

“Don’t believe all stories you hear, mister Seydon. Most of ‘em are.. misguided at best.”

He put down his cigar, and continued. “Money is a strange thing, you know? To create more of it there are two ways you can go. The Subach way, antagonizing everyone for the quick buck. Then.. there is my way, mister Seydon. I am here for the..” his lips curled into a smile. “Long Con.”

He placed his left hand on the table, looking at the signet ring for a while. Then Ovmar casually and with much care touched Seydon’s mind, with a fragile message.

“Blink twice if you are aware of what’s happening around us.”

 

[Seydon of Arda]

[member="Jared Ovmar"]

Jared Ovmar waxed cigar clouds rather than conversation to intercede personal details in their conversation. Odd, but Seydon considered the mouthfuls of breathy blue-curls gusting into the table-space between them, noting that though the smoke gently assembled into outlines of shape, moving doll-like and imperceptibly, the medium seemed too destitute for proper detail. He could see hooligan-men all dressed up like docket workers in their tan coats and scalp-hugging toques, bitterly wailing at a boy now snotty with blood pouring down his lips. More blood, pink mists exiting from gunshot wounds halving men apart while tabanna bolts struck and ignited fueling depots, blooming stained fire-balls. Gun-cutters spiraled overhead, spitting las-fire from angled wing-tips, strafing a troop carrier into a cloud of meat and vessel refuse. Hell-soaked memories.

From the corner of his eye, someone was taking their leave of the washroom. They were a heavy-set individual, pulling a length of polyester shirt over their stomach, pants not quite buckled on. Trousers slipped and tangled round their ankles. The man, a tall specimen dressed in a coat of lime-red scales, collapsed forward with a yelp. Seydon saw his hands lash out to stop his fall. He toppled regardless, crunching neatly onto the wood-finish flooring. ...And somehow causing a table six paces out of his reach to topple back. He saw a shade another three paces sidle almost seamlessly into a trailing bar of further cigar smoke.

They waited for the patron to rise and re-buckle his pants waist-catch, shifting back around the bar counter, looking flushed. Seydon looked up at Jared Ovmar. Lit cigarellos burned coal-bright.

He blinked twice.

Then he grappled his tankard and hurled it with an arm-whip. It flew, struck something invisible across their nose and mouth, shattering into dregs of tin, beer-soaked maple, and teeth, poleaxing the observing fiend off their feet. The unseen body collapsed onto a cheap and partially damaged aluminum seat. It crumpled like a veil fan. Something dressed up in a dark bodyglove sheathe lay sprawled out, hissing. Seydon and Mr. Ovmar could see a face twisted by coral scar-tissue wrapped around two lightless eyes. It raised its left hand and drew out its hold-out pistol.

Their booth table disintegrated as it opened fire.

 

[Arage Bao]

[member="Seydon of Arda"]

While Mister Seydon threw his tankard Jared’s glass narrowly escaped death, as the now downed creature of not so much invisibility started to shooting up their table. Under all the stress Ovmar stayed quite relaxed and even managed to take another sip from his drink, before throwing it and its contents right at the head of the beast.

It wasn’t much of a tactic in its own, but now the monstrosity was soaked in something that closely resembled alcohol which, as you might now, can be highly flammable. Ovmar’s hand was already forming a fist, to sent off a minor flame against his opponent. This would surely set it ablaze, and they would have one problem less to deal with. Of course, his hand halted in its tracks, once the Mentalist realized that.. they were pretty much surrounded by wood and the occasional stone outline.

Flames would prove to be quite detrimental against the building they were in, which was not the aim Ovmar had this time. As such he unclenched his fist, and instead waved his hand in the general direction of the beast. Which elicited a whole other reaction in itself, silverware of all kinds flew out to impale the.. thingie.

Forks, spoons, knives.. you name it.

“Another day in the office.” He murmured while preparing to start attacking the thingies around ‘em with his mind.

 

[Seydon of Arda]

Fire was quick to lick up into the rafters. The barkeep roared oath-laden shouts and busied with retrieving a foam-retardant tank. If flame caught up and began gutting out the brass and steel beer engines, the conflagration would defy all expectations of potency and burn the pub to completely to ash. Footprints appeared over rimes of repelling foam the bar-keep shot at the overhead rafter-beams and across fire stems trying to eat over the polish-sheen across the floor boards and joists below. Patron crowds streamed out through the entry portcullis, briefly forming a clog of stuffed bodies fat with alcohol and cheesy-chips. One of them lurched away, fingering wildly at something.

Outlines of spectral cloaking dropped and lent light and definition to some dozen figures, dressed in lengths of armoured body-gloves, skin-shaved, blank eyed, scarred atrociously and uniquely over every face, dangling banded loops of decorative runic psyk-bone across their torsos. Each drew out a ivory-painted vibro short sword and a gen-linked hold-out gun. One was felled by a flying butter knife, spork, and plate fragment slashing their throat. Another cried out, eye-ball impaled by a steak knife. [member="Jared Ovmar"] was broiling the air with Force power.

Seydon drew Razorlight and waded in, beginning the killing work. He parried one stroke for his face so fiercely, the vibro-blade ricocheted back into its wielders torso. Another unknown assassin-thing went for a thrust, was answered by a riposte, edge caught on the guard-hilt and stuck. Seydon rammed the sword-peak home; Razorlight keened up through the creature's jaw, hard palate, brain, and skull-cap. Blood wept in fountains. He turned, cutting another a third one down through its unguarded belly, nearly bisected. Seydon reversed his gripping, tailing Razorlight back over his left hip in a surprise poke that took an assaulter by their kidney and spine. It fell over and wretched ichor onto the ground. Out came the sheathe-knife. It left the Dunaan's grasp to spear a sixth body off their feet nine paces away, their throat buried up to the brass-washed guard cross.

"Your friends?" Seydon asked before bulling an assassin back across the pub-floor, torching her with fronds of pyrokinetic flame.

 

[Arage Bao]

In contrast to the Beastenator and his display of great vengeance and furious anger, Ovmar continued to lounge on his seat while gathering his strength. Truthfully, he probably could have taken out all their opponents the second he had realized they were here. But that was quick and dirty, probably would have caused a whole lot of innocent casualties. Ain’t exactly the goal ‘ere, instead the Lord of the Fringe was busy making a catalog of sorts, making sure his targets were all bogeys of some sort.

Which, admittedly, took a bit longer than he had expected. But that was probably because everytime he had a solid lock on a beast, Seydon was there to cut it down. Pretty darn annoying, but hey. You gotta work with the tools you had.

Eventually Seydon asked him if these were his friends, which coincidentally was around the same time Ovmar got a solid lock on the remaining foes they had to battle.

Which was just as well, because it allowed him to do that cool thing where he talked at the precise moment four or five enemies fall dead to the ground without any warning.

“Hardly, I don’t surround myself with.. these sort of folk. You?”

 

[Seydon of Arda]

[member="Jared Ovmar"]

"No."

The barkeep was lighting into several gruff combinations of local curses and oaths, asking between Ovmar and Seydon who possessed defecated matter for gray cells and precisely where he was to dredge up necessary funds to repair the fire damage. He coasted by, blasting corpses and flooring alike with an extinguisher tank, half-tripping over splayed limbs and their clutched weaponry.

Seydon turned a body over to peer at its face, kneeling. Its expression was racked into a rigid grimace, between a sneer and abject fear, shaved skin pulled taut back across a ridged skull. When he rattled its throat, the mouth parted with a wet pop and cooked blood steamed over its cracked lips. The dagger in its left palm couldn't be pried away: it was a bi-form weapon, the cross-guard formed from digits folded over in ninety degree angles, the hand itself actually split by a meaty part neatly down to its wrist, ejecting a sterling blade roughly twenty centimeters in length and wired to an internally shielded battery source. Seydon thought it spoke of frightening sophistication, certainly of resources requiring expertise in biomechanical augmentation and cyberization.

"...I've an enemy or so," Seydon admitted, holding up the graft-limb for Ovmar's inspection. "But he's been forced underground not so long ago. I doubt he'd shell out for a petty assassination attempt but..."

He shrugged, stepped aside from the Barkeep, who just sighed and kicked at a fallen killer with thin leather boots.

 

[Arage Bao]

[member="Seydon of Arda"]

Dust, the faint sweet scent of burned flesh and smoke darted through the air of the establishment they were in. Much damage had been made during the fight, and it was understandable the Inn Keeper wasn’t too pleasant after an affaire such as this. Of course, the Lord of the Fringe couldn’t help but consider this a bad fitting end to the story, in truth.. he really couldn’t care less about the damages.

But there was such a thing called reputation, and that was a valuable commodity. Just stepping away now would mean being put on a metaphorical blacklist, people talked. That was the way of tightly-knit communities, but it could be used in reverse too.

With a casual stroll he walked over to the Inn Keep, and with a nod flashed a credit chip at him. Giving it to him, with a soft pat on the shoulder. The chip in question was worth more than the entire establishment, the man would be able to restore the entire damn thing and then maybe extend it with fifty percent. Ovmar flashed a lazy grin at the couple of pretty waitresses which had been carefully trying to avoid any problems.

Then he strolled back to Seydon.

The attack was troubling, but not much could be done about it right away.

“I don’t appreciate being attacked, regardless if the attacker was after my persona or yours. I will contact my sources, try to see if they can figure out who tried to pull this poodoo on us. Do the same and let’s exchange intel at the end. Might even be able to double whammy this schutta, deal?”

In truth Ovmar wasn’t really angry, mad or any other adjective which would imply rage, in truth.. Ovmar really didn’t care all that much. But just as with the Inn Keep, a man has to protect his reputation. If you allow yourself to be attacked in such a way, and don’t try to at least get even? Well, it wasn’t the smartest way of going around doing business and being an Evil Secret OversithLord.

 

[Seydon of Arda]

[member="Jared Ovmar"]

"Mmmn," Seydon affirmed.

Involvement with Ovmar was a reluctant matter the Dunaan had sparse taste for. He busied himself with carrying the still cadavers outside, passing the monied Chief-Executive-Officer, and laid each prone form down roughly shoulder to shoulder behind the tavern in a blank yard that needed floral grooming. Swaying saw-grass bent eastward from persistent westerly breezes coasting over Chalca from the high peaks. Distantly there were yawing sirens, accompanied by over-driven motors speeding to make a curt arrival at the half-gutted tavern.

Local enforcement arrived in square-nosed air-cars laced heavily with anti-slug plating, massaged onto the speeder frame, work-horse transporters bulked up by Ingram-model engine blocks and solid convex 'pulsor cones. The police stepped out, six officers, dressed in mauve with gold roping running down their jacket-sleeve piping. Platinum badges chased with lit identity-characters were displayed proudly on belt and sternum catches. With hands on their belted pistols, Seydon caught three sauntering into the tavern coat-room. The other three shouldered through the private alley into the yard and began making a small show of authority.

Distractedly, Seydon came to his feet and kept his hands clamped by his waist-belt. He'd little wish to tangle fruitlessly with Kyrikal 9's judicial system. Wind began stroking over the fencing, picking up as distant thunderheads rolled in, rapidly swelling like ink dropping through water. The scent of approaching rain grew exponentially while the officers tried to swiftly, diligently, record his statements while Seydon guardedly answered their queries.

Did he know the assailants? Not at all, but they displayed apt skills in camouflage and close-quarter fighting. They noted his spoken observations pertaining to their general anatomy, each assassin a hard gene-wired construct flash-forged from chemical vats before receiving further anatomic changes, including bi-form weaponry and biomechanical augments. Microscopists, generous reference keys, alongside faithful patience would reveal their prior races. Perhaps.

Seydon recommended burning the remains. A thick-necked officer running kraken-limb tattoos up her throat advised leaving the matter to Chalca Authority. He shrugged and conceded. It was raining hoarsely by the time they ran through a sixth-set of prodding catechisms. Forensic squads by then had arrived and were canvassing the tavern grounds, sealing away the 'spawn-things in magnetic zipped sealant tarps. Seydon was soaked, running with droplet-rivulets from his silver brow down to his boots. He hoped Rosa had the caff-brewer percolating...

~Fin~