Original Submissions by Brandonempting

• 

  Kadians never forget.
  Added on Dec 15, 2009

  Sharlo and Rhys Kadius head to the apartment of Gage Gritshaw to interrogate someone who had information on the death of a much loved employee.

  ---

  A Narrow, Dim Hallway [NS Save]
     A hallway wide enough for two humans abreast runs to the north into
  the building and south to the street.  A rounded ceiling of brown mud forms
  an arch connecting the walls, which are dingy with dirt and grime.  The dirt
  floor is littered with small fragments of bone and stone mixed into dusty
  sand half an inch deep.  Several doors branch off of either side of the
  hallway along its length.  A small desk sits off to one side of the
  corridor.  
  The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak is standing here.
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak is standing here.
  The stout, bald young man leans up against a wall, arms folded over his chest.
  The black-haired man leans against the desk here.
  
  The black-haired man intently scans the area.
  
  The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak lumbers over to the stout, bald young man and nods once.
  
  The stout, bald young man looks at the short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak.
  
  The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak says to the stout, bald young man, in sirihish:
       "Let's go."
  
  Gruffly as he pushes off the wall, the stout, bald young man says to the short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
       "Sharlo, eh? A'ight."
  
  100hp 115mv 89st |standing|walking|cavilish|unarmed|l (Briefly) stout
  Briefly, you look at the stout, bald young man.
  A raptor-like build characterizes this sturdy young man's stout form,
  with lean, hard muscle forming taut sinewy cords beneath his sun-darkened
  skin.  Not a single stone of spare fat evident anywhere on his broad frame.
  His head is completely bald, and hanging off the end of his strong,
  masculine jaw is a long, coarse black goatee, its braided length reaching
  to his chest before being tied off with a small strand of leather.  His nose
  at one point might have been aquiline in shape, but now holds more than a
  few breakages and dents to its bridge.  His left eye is missing completely.
  A few light burn scars surround where it now remains permanently sealed shut
  with a nasty-looking scar.  His remaining eye is beady, and holds a bullish
  countenance to it's muddy brown iris.  His large hands are heavily
  calloused, with protruding knuckles and several scars about them.  
  The stout, bald young man is in excellent condition.
  
  The stout, bald young man is using:
  <worn on head>           a dusty leather and jet-colored chitin coif
  <worn on face>           a dusty black leather eyepatch
  <worn in right ear>      a dusty twisted yellow bone earring
  <worn around neck>       a dusty stiff, black-leather gorget
  <worn about throat>      a dusty water gourd
  <slung across back>      a dusty bone-handled, obsidian hawkblade
  <worn across back>       a dusty rope-strapped canvas backpack
  <worn on left shoulder>  a dusty scrab-shell shoulder plate
  <worn on arms>           a pair of leather-reinforced sandcloth sleeves
  <worn around wrist>      a spiked leather bracer
  <worn around wrist>      a spiked leather bracer
  <worn on hands>          a dusty pair of fingerless, black leather gloves
  <worn around body>       a dusty hooded, sandy-brown reinforced sandcloth duster
  <worn on legs>           a pair of black leather pants
  <worn on right ankle>    a dusty charcoal sandcloth bandana
  <worn on left ankle>     a dusty small leather pouch
  <worn on feet>           a dusty pair of darkly-stained, knee-high raptor-hide boots
  
  He is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  The black-haired man hands the stout, bald young man a key.
  The stout, bald young man walks north.
  The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak walks north.
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak walks north.
  You follow the short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak, and walk north.
  
  A Narrow, Dim Hallway [NESW Save]
     A hallway wide enough for two humans abreast runs north and south
  through the building.  A rounded ceiling of brown mud forms an arch
  connecting the walls, which are dingy with dirt and grime.  The dirt floor
  is littered with small fragments of bone and stone mixed into dusty sand
  half an inch deep.  Several doors branch off of either side of the hallway
  along its length, the closest a door of bone and leather along the west
  wall.  
  The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak is standing here.
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak is standing here.
  The stout, bald young man is standing here.
  
  The stout, bald young man walks north.
  The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak walks north.
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak walks north.
  You follow the short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak, and walk north.
  
  A Narrow, Dim Hallway [NESW Save]
     A hallway wide enough for two humans abreast runs north and south
  through the building.  A rounded ceiling of brown mud forms an arch
  connecting the walls, which are dingy with dirt and grime.  The dirt floor
  is littered with small fragments of bone and stone mixed into a thin layer
  of dusty sand.  Several doors branch off of either side of the hallway along
  its length.  Splotches of color dot the ceiling, the faded remains of a
  mural.  
  The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak is standing here.
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak is standing here.
  The stout, bald young man is standing here.
  
  The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak looks around, expression tautly drawn.
  
  The stout, bald young man walks north.
  The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak walks north.
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak walks north.
  You follow the short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak, and walk north.
  
  A Narrow, Dim Hallway [NESW Save]
     A hallway wide enough for two humans abreast runs north and south
  through the building.  A rounded ceiling of brown mud forms an arch
  connecting the walls, which are dingy with dirt and grime.  A couple of hide
  sconces for torches are on either side of the hallway across from each
  other, the walls blackened by soot just above them.  The dirt floor is
  littered with small fragments of bone and stone mixed into a thin layer of
  dusty sand.  Several doors branch off of either side of the hallway along
  its length.  
  The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak is standing here.
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak is standing here.
  The stout, bald young man is standing here.
  
  The stout, bald young man unlocks the door with a notched stone key.
  
  The stout, bald young man opens the door.
  
  

  <look west>
  A door to the west leads to a Simple, Plain Room.
  The door is open.

  [Near]
  The hulking, rip-scarred man is sitting on an etched-bone framed bed.
  The dusky, jet-curled young woman is sitting on an etched-bone framed bed.
  
  100hp 115mv 90st |standing|walking|cavilish|unarmed|
  The stout, bald young man walks west.
  The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak walks west.
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak walks west.
  You follow the short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak, and walk west.
  
  A Simple, Plain Room [E Quit Save]
     A few old blankets have been heaped into the northwestern corner of
  the room; a jumble of faded colors and frayed edges.  Several crude charcoal
  drawings are scrawled onto the wall near the makeshift bed of blankets.  A
  stone table is in the middle of the room, its surface smooth and polished
  but chipped in several places along the edges.  Strips of leather have been
  fastened to the tops of each of the table's legs, and hang from there to the
  floor.  A small stone chest has been pushed into the northeastern corner,
  several cords away from the leather tarp serving as a door.
    Dark black stains, sticky in texture cling to the floor in a large
  darkened blotch.
  A sanded bone-framed bed is here pushed against the wall with the rest of the scant furniture.
  A hefty wooden barrel is here stuck in a corner.
  The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak is standing here.
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak is standing here.
  The stout, bald young man is standing here.
  The hulking, rip-scarred man is sitting on an etched-bone framed bed.
  The dusky, jet-curled young woman is sitting on an etched-bone framed bed.
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man moves fowards as if to begin kissing the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
  
  The stout, bald young man closes the door.
  
  The stout, bald young man locks the door with a notched stone key.
  
  Hopping out of bed quickly, the dusky, jet-curled young woman stands up from an etched-bone framed bed.
  
  Slanting his gaze over to an etched-bone framed bed, you look at the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
  What may have once been this young woman's beautiful face is now enshrouded
  by several long, crisscrossing scars.  In fact, most of the dusky skin that
  masks her athletic frame is riddled with scar tissue.  While some are faint
  lines only visible with the inspection of a sharp eye, others are deep ruts
  that burrow like the tread of a wagon's wheel.  Sharp and angular, her face
  is crowned by high cheekbones that hug tightly her sunken viridescent eyes,
  her ebon lashes nearly reaching the lines of her trimmed, blade-thin brows.
  They angle towards her peaked hairline, from which rolling cascades of jet-
  black hair part and fall to her shoulders, framing her face.  Perched below
  a single stray curl is her small hook nose, the sharp tip pointing downward
  at her full, baobab-hued lips.  She is a scrape above the height of average
  women, with a modest chest and figure to match.  Though she may bear a soft
  curvature along her trunk and hips, the defined muscles of her limbs allude
  to a rather rough lifestyle.
  The dusky, jet-curled young woman is in excellent condition.
  
  The dusky, jet-curled young woman is using:
  <worn on head>           a blue bandana
  <worn in hair>           a scrap of cloth
  <face>                   a few faint, crossed scars
  <worn around neck>       a crystal teardrop pendant
  <worn about throat>      a crystal charm
  <arms>                   a pair of pitted, deep looking scars
  <worn on right finger>   a grey stone ring
  <worn on left finger>    a grey stone ring
  <worn on left finger>    a black granite ring
  <worn around body>       a hooded, black sandcloth longcloak
  <worn on legs>           a simple, lace-trimmed sable skirt
  <worn on feet>           a pair of black leather sandals
  
  She is carrying:
  nothing obvious
  
  The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak plods heavily into the room and looks around.
  
  The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "No, seriously.  Have a seat."
  
  Simply, starting to rise from an etched-bone framed bed, releasing the dusky, jet-curled young woman, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
       "Abou' time."
  
  Loudly, her hands gripping for the neckline of her bone-clasped black sandcloth shirt, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says, in sirihish:
       "The FUCK."
  
  The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak looks at the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
  
  Simply, rising off an etched-bone framed bed, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
       "I'm jus'a  dope dame...business is business though."
  
  The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak glances around for a moment.
  
  Beelining it for the door with a quick glance, the dusky, jet-curled young woman looks at you.
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man sighs faintly as he stands leaning his back against the doorway of the room.
  
  Resting a hand on your ivory-hilted, obsidian-bladed dirk as he nears at the short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak's side, you say to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "Thanks for the heads up darlin'..."
  
  The dusky, jet-curled young woman opens a grey tregil-hide belt pouch.
  
  The short figure in a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "Hey.. you need to sit down.  For real."
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man leans back against the doorway quietly.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair lowers the hood of a dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "We're gunna have a small chat."
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man caually pulls his dusty long-hafted, spiked hammer from his back as he watches the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak keeps you pulled about it's body, gazing outward from under the dark of it's hood.
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man unslings a dusty long-hafted, spiked hammer from his back.
  
  Slowing his drawl down, you say to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "I'd listen to the man were I you darlin'."

  
  Backstepping away from the doorway, the cord to her grey tregil-hide belt pouch wobbling visibly in her grasp, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says, in sirihish:
       "Wha.. wha.."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair ambles over to a large stone table and drags out a chair, then motions across the table from him.
  
  The stout, bald young man leans his back against the opposite side of the doorway, watching on.
  
  You lower the hood of a purple-trimmed, hooded black silk cloak.
  
  100hp 115mv 82st |standing|walking|sirihish|unarmed|l
  A Simple, Plain Room [E Quit Save]
     A few old blankets have been heaped into the northwestern corner of
  the room; a jumble of faded colors and frayed edges.  Several crude charcoal
  drawings are scrawled onto the wall near the makeshift bed of blankets.  A
  stone table is in the middle of the room, its surface smooth and polished
  but chipped in several places along the edges.  Strips of leather have been
  fastened to the tops of each of the table's legs, and hang from there to the
  floor.  A small stone chest has been pushed into the northeastern corner,
  several cords away from the leather tarp serving as a door.
    Dark black stains, sticky in texture cling to the floor in a large
  darkened blotch.
  A sanded bone-framed bed is here pushed against the wall with the rest of the scant furniture.
  A hefty wooden barrel is here stuck in a corner.
  The stout, bald young man is standing here.
  The worn man with wild, curly hair is standing here.
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak is standing here.
  The hulking, rip-scarred man is standing here.
  The dusky, jet-curled young woman is standing here.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair sits at a large stone table.
  
  Easing into it with a shocked expression, the dusky, jet-curled young woman sits on an etched-bone framed bed.
  
  Turning out a chair, you sit at a large stone table.
  
  Your mood is now excitement, nervous, and full of fun.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "Table, not bed.  Come on over, darlin, before I start havin' Gage move you for us."
  
  You think:
       "This en't like me but it's fuckin' not half bad... I could learn from my older cousin."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair eases back into his chair, his slivered, watery-blue eyes fixed intensely on the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man quietly watches on with a stoic expression on his gruesomely torn face while he leans against the door.
  
  Her face flushed, though she does manage to throw a smirk the hulking, rip-scarred man's way, the dusky, jet-curled young woman stands up from an etched-bone framed bed.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "Okay.. Now, you're fuckin' around.  Usin' the Way, are you?"
  
  Appearing to calm down a little as she gestures cuttingly through the air, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
       "Nah. Won't even get in touch with Edom."
  
  Annoyedly tugging out a seat, the dusky, jet-curled young woman sits at a large stone table.
  
  At your table, you say in sirihish, murmuring as he shakes his head:
       "What you want wit' Edom?  This en't got shit to do wit' the man."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "Good, because I'm sure an Oashi would care a great deal about yer rancid fuckin' snatch."
  
  At your table, the worn man with wild, curly hair says in sirihish:
       "That's besides the point."
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak moves slowly toward toward a nearby wall leanning against it, keeping it's hood up as it remains silently watching the worn man with wild, curly hair and the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
  
  The delicate, soot-braided man purses his lips as he lifts his arms to cross over his chest.
  
  At your table, the worn man with wild, curly hair says in sirihish, with a firm nod at the dusky, jet-curled young woman:
       "If you want to leave this room.. not in a bag.. then you will be professional with us.  What we want, is information regardin' the fucker that gave you the scroll and the key."
  
  At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, to the worn man with wild, curly hair, pressing a snort through her nostrils:
       "Rancid snatch. I can't imagine you think I'm really a whore, if you're starting such a festival?"
  
  Glancing warily, the stout, bald young man looks at the figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak.
  
  You begin speaking cavilish.
  
  At your table, the worn man with wild, curly hair says in sirihish:
       "Now.. that's not very professional."
  
  At your table, you say in cavilish, emitting a quick stream of words:
       "I got a weird feelin' 'bout this cuz... but I'll follow your lead."
  
  You think:
       "Not a whore.. then what is she?"
  
  Remaining silent, the figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak looks at the stout, bald young man.
  
  With a roll of his meaty hand, the worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "So, tell us.. who did you get the scroll and the key from?"
  
  The dusky, jet-curled young woman lifts her elbows from a large stone table, arms raised to cross at her chest. She mumbles quietly, looking the worn man with wild, curly hair up and down with apparent thought. Struggled thought.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair casts a long glance over at the hulking, rip-scarred man.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "I think we might have to start breaking fingers, boss."
  
  The stout, bald young man brings his hand up and begins chewing on his thumbnail idly as he glances over to the table, then to the wall opposite of the door.
  
  Simply, catching the worn man with wild, curly hair's glance, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
       "Give tha' word."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "Go ahead and grab her hand."
  
  At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, her fingers instinctively curling into a fist, tucked beneath her armpits:
       "Nope!"
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair nods and shifts his attention back to the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
  
  At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, loudly:
       "Give me a fucking chance, here. Krath."
  
  Muttering under his breath, the stout, bald young man says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
       "Hmph.... You get ta have all th' fun."
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man moves over to pull out a chair beside the dusky, jet-curled young woman casually.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says, out of character:
       "Do we all consent to torture here?"
  
  The stout, bald young man says, out of character:
       "I do."
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man says, out of character:
       "If it gets there yes."
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak says, out of character:
       "I consent. I like watching torture."
  
  The dusky, jet-curled young woman says, out of character:
       "Fine by me."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says, out of character:
       "Awesome."
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak says, out of character:
       "Only, I withdraw if it gets sexual."
  
  You say, out of character:
       "I'm down like Charlie Brown."
  
  At your table, the worn man with wild, curly hair says in sirihish, looking over at the dusky, jet-curled young woman:
       "Okay.. Here's your chance."
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man says, out of character:
       "No sexual for me either thanks. Just incase."
  
  Your mood is now nervous but dedicated to his position.
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man squats down next to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, offering his open palm to the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
  
  Simply, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
       "Gimme' yer' hand girl...Or I'll start with mah' hammer on knee caps...yer' choice."
  
  At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, green eyes welling shut, her palm faced out at the hulking, rip-scarred man, though not offeringly:
       "A customer pulled them off a dead guy, for me. I think his name was Dorian."
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak grins darkly under it's hood, watching those at a large stone table with intent.
  
  At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, rolling a gesture with her other hand:
       "A gemmer. So, naturally, not much of a ..customer. Girl fucks a gemmer, she gets some interesting pay."
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man reaches up to lock his strong fingers around the dusky, jet-curled young woman's wrist, pulling her appendage down to his chest level as he squats.
  
  The delicate, soot-braided man lip twitches to the side a few times spastically, his teeth gritting as he stares across at the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
  
  At your table, the worn man with wild, curly hair says in sirihish:
       "You are fucking full of shit.  That servant of the void near bore the gem."

  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
       "Speak up folks...I need ta' know if I need ta' start breakin' fingers..."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says, in sirihish:
       "You are fucking full of shit.  That servant of the void near bore the gem."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "Try again."
  
  Shaking his head slowly, the worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "I don't think you want to be wrong, this time."
  
  Towards the dusky, jet-curled young woman, his tone grave, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
       "Nah', she don'."
  
  You think:
       "Well, he can do it..."
  
  At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, dully, to the worn man with wild, curly hair, her hand sunk within the hulking, rip-scarred man's grip:
       "Gem's aren't hard to come by, you know."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair winces.
  
  You think:
       "I can watch... and this bitch is feedin' us kank-shit."
  
  Raising a brow as he turns his head, you ask the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
       "Kank-shit?"
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair looks over at the hulking, rip-scarred man and nods a bit.
  
  You begin speaking sirihish.
  
  Dipping his own head, you say to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "Ayup, kank-shit darlin'."
  
  You begin speaking cavilish.
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man lifts up his opposite hand, the one not securing the dusky, jet-curled young woman's wrist and grabs ahold of her right pinky.
  
  Exhaling through his flared nostrils, the worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "So let's try this again.. who gave you the key and the scroll?"
  
  A very faint *snap* accompanies a sudden twist of the hulking, rip-scarred man's hand and he lowers his grasp, the tiny digit veering off in a sickening right angle now away from its brother philanges.
  
  At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, her eyes welling shut immediately as the hulking, rip-scarred man's twists it .. at an angle:
       "I.. fuck, Gage Gritshaw."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair bares his teeth and kind of grimaces as he watches the dusky, jet-curled young woman's finger contort unnaturally.
  
  His nose wrinkled up tightly as he winces, you say, in cavilish:
       "Shit."
  
  The stout, bald young man winces slightly, exhaling a faint chuckle and shaking his head as he watches the hulking, rip-scarred man break the finger.
  
  At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, gulping, her upper body shivering visibly:
       "Why would you do that..?"
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak remains silently watching a large stone table from under it's hood.
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man watches the dusky, jet-curled young woman's face as he squats before her. His own expression holding the casual absentness of a being who is no stranger to mutilation.
  
  Running a hand through his matted, frizzy curls, the worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "Let's try this /one more time/... who gave you the scroll and key?"
  
  You think:
       "Talk bitch... jus' talk."
  
  You begin speaking sirihish.
  
  At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, hunching forward, her brow palmed in the hand that isn't held captive:
       "What name do you want me to give! You obviously know more than I do!"
  
  Wetting his lips as he shifts his crosses arms, you say to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "It'd be in everyone's best interest to let us know everythin'... down to the way he fucked if you can still remember.  And I'd try."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "I am dead fuckin' serious.. if you don't start answerin' these questions a bit more quickly, Gage will move from fingers, to toes, to limbs, until you are like a sack of hides on the floor."
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man looks questioningly towards the worn man with wild, curly hair, lifting his opposite hand up once more.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "Now.. we want to know who gave you the scroll and the key, is all."
  
  At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, as a bead of sweat manages to pass the line of her brow:
       "Okay.. okay.. it was.."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair holds a finger up to the hulking, rip-scarred man, his watery-blue eyes fixed tightly on the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
  
  You think:
       "I know at this point... I'd be speakin' whatever."
  
  You think:
       "Krath, I need a drink... and a trip to storm."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "Speak up."
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man watches the worn man with wild, curly hair, his hand now gripping the dusky, jet-curled young woman's primary index finger.
  
  At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, with a slow shake of her head:
       "Ah, this guy from the Gaj.. ah.. Salarr cloak."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "This client confidentiality kankshit will get you nowhere but dead, darlin."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "That's real specific."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says, in sirihish:
       "Fuck, Gage, get the next one."
  
  At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, loudly:
       "Hold on!"
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair snaps his fingers and shakes his head, motioning sharply at the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
  
  At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, murmuring quietly, her hand shaking within the hulking, rip-scarred man's grasp:
       "No.. no.. no.."
  
  Another dull *snap* like a muffled dry twig under foot permeates the room as the hulking, rip-scarred man twists his wrist, pulling his grip away to reveal the dusky, jet-curled young woman's newest "L" shaped finger.
  
  The delicate, soot-braided man breathes in a deep breath and releases it slowly, shaking his head as he glances across at the dusky, jet-curled young woman with hooded eyes.
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak adjusts it's hands under his dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak, keeping an intentful gaze locked upon a large stone table watching the hulking, rip-scarred man and the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair scratches at the side of his pockmarked nose, gaze set expectantly on the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
  
  The dusky, jet-curled young woman presses her brow against a large stone table as she lets out an agonized huff, her captivated arm bent at a right angle, not unlike a couple of its fingers.
  
  Simply, you say to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "Know better darlin'... you en't goin' to be missed, but it will hurt on the way to oblivion."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "Do you honestly expect me to believe that a Salarri would give a whore some rather.. unique things.. from the corpse of a Kadian lead hunter?"
  
  In a passing glance, the figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak looks down at the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man keeps an iron grip on the dusky, jet-curled young woman's right wrist with his own left hand, his massive form squatted down to put himself eye-level with her.
  
  The stout, bald young man idly spins his bluish-black stone ring about on his finger as he watches on, his usual scowl returning to his face.
  
  At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, quietly, her speech muffled by the table's surface in front of her face:
       "..Edom."
  
  Slamming his meaty fist against the table as he leans forward, spitting out the words, the worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "I know for a FACT that at least one of the people who found Silif's corpse was a Guild member."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "And there were two."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "So you are telling me that an Oashi Elite Guard was romping around with a Guilder, and they both turned in Silif's corpse?  Kankshit."
  
  Gently, leaning his head forward as he smiles weakly, you say to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "Edom en't here darlin'... and if he were, I think he'd suggest you talk."
  
  At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, shaking her a little, nose twisting back and forth against the table:
       "Don't know any Guilders."
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man peers down at the dusky, jet-curled young woman's right hand, her pinky finger turned out halfway down its length to point away from her other finger. her pointer finger broken to bend off towards her thumb.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair's eyes grow unfocused, though they are still rather evenly leveled at the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
  
  At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, ponytail, tied back by her scrap of cloth, falling limply around her ear:
       "..I don't know where Edom got 'em, but that's where -I- got 'em.. go to him.."
  
  You begin speaking cavilish.
  
  As he squats holding the dusky, jet-curled young woman's wrist in a hand the hulking, rip-scarred man casually pops some meat into his mouth from the chest on the floor next to him, chewing with the nonchalant visage of a man at work.
  
  The dusky, jet-curled young woman bites at her lip as the hulking, rip-scarred man's grip around her hand shifts, heaving a dull grunt through her half-clenched lips.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair leans back, sliding a hand across his sweat-glistening brow.
  
  Aside, you say to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
       "She might be tellin' the truth, I had a fella' I was payin' on the side... he got some dirt on another Oashi.  Name starts wit' A... lookin' for people to get their hands dirty."
  
  Exhaling wearily, the worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "Well, darlin.. Looks like Edom is claimin' that he's never even held a scroll, nor has he seen any bahamet-carved keys lately."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "So.. we've went from... Void magicker.. to Salarri... to an Oashi Elite.  Who're you gunna finger next, Great Lord Samos?"
  
  Reaching up his other hand to the dusky, jet-curled young woman's middle finger, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
       "Finger it is."
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man's grip finds the dusky, jet-curled young woman's middle finger and repeats the now familiar process, except this time bending back to break the appendage with a sickening *snap* at the base knuckle.
  
  Hefting a shoulder lightly as he turns his gaze back to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, you say to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
       "Jus' a thought.  Aziz.. that was the name o' the one, bringin' in some shady types under the table for whatever."
  
  The loud -snap- of the bone echos briefly through the small, sweat-stench ridden room.
  
  The delicate, soot-braided man blanches as he turns his face to the side, brow knitting and nose wrinkling as he shakes his head.
  
  At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, quietly, flinching as another of her fingers is torn to shreds:
       "Myehhr.."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "Seriously.  If you ever want to use those fingers for a handjob again, I'd start fuckin' talkin."

  
  You begin speaking sirihish.
  
  Raising her free shoulder, her breaths steep and shaky, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
       "..not gonna believe anything I say, anyway. Could've been any of the three."
  
  The delicate, soot-braided man sucks in another breath, nearly chokes on it as he coughs it out, his watery eyes turning back to the suspect.
  
  You think:
       "She's obviously full o' shit... but everyone has a breakin' point."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair's throat rattles with a low, irate growl as he runs a hand through his curls.
  
  You think:
       "Myself included..."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "You're being extremely unhelpful, you know.  All we fuckin' want.. is the name of the mother fucker who took my hunter's shit."
  
  At the sound of the worn man with wild, curly hair's displeasure the hulking, rip-scarred man lifts up his right hand again, this time grabbing the dusky, jet-curled young woman's already broken pinky and twisting, like the top off of a screw-lid bottle so that the digit grinds on the already broken bone.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "Did he tell you anything about the items when he handed them over?"
  
  Spitting out the words, the worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "Such as, "This is some shit I got from a feckin Kadian I axed"?"
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "Fuckers with small dicks like to brag about shit like that.  Reckon yer client had a small dick, neh?"
  
  At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, quietly:
       "He's not a client."
  
  At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, struggling to keep her mangled hand still:
       "..and I'm not a whore."
  
  You think:
       "That is goin' to heal fucked up..."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "Then let me say this again, it would behoove you to tell me who the fuck did it."
  
  At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, spitting into the surface of the table:
       "What the -fuck- does behoo.. ugh.."
  
  You feel a sense of nausea wash over yourself.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair shakes his head and looks over at the hulking, rip-scarred man.
  
  You think:
       "Breath in and out Rhys... steady yourself."

  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair gets his dusty dujat-tooth longknife from his dusty desert-colored sandcloth greatcloak.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "I'm afraid we just might have to start cuttin' on you, now."
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man looks over towards the worn man with wild, curly hair, nodding a single time.
  
  At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, defeatedly:
       "All right. I'll tell you he's up North. His name is Ron. Real skinny guy."
  
  His tone casual, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
       "Rannick...come hold tha' bitch's shoulders, she ain' gonna' be smart abou' it I don' think."
  
  In the room:
    1.rannick - the stout, bald young man
  
  Leaning forward, eyes slivering tightly, the worn man with wild, curly hair exclaims to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "Tell me what he fuckin' looks like!"
  
  The stout, bald young man grunts, swaggering forward towards the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "He wears the shit with grey veins, neh?"
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man slings a dusty long-hafted, spiked hammer across his back.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair holds up a hand to the stout, bald young man.
  
  Raising his voice as he explodes forward from his seat, smacking the dusky, jet-curled young woman across the face, you exclaim to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "WHY didn't you say that before I had to watch your fuckin' hands get mangled you -bitch-!!"
  
  The stout, bald young man rests a heavy hand on either of the dusky, jet-curled young woman's shoulders.
  
  At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, eyes peering out to her mangled hand before scooting back down to the table's surface:
       "..because."
  
  You think:
       "Calm down..."
  
  The delicate, soot-braided man turns from the dusky, jet-curled young woman and a large stone table, pacing over towards the door and leaning forward against the wall, bracing himself up with a hand as he breathes heavily and sweat falls from his face to the stone floor.
  
  The stout, bald young man takes a step back as you strikes out at the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
  
  You feel a twinge and your nausea clears and is replaced with dull anger and resentment.
  
  Speaking in a slow, coarsely-toned voice, the worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "You had better answer the question.  Describe his attire."
  
  At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, quietly, her voice a rasp between shaky breaths:
       "You said it. Wears the Guild gear. Not a guilder, though."
  
  Pulling it up casually like a tool of the trade, the hulking, rip-scarred man gets his bloodied yellowed bone skinning knife from his dusty leather swordbelt.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "How do you know he's not a fuckin' Guilder?"
  
  You think:
       "It's not supposed to be like this.  But since I started... perhaps it is."
  
  At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, annoyedly raising her head to look at the worn man with wild, curly hair:
       "I guess I -don't- fucking know, do I?"
  
  Glancing over, the worn man with wild, curly hair says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "She's talkin.. ease up for a moment, chief."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says, in sirihish:
       "As you were.."
  
  As he sits squatting before the dusky, jet-curled young woman the hulking, rip-scarred man holds her wrist with his left hand, glancing to the worn man with wild, curly hair with a nod as he casually rests his bloodied yellowed bone skinning knife on his right thigh in his opposite hand.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "You just won't let me cut you any breaks, will you?"
  
  Straightening up and tugging at your snug, deep blue silk vest with purple trim, the delicate, soot-braided man swivels on his heels and steps back to the table, retaking his seat as he wipes a hand across his face and slings the sweat to the ground.
  
  The dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
       "I told you already, Guy, he's not a Guilder."
  
  The dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
       "He's not a rinther. He's not a Guilder. Nor is he a rinther."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "What is he, then?  Who's he work for, and why the fuck is he in Tuluk?"
  
  Clearing his throat as he pipes in, the stout, bald young man says, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
       "Wouldn't be th' first Guilder from th' South...."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the stout, bald young man, in sirihish:
       "No kiddin."
  
  Without pause, though her voice still shakes, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
       "Wanted to see what the sand was like."
  
  Lifting her free shoulder, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
       "Maybe see what the pockets were like up there."
  
  The stout, bald young man glances over to the hulking, rip-scarred man out of the corner of his eye, nodding shallowly once.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair shifts his gaze over to the hulking, rip-scarred man, brow tightly knit.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "Let's start this off with a toe, Gritshaw."
  
  You think:
       "I need to be checkin' into this stuff myself.. guild, a contact is what I need."
  
  A Simple, Plain Room [E Quit Save]
     A few old blankets have been heaped into the northwestern corner of
  the room; a jumble of faded colors and frayed edges.  Several crude charcoal
  drawings are scrawled onto the wall near the makeshift bed of blankets.  A
  stone table is in the middle of the room, its surface smooth and polished
  but chipped in several places along the edges.  Strips of leather have been
  fastened to the tops of each of the table's legs, and hang from there to the
  floor.  A small stone chest has been pushed into the northeastern corner,
  several cords away from the leather tarp serving as a door.
    Dark black stains, sticky in texture cling to the floor in a large
  darkened blotch.
  A sanded bone-framed bed is here pushed against the wall with the rest of the scant furniture.
  A hefty wooden barrel is here stuck in a corner.
  The stout, bald young man is standing here.
  The worn man with wild, curly hair is sitting at a large stone table.
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak is leaning here, against a nearby wall.
  The hulking, rip-scarred man is standing here.
  The dusky, jet-curled young woman is sitting at a large stone table.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "We'll work our way up."
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man catches the worn man with wild, curly hair's gaze and nods a single time.
  
  Simply, reaching down towards the dusky, jet-curled young woman's right foot with his free hand, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
       "Rannick...hold'r."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair holds up his hand.
  
  The stout, bald young man steps up behind the dusky, jet-curled young woman again, firmly holding her by either shoulder as the hulking, rip-scarred man reaches down.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says, in sirihish:
       "She wants to talk."
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man nods to the worn man with wild, curly hair and casually begins to remove the dusky, jet-curled young woman's boot.
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man looks down at the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair looks at the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man nods to the worn man with wild, curly hair and casually begins to remove the dusky, jet-curled young woman's left sandal..
  
  Blinking her eyes as him reaches for a sandal, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "Calm down, will you? Fucking hurting my hand even more."
  
  At your table, the worn man with wild, curly hair says in sirihish, lowering his tone a bit:
       "No dice.  It's just me an my cousin here.. so speak freely."
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man sits a single sandal aside on the floor next to him with a slow methodic motion then places the dusky, jet-curled young woman's left foot between his knees for leverage as he squats, her toes facing up.
  
  At your table, the worn man with wild, curly hair says in sirihish:
       "Let's hear all these secrets of yours before we get blood all over the fucking place."
  
  At your table, you say in sirihish, biting at his lip as he turns his chair forward, to the dusky, jet-curled young woman:
       "And please don't make me watch your fuckin' toe get snapped off either."
  
  At your table, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says in sirihish, between clenched teeth, eyes shut tightly:
       "I'm.. telling you."
  
  At your table, the worn man with wild, curly hair says in sirihish:
       "No over the fuckin Unseen Way you aren't."
  
  Doing her best to hunch over the table while the boys mess with her sandals, the dusky, jet-curled young woman whispers something to the worn man with wild, curly hair.
  
  The delicate, soot-braided man arches a brow at the worn man with wild, curly hair as he glances between him and the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak remains silent, watching a large stone table intentfully with it's hands absently shifting under his dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak. It grins darkly under it's hood, watching the hulking, rip-scarred man with the dusky, jet-curled young woman's foot.
  
  This large, plain table is made of a round of once-polished stone, grown
  cloudy with decades of use.  Colored a ruddy brown, streaks of creamy yellow
  race through its surface.  It is supported by four blocky legs.  Chips mark
  the edges of this table.  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair is sitting at it, on a ladder-backed bone chair.
  You are sitting at it, on a ladder-backed bone chair.
  The dusky, jet-curled young woman is sitting at it, on a chair with a high back of woven bone.
  There are a few spaces at it.
  
  On a large stone table (here) :
  a wooden spoon
  a clay bottle
  an empty squat ceramic bottle
  an empty water gourd
  an empty clay jug
  a couple of empty tall ceramic mugs
  a red stone pestle
  a dusty stone-headed glasshacker
  a black hide belt
  
  The stout, bald young man glances down at the dusky, jet-curled young woman, allowing her head at least the freedom to whisper to the worn man with wild, curly hair.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "That is the biggest load of kankshit that's been shoveled my way all week.  You are telling me.. that some random jackass gave you a scroll that had been WRITTEN on, for no apparent reason."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "You need to start makin' more sense, sweetling."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "Aight, go ahead and put the knife to her toe."
  
  Lifting her shoulder against the stout, bald young man's palm, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
       "We keep our stuff in the same apartment. Nothing is 'his' or 'hers', it's the group's."
  
  The delicate, soot-braided man cringes as he leans back, gulping in another large breath of the dense and steamy air as he frowns at the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
  
  The stout, bald young man tightens his hold on the dusky, jet-curled young woman as the worn man with wild, curly hair speaks.
  
  Once more at the sound of the worn man with wild, curly hair's displeasure, before even getting the "go ahead" the hulking, rip-scarred man lowers his bloodied yellowed bone skinning knife down to the pinky toe of the dusky, jet-curled young woman's left foot.
  
  The dusky, jet-curled young woman grimaces as the knife presses against her pinky toe, that leg squirming minimally as she grips the edge of a large stone table with her 'good' hand.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "So you live with a group of people whose names and identities you don't even know, and one of them randomly passed this fuckin' scroll off to you."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "Fuck, cut it off already."
  
  Between clenched teeth, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
       "No.. I told you.. Name's Ron.."

  
  The bone-edged knife not holding the sharpest edge, being bone the hulking, rip-scarred man braces the dusky, jet-curled young woman's shin with his other hand, her foot between his knees and roughly saws off her pinky toe, the process suprisingly swift with a flex of his bulky arm.
  
  Slowly, the severed pinky toe rolls away from the skinning knife.
  
  Through clenched teeth, strained, you say, in sirihish:
       "Kank-shit... cut it off, we can feed her piece by piece to the beasts in the stables for all I care."
  
  Throwing her head back, the dusky, jet-curled young woman looses a loud grunt as she is separated from a tiny digit.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to you, in cavilish:
       "Ron is a fella in Guild gear who has been spotted in the Ivory.. speaking with nobility in the Ivory."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to you, in cavilish:
       "Though, he goes by Cameron."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair shifts his attention back to the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
  
  The delicate, soot-braided man lifts your pair of black, knee-high boots quickly from the floor and the spurting of the blood, crossing them underneath himself as he reaches out and grips the table.
  
  You think:
       "If she does die... we keep our promise."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "You made the mistake of speakin' about a group, darlin.  I plan on havin' the identities of other members of this "group" before you leave here alive."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "So do us both a big favor and pass them on over."
  
  The dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
       "I told you.. they're.. small groups.. Our Master comes at night.."
  
  Squatted with the dusky, jet-curled young woman's foot between his own bare knees the hulking, rip-scarred man's right thigh begins to slicken with a small amount of her crimson blood from the stump of her  pinky-toe-stump.
  
  You begin speaking cavilish.
  
  The dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
       "Cameron and I havn't seen his face.."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "Kankshit.  You can do better than that.. your toes are telling you to."
  
  Uproariously screaming towards the ceiling, the dusky, jet-curled young woman asks the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
       "Fucking KRATH I tell you the ONE secret that I've -ever- kept, and you want to cut off my FUCKING toes!?"
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man cocks his head to the side, studying the dusky, jet-curled young woman's foot with a workman's contemplative expression, then moves his bloodied yellowed bone skinning knife towards the next toe in line.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "What the fuck are y'talkin about, regardin' this "master?""
  
  Out of the corner of his mouth, shifting his long, thing body awkwardly atop a chair, you say to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
       "This bitch is insane Sharlo.  Insane and likely to end up dead... master... fuck.."
  
  Gesturing wildly with her free hand, the dusky, jet-curled young woman exclaims to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
       "I'll show you the damn apartment! I'll let you hide out until he shows up!"
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man takes the next to in line between his thumb and bent forefinger, his opposite hand bringing the dull edge of his bone knife to rest against the digit.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "What, he's a magicker?"
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man holds his dull bone knife against the digit, looking questioningly towards the worn man with wild, curly hair, awaiting confirmation.
  
  You think:
       "What does any of this has to do with Sharlo?"
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair glances over at you and nods agreeingly.
  
  Sighing defeatedly, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
       "I'm done. I can't explain this to you, because you won't listen. Just cut off all my toes, or kill me, or whatever. With me dies the secret."
  
  With a rolling motion of his hand, the worn man with wild, curly hair says, in sirihish:
       "Death will not be so easy for you, darlin.  Gage.. the next toe, please."
  
  Simply, as if offering up advice, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
       "Torch her eye...Even when they want ta' die...ya' torch thier eyes, they'll talk."
  
  Towards the stout, bald young man, taking the initative, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
       "Light up a torch."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair glances over and nods firmly at the stout, bald young man.
  
  The dusky, jet-curled young woman says, out of character:
       "Let's just FTB if that's going to happen. Not something I want to play out."
  
  Blinking as he brings a hand to his face, cupping his eyes then dropping it to look at her, you say to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "Before... you die.  You would die?  "
  
  The stout, bald young man grins crookedly down at the hulking, rip-scarred man as he releases the dusky, jet-curled young woman, bringing his dusty rope-strapped canvas backpack around infront of him.
  
  You begin speaking cavilish.
  
  The stout, bald young man gets his unlit rag-wrapped bone torch from his dusty rope-strapped canvas backpack.
  
  As if it was obvious, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to you, in sirihish:
       "I ... was bred that way."
  
  Spitting off towards the dusky, jet-curled young woman as he shakes his head, gesturing across at her, you say, in cavilish:
       "Pathetic."
  
  Looking over his unlit rag-wrapped bone torch, the stout, bald young man says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
       "Eh.... 'Bout to burn out, buy ya only really need a coal anyhow."
  
  The stout, bald young man kneels down to a knee, reaching into his dusty small leather pouch.
  
  The stout, bald young man gets his crude flint-strike kit from his dusty small leather pouch.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "I assure you, we're all ears about this "secret" of yours.  So please, let us in on it.  I'm kinda fond of secrets."
  
  Pressing her good thumb against her sternum, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
       "I, as in me, Seli.. I.. I am from.. a family.. a family that deals in crime."
  
  The stout, bald young man hums an off-key tune to himself as he strikes a piece of flint against a length of roughened granite, a shower of sparks landing on his unlit rag-wrapped bone torch.
  
  Gesturing broadly with one hand, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
       "Wee... gather in groups.. To keep secrecy.."
  
  The stout, bald young man holds his unlit rag-wrapped bone torch.
  The stout, bald young man lights an unlit rag-wrapped bone torch.
  
  Slipping it away before getting back up to his feet, the stout, bald young man puts his crude flint-strike kit into his dusty small leather pouch.
  
  Shaking a finger as if speaking to a small child, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
       "But we don't know who the Master of our circle is, because that would be a threat to the family."
  
  As he watches the stout, bald young man and the hulking, rip-scarred man for a moment, the worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "So, who are the members of your group, aside from Ron?"
  
  Holding up two good fingers at him, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
       "So we know one or two members of our circle.. namely Ron, who is in Tuluk, and operate based on our Master's teachings."
  
  The dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
       "Just Ron, as far as I know."
  
  Looking towards the stout, bald young man, speaking as though he doesnt hear the conversation, his tone casual, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
       "Hold it down so it burns with tha' flames comin' back on tha' haft...let tha' end get red, then blow it out down to a coal."
  
  /just/ beginning to hold his dim rag-wrapped bone torch upside down, the stout, bald young man says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
       "Way ahead ah' ya...."
  
  Softly, you ask the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "What are his teachin's darlin'?  What 'crime' is so important you'll go blind, deaf, limp, and dead for?"
  
  The stout, bald young man's torch flickers weakly, about to go out.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "What the /fuck/?  You just told me that there were many people who shared yer fuckin' apartment."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "Answer him, Krath."
  
  Palming her brow, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
       "..assassination, break ins, that sort of thing."
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man tips his head once to the stout, bald young man, still squatting infront of the dusky, jet-curled young woman's with her foot between his knees, as though it were forgotten there.
  
  The stout, bald young man brings the small, glowing stump of his very dim rag-wrapped bone torch to his face, blowing out the burning fire and leaving a pointed stick of glowing embers.
  
  The stout, bald young man extinguishes a very dim rag-wrapped bone torch.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "Now answer me.  Why did y'get confused about there bein' more than one person who shares yer fuckin apartment?"
  
  As he reaches down for your ivory-hilted, obsidian-bladed dirk, you say to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "Then you, my dear, had a /very/ shitty teacher..."
  
  You draw an ivory-hilted, obsidian-bladed dirk.
  
  You begin speaking cavilish.
  
  His face calm and relaxed as he turns, you ask the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
       "I'm goin' to punch a hole in her chest soon cousin... well, I'm thinkin' 'bout it.  Do we know where her apartment is?"
  
  The dusky, jet-curled young woman sits still within her seat, shrugging a shoulder as her lips tighten around her teeth.
  
  You feel the realization that life is happening fall around you.
  
  The stout, bald young man looks from his unlit rag-wrapped bone torch, to the hulking, rip-scarred man, to the worn man with wild, curly hair, then to the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
  
  You think:
       "It's another day... and I'm alive."
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man motions towards the stout, bald young man's haft of wood, one end glowing red and smoking lightly.
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man lifts up a hand to recieve the stout, bald young man's smoldering haft.
  
  The stout, bald young man reaches down infront of the dusky, jet-curled young woman, passing his unlit rag-wrapped bone torch off to the hulking, rip-scarred man.
  
  The stout, bald young man stops using his unlit rag-wrapped bone torch.
  
  The stout, bald young man gives his unlit rag-wrapped bone torch to the hulking, rip-scarred man.
  
  You think:
       "I thank Tek and my house for lettin' me have sense and a purpose in life.."
  
  His bushy brow lifting, the worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "Can't think of nothin?"
  
  You feel calm.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "Where's yer fuckin' apartment?"
  
  Your mood is now strangely relaxed despite the circumstances.
  
  Focusing her eyes on the torches flickering flame, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says, in sirihish:
       "I don't know."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair glances at the smouldering haft that the hulking, rip-scarred man holds.
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man stands back straight, dropping the dusky, jet-curled young woman's foot from between his knees to rise to his full towering height, a haft of wood, one end smoldering a soft red glow in his right hand.
  
  Bubbling out a brief laugh as he shakes his head, you say, in cavilish:
       "I was a bit sick at first, but I tried to hold it in... prove myself to you cousin.  Now it's gone past irritation to acceptance.  She is a fool.  We break her then we kill her."
  
  With a brief shrug as he grins crookedly, you ask the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
       "What else is there for her or ourselves?"
  
  Readily reaching up to secure her head, the stout, bald young man says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
       "Gonna hafta hold 'er down fer 'dis f'sure..."

  
  Towards the stout, bald young man, his tone methodic, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
       "Hold her by'ere hair."
  
  You feel a snap as your mind crashes back in sync with your body and things return to the normal rhythm of life.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to you, in cavilish:
       "Aye, we're gunna have to fuckin' kill her.  This foolish' fuckin' pride of hers will come back to haunt us if we don't."
  
  The stout, bald young man nods to the hulking, rip-scarred man, reaching up and twisting a handful of the dusky, jet-curled young woman's hair about one hand and pulling it taut.
  
  The stout, bald young man looks down at the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair shifts his attention back to the hulking, rip-scarred man.
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man says, out of character:
       "If you would now please assume that Gage used the burning haft of wood in a manner you can imagine yourself, on your PC's eye, and RP accordingly, within the bounds of your comfort, it would be appriciated."
  
  The dusky, jet-curled young woman says, out of character:
       "Got it."
  
  Shaking his head as he growls, blinking, you say to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
       "Krath!  I zoned out for a bit there... it was as if everythin' slowed down.  I'm wit' it now, and yes.  I think so."
  
  As a thick smoke curls upward from her mangled face, the dusky, jet-curled young woman throws her head back in pain, jaw slackening in agony.
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man steps back from the dusky, jet-curled young woman, lowering his smoldering haft of wood, his jaw clenched slightly as he watches on with a deathly-cold expression.
  
  Passing your ivory-hilted, obsidian-bladed dirk from hand to hand as he forces his attention on the dusky, jet-curled young woman, and the two men beside her, you say to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
       "I didn't think I would get quite this angry cousin... a learnin' experience."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "So, are you sure you don't know where this fuckin' apartment is?  Your eye's got a hole in it now, and I figure the other one's startin' to get a little jealous."
  
  You feel yourself forcing your gorge back down as you accept what is happening.
  
  Barely able to croak the words, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
       "Shut.."
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak emits a quiet chuckle, as it watches the scene at a large stone table. It shakes it's head slowly, the quiet sound of 'tsking' noises escaping the confines of it's hood.
  
  The stout, bald young man releases the dusky, jet-curled young woman's hair, remaining behind her chair. A scowl set on his face liks stone.
  
  You think:
       "Fool, this isn't funny... but it's necessary."
  
  You think:
       "Perhaps that is what I should take from this.."
  
  You think:
       "Righteous anger... my anger, and my families and friends... that is ok."
  
  You think:
       "This I know."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair frowns darkly as he regards the dusky, jet-curled young woman, his posture slouched but tense as he stares across the table.
  
  As her stinking, smoldering flesh begins to lose the red glow around the edges, the dusky, jet-curled young woman shakes her head weakly from within her seat.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in sirihish:
       "Any day now.."
  
  Weakly, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
       "Already.. said too much."
  
  Finally speaking, as it looks toward the woman, the figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak says to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "Could've avoided the lot of this, if you'd jus' tell us, woman."
  
  Spitting loudly, her partially burnt lip slurring her speech, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in sirihish:
       "Fuck off, githkisser. Now you'll never know."
  
  With a deep, wistful sigh, the worn man with wild, curly hair looks over at the hulking, rip-scarred man.
  
  Quietly as he dips his head, breathing only from his mouth, you say to the dusky, jet-curled young woman, in cavilish:
       "Food for our beasts then..."
  
  Looking towards the worn man with wild, curly hair, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
       "Tha' always works...all I got left will hurt more...but it'll kill'r fer' sure."
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man shrugs lightly as if awaiting the worn man with wild, curly hair's instruction with a stoic expression.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "Stick that fuckin' haft through her eyesocket all the way into her grey matter, Gritshaw."
  
  Looking over with a sigh, the dusky, jet-curled young woman says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "..let's hope."
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man nods once a single time then lifts up his smoldering haft of wood with arms, pressing forwards with a sneer on his torn face, the force obviously aiming to shoot through the dusky, jet-curled young woman's head completely, or as far as he can anyways.
  
  The stout, bald young man quickly grabs another handful of the dusky, jet-curled young woman's hair, securing her head down for the hulking, rip-scarred man.
  
  The dusky, jet-curled young woman slumps back into her seat at the force of the hulking, rip-scarred man's blow.
  
  With a sickening -crack- the smouldering stick touches the back of the dusky, jet-curled young woman's skull.
  
  The dusky, jet-curled young woman cries out in pain.
  The dusky, jet-curled young woman crumples to the ground.
  
  The delicate, soot-braided man runs a thumb along the hilt of your ivory-hilted, obsidian-bladed dirk as he forces himself to watch the body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
  
  A Simple, Plain Room [E Quit Save]
     A few old blankets have been heaped into the northwestern corner of
  the room; a jumble of faded colors and frayed edges.  Several crude charcoal
  drawings are scrawled onto the wall near the makeshift bed of blankets.  A
  stone table is in the middle of the room, its surface smooth and polished
  but chipped in several places along the edges.  Strips of leather have been
  fastened to the tops of each of the table's legs, and hang from there to the
  floor.  A small stone chest has been pushed into the northeastern corner,
  several cords away from the leather tarp serving as a door.
    Dark black stains, sticky in texture cling to the floor in a large
  darkened blotch.
  The body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman lies crumpled on the floor.
  A bloodied severed toe lays here in the dust.
  A sanded bone-framed bed is here pushed against the wall with the rest of the scant furniture.
  A hefty wooden barrel is here stuck in a corner.
  The stout, bald young man is standing here.
  The worn man with wild, curly hair is sitting at a large stone table.
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak is leaning here, against a nearby wall.
  The hulking, rip-scarred man is standing here.
  
  The stout, bald young man grunts once, releasing the body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman's and letting her body slump to the ground.
  
  For several moments, the body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman kicks around.
  
  You sheathe an ivory-hilted, obsidian-bladed dirk.
  
  In a stiff, reflex action, the body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman's foot lands in the worn man with wild, curly hair's groin.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair grunts, falling back out of his chair with a dull, heavy *thud*
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair stands up from a large stone table.
  Sprawling clumsily out of his chair, the worn man with wild, curly hair sits down to rest.
  
  The stout, bald young man tries hard, but ultimately fails to hold back a laugh.
  
  As he regains his composure, looking around for a moment, the worn man with wild, curly hair says, in sirihish:
       "Well."
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man leaves the haft of the torch potruding up from a bloodied body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman's ocular socket, resting his hands on his hips as he watches it flop about.
  
  Turning from a bloodied body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman to the worn man with wild, curly hair, the delicate, soot-braided man shakes his head from side to side as he lets his body let loose a strained laugh.
  
  The stout, bald young man clears his throat, any look of amusement on his face replaced by the previous scowl.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair inhales deeply and gathers himself upright.
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak emits a loud, hoarse laugh as a bloodied body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman drops to the ground. It pushes it's hands from under the tail of cloak, with a slow clap as it regards the corpse.
  
  Body spasming briefly, the worn man with wild, curly hair asks, in sirihish:
       "What the... fuck!?"
  
  Nodding to the worn man with wild, curly hair, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
       "Yeh', sometimes they do tha'."
  
  You stand up from a large stone table.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair runs his hands over his torso, back and limbs in rapid succession, shuddering involuntarily.
  
  Sucking at his teeth as he stands over a bloodied body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman, you say to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
       "Well... that was somethin'."

  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man shrugs faintly, a malicious grin on his features as he regards the worn man with wild, curly hair.
  
  A Simple, Plain Room [E Quit Save]
     A few old blankets have been heaped into the northwestern corner of
  the room; a jumble of faded colors and frayed edges.  Several crude charcoal
  drawings are scrawled onto the wall near the makeshift bed of blankets.  A
  stone table is in the middle of the room, its surface smooth and polished
  but chipped in several places along the edges.  Strips of leather have been
  fastened to the tops of each of the table's legs, and hang from there to the
  floor.  A small stone chest has been pushed into the northeastern corner,
  several cords away from the leather tarp serving as a door.
    Dark black stains, sticky in texture cling to the floor in a large
  darkened blotch.
  A bloodied body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman lies crumpled on the floor.
  A bloodied severed toe lays here in the dust.
  A sanded bone-framed bed is here pushed against the wall with the rest of the scant furniture.
  A hefty wooden barrel is here stuck in a corner.
  The stout, bald young man is standing here.
  The worn man with wild, curly hair is reclining here.
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak is leaning here, against a nearby wall.
  The hulking, rip-scarred man is standing here.
  
  Nodding a few times, the stout, bald young man says to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
       "Yeh... Sometimes 'dey twitch like 'dat fer days."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says, in sirihish:
       "Fuck, gents.. Shield your fuckin' mins."
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man raises a brow towards the worn man with wild, curly hair.
  
  The delicate, soot-braided man lifts a few fingers in the air as he nods at the worn man with wild, curly hair, stepping back in forth in front of a bloodied body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair exclaims, in sirihish:
       "What the fuck!"
  
  Eyes narrowing tightly, the worn man with wild, curly hair asks you, in cavilish:
       "Did you fucking hear that?"
  
  Swiveling his head so quickly it pops, you say to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
       "What is it cousin!?  Fuck!  "
  
  Shaking his head as he shudders and shivers, you say to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
       "No, I didn't hear shit... I've had a shield up the whole time."
  
  The figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak pads slowly from the wall, to examine the corpse closer.
  
  Turning from side to side as he glances about the room, you ask the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
       "What was it you heard?"
  
  The stout, bald young man steps back from a bloodied body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman, allowing the figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak plenty of room.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair leans against the tabletop, his jaw clenching as his eyes sliver tightly with concentration.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says, in cavilish:
       "Krath.  Fucking.  Damn."
  
  You think:
       "Fuck... should I back up... should I help..."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair paces back and forth for a moment, his sweat-slick expression darkened considerably.
  
  The delicate, soot-braided man lifts his hands awkwardly in front of himself, biting at his lower lip as he takes two steps back from a large stone table.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair snaps his wide-eyed stare over to the hulking, rip-scarred man.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair asks the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "Do you have this fucking stiff under control?"
  
  Looking towards the worn man with wild, curly hair, raising a brow as he stands with his hands on his hips, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
       "Fuck Sharlo...Tha' bitch is dead already. A'course."
  
  Looking from a bloodied body of the dusky, jet-curled young woman to the worn man with wild, curly hair, the figure in a dusty hooded, darkly-stained sandcloth greatcloak asks the worn man with wild, curly hair, in northern-accented sirihish:
       "Hm..So, now what, sir?"
  
  Sweat pouring over his sandworn features as he fumbles around in his cloak, the worn man with wild, curly hair says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "Then, for the love of Krath, let me the fuck outta here."
  
  Gesturing towards the door, you say to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
       "Let's go cousin, back to the compound... the Estate even."
  
  Looking towards the stout, bald young man, speaking quickly, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
       "Let'm out Rannick."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair finally manages to tug a sack of coin from his pocket and tosses it over to the hulking, rip-scarred man.
  
  Stepping over to the door, the stout, bald young man says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
       "Wan' me ta let 'im-- A'ight."
  
  The stout, bald young man unlocks the door with a notched stone key.
  
  The stout, bald young man opens the door.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says, in sirihish:
       "Krath fucking damn.."
  
  The stout, bald young man steps aside for the worn man with wild, curly hair.
  
  Sucking at his lip as he steps over and puts a hand on his shoulder, you say to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
       "Come on, we're movin' and you'll be fine..."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "With me, if you can.. I gotta stop by the Nenyuki."
  
  Eyes widening as he yells, you exclaim to the worn man with wild, curly hair, in cavilish:
       "I'll pay 'em.. how much is it?  Let's jus' get you back inside!"
  
  Towards the stout, bald young man, the hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
       "Watch tha' bitch till I get back...then we'll take care of tha' body."
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair's hands shake noticeably at his sides, panic plastered across his expression.
  
  The worn man with wild, curly hair says to you, in sirihish:
       "Half a large."
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man says, in sirihish:
       "Keep tha' door locked."
  
  You get your pile of allanaki coins from your large, gemstone-embroidered bag.
  There were 408 coins.
  It is very light.
  
  Nodding, the stout, bald young man says to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
       "You got it."
  
  You get your pile of allanaki coins from your large, gemstone-embroidered bag.
  There were 1200 coins.
  It is very light.
  
  Tossing it over quickly, you give the hulking, rip-scarred man 500 coins.
  
  You put your pile of allanaki coins into your large, gemstone-embroidered bag.
  
  You begin speaking sirihish.
  
  The hulking, rip-scarred man catches the sack from you with a single, blood-dried hand.
  
  Dipping his head, you say to the hulking, rip-scarred man, in sirihish:
       "We're square for now Gritshaw.  I'm goin' to get my cousin back to the compound.  Shade and profits... whatever."
  

  
  

  A Narrow, Dim Hallway [NS Save]
     A hallway wide enough for two humans abreast runs to the north into
  the building and south to the street.  A rounded ceiling of brown mud forms
  an arch connecting the walls, which are dingy with dirt and grime.  The dirt
  floor is littered with...
  Continue Reading...