Write About a Black Winged Moth

If you have to bluff, go big.  No hesitation, no thinking, just jump right in and trust that Lady Luck is feeling magnanimous.  It had worked so far in my life, so I decided to continue riding the great Lady's coat tails just a little longer.  I opened the door quickly and soundly.  No sneaking in, no slinking.  Just squared the shoulders and walked through like I owned the place.  If you look like you belong, who knows?  Maybe you do.  Of course, having Berto at the back helped.  Most people's glance slide right off my face and up, up, up to his.  Tonight was no exceptions.  My brother and I stepped squarely from that dank tunnel into a crowd.  The Lady held me in her arms yet again.  I knew exactly where we had landed.  We were in the back store room of McFreedy's Fine Ales.  The name was a lark.  The place was owned by a swarthy man named Santiago and the only fine thing it served was a wicked hangover.  It was near the docks however, and Santiago was known as a bit of a smuggler.  Nothing big.  Just little stuff slipped under the eyes of the Runners and the Citadel.  I had never known him to traffic in human goods but this was neither the time nor place to ponder such mysteries.  Our entrance had turned the heads of a group of gentlemen who were playing Sharks in the back storeroom.  The stakes looked high and one seat was already vacant.  The trail of blood that ran along the floor to the door I now stood in was relatively fresh.  The strange sticky substance in the tunnel behind me now made prefect sense.  We we lucky not to have run into the removal team.  Even luckier, Santiago wasn't there to alert the gamers to our uninvited status. The goons by the back door had taken a step forward when we appeared.  But they had stopped at our confident entrance.  Bless the Lady of the Bluff.  She was going to save our hides once again.

"Gentleman," I scanned the table, making brazen eye contact with each man present.  A few I recognized by reputation.  Without missing a beat, I headed across the room toward the back door that lead to the public room of McFreedy's.  The goons looked towards their bosses but no one stopped us.  With the same false confidence, I shouldered my way past them, tugged the door open, and left the room of players behind.  Santiago was serving behind the bar and his eyes widened when he saw us emerge.  I made a beeline to him and perched myself on a sticky stool.

"Hey, man, we need to talk," I stated simply.  Berto leaned his back against the bar, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room behind my back.  Santiago nodded to the men next to me and they grabbed their drinks and headed for a table.  The stools around me were now empty.  Time to run the bluff.

Santiago was in his late 40s.  His face and hands were heavily scared.  Whether from hard labor or hard fighting, no one know.  He was a distant cousin to someone in the Duermo organization and as such he was afforded their protection.  I hadn't had much dealings with the Duermos.  They were big time.  I was far to small to register on their business plan.  But it did explain what I saw the other night.  Human trafficking was right up their alley.  Now, I just had to confirm my suspicion.

I leaned into the bar and lowered my voice.  "I saw the 'delivery' that cam from your back room down at the docks the other night.  It seemed a bit...fresh if you get my drift."

Sanitago had an excellent poker face.  He continued to slowly rub the bar in front of me with a damp cloth.  The moment felt like it was stretching too thin so I played my next highest card.

"Heard the Runners were paying good money for any leads about these fresh deliveries.  Now, I'm not one to pick sides, you know that Santiago, but money is money.  If what I saw has a price, I want to be paid.  Don't rightly care where the funds come from.  So if there is someone else I should see about what I know, someone else in the market so to speak?  I'd be more than willing to take my business there first."

Santiago continued with those slow maddening circles.  I was just about to throw down my cards and quit this game when he left the rag on the bar and reached under the counter.  Berto tensed and I had to remind myself to keep breathing.  Slowly, he raised his eyes to mine and slid a card across the table.  Like a dealer in Sharks, he flipped it face up in front of me.  I'm sure I blanched when I saw it.  An embossed black winged moth stared up at me.  With deliberation, Santiago slipped a gnawed pencil from behind his ear, scratched an address across the bottom of the card, and slide it across the counter to me.  The stakes had just turned.  I picked up the small cream card and brushed my thumb over the embossed moth.  Santiago pushed back from the bar with a wry smile and set a shot of something foul before me.  Without hesitating, I downed it in one gulp.  I'd need all the courage I could find.  The Night Moths.  Fuck me.  I'd have been better off in the hands of the Runners.

A history of whispers

The citadel hadn't always been discussed in hushed reverent tones. A history of whispers had taken over its function more than 15 years ago after the assassination of Commissioner Thora. She had been a true believer. The streets safe, the air pure. Or rather, more pure and "safer", thought Finnegan.

The Runner's runner's pace was quick but not too fast for him to keep up with. Over his right shoulder looming over the bay was the trident. Its top just out of sight in the low storm clouds. Windows from two of the spires gleamed with light.

The citadel sat on top a hill that also overlooked the bay, one of five such hills around the city. The wide thoroughfares zig zagged their ways up the inclines to the gates.

Everyone knew the true power of the city ran out the dark spaces in the Citidel even though most public power was located in the Trident. The creation of the runner's runner, a fleet of peace keeping automatons had consolidated that fact and as such for the past 15 years there seemed to be an uneasy truce between those working in the Citadel and those in the Trident.

There were now Runner's runners working the large pointed topped gates where the streets met. A wall had been erected around the citadel since last he'd been there. It seemed to be made of a single piece of basalt twenty feet tall by ten thick and ran in a smooth circle around the hill top, bending out of sight.

Here, finally, he saw human runners as well in their smart polished button uniforms. The runners had started as simple messengers between the citadel and the Trident, then they had become empowered as go betweens able to broker deals. Then they were able to enforce the agreement brokered until finally they served as the main police force ensuring the peace throughout the city. The Runner's runners had been developed as a way for them to remain impartial and unable to be bribed or influenced. It was only now, years later, that people were realizing how much faith they had invested over time to those impartial servants.


Finnegan was escorted by his runner's runner keeping careful eye on the single red gem affixed to the top of its hat-plate as this differentiated it from the myriad other runner's runners scurrying throughout the Citadel.

He was somewhat taken aback that here at the Citadel at least, Runner's runners had grown past their mostly human form and now were working in forms that mirrored specialized functions. Two near the gate he had just walked through had four stout legs, a torso that looked to be more like a bathtub studded with long cables and ominous tubes of various diameter.

They walked across a courtyard that took five minutes to cross. The runner's runner stayed true to a straight path. Inside the courtyard regiments of runners and runner's runners performed drills even at this late time of day.

Finnegan noted that One of the moons had risen but the other two weren't high enough above the Citadel wall to be seen yet.

The wind was gusty and the rain had begun to fall in big fat drops that made Finnegan happy to finally reach the destination. The five story structure sat perched on top of its own hill with easy lines of sight to the bay and behind it to the farming valleys.

He was escorted to just within the front door and told to sit on a long dark wooden bench that ran almost the length of the hallway some seventy feet away. He was the only one sitting on the bench.

Finnegan had just removed his pocket watch to make sure it was wound for the fourth time when a loud voice echoed down the hallway: "Rumor Finnegan, rogue, scoundrel and threat to the empire if there ever was one."

Finnegan looked up to see a large man silhouetted at the end of the hallway making his way towards the main doors. He strained to see through the dim hallway any identifying detail to determine the man's identity. Once the stranger was only thirty feet away A smile spread slowly across his face.

"Cousin Bertram? You work in the Citadel now?"

Bertram let out a laugh that echoed and was entirely too loud for the location.

"Rumor, how long has it been? Six? Seven years?"

"It was at the last Festival of Crumple! You were drunk, had just met some conniving trollop fortune teller who had said something about marrying into riches and both of you were carrying on about eloping to Sarc."

Bertram looked suddenly serious then broke into a grin, "That's no trollop, that's my wife!" and gave Finnegan a hug that squeezed the breath from his lungs.

"You two married? I don't know whether to offer my congratulations or my condolences then cousin."


"Ah you never changed Rumor. Come walk with me."

They walked down several large hallways filled with dark, fading oil painted murals. Sometimes of Citadel dignitaries, sometimes of locations under control of the city. Finnegan was momentarily captivated by two. The first was of the Southern Isles, a plantation growing Fleck's root with Lemur-men workers happily helping the plantation owners.

The other mural made Finnegan shudder. It was a picture of the refinery its single enormous rocky peak rising up out of the ocean, a single point of land this side of the world falls, and area were the ocean simply spilled over into nothing and supposedly fell forever. The refinery and its leviathan turbines stretched into the water on either side of the rocky island harnessing that great power. The buildings on that outcrop smouldered in the picture. Finnegan wasn't' sure if their orangy reddish hue was due to the sun's setting in that painting or the massive energies being dredged and harvested.

After twenty minutes of walking up and down flights of stairs and catching up on old times, Finnegan finally arrived at Bertram's office. There in the middle of Bertram's desk were all of Finnegan's inquiries into the disappearance of the Cuttle grubs. Next to them a stack ten times as high of their paperwork. Bertram followed Finnegan's gaze and said:

"You have been contacted by 8 cuttle families regarding their children's disappearance. I can assure you that while the cuttle have experienced the largest percentages of losses especially recently, all clans across the city and in some other cities we are in contact with are experiencing losses. You know of 8 cuttle losses, our records show it closer to 52 cuttle grubs. 17 lemur children, 9 human, 14 Chiropts and..." he furnished one large file in a different colored envelope to put on top of the stack. "One golem."

Finnegan let out a surprised whistle. There had been rumors of disappearances but this was an epidemic. Bertram signaled that Finnegan should take a seat. In the stack Finnegan could see his own handwritten requests for help.

"What leads do you have?"

"None at the moment. Or rather none I can discuss with you. There seem to be many groups in play here and the citadel is determined to figure out who's on our side and who needs to be eradicated. This many disappearances can rock the faith of a population so its in everyone's best interests to maintain the status quo. Needless to say you will not discuss what you see here with anyone outside this office."

Finnegan felt a brief buzzing in his head just behind his right ear. He knew he'd just been censured.

"Why tell me this then, cousin?"

"We need your help. Your status and placement makes you privy to locales, information and people without alerting various parties that we may be listening. We need you to make some discrete inquires, nothing more, to help us solve this and move on."

"I'm happy to help as any good citizen would be. Why bring me here? Why the pomp?"

"Various parties here were not as convinced as I was that you would need no coercion. You can't know what sort of battle I had to engage in to make sure it was only me you met with. I can't tell you how happy I am that no coercion was needed."

Finnegan shuddered involuntarily.

Bertram rose. "I will be your point of contact here so know that you have a sympathetic ear, here within the citadel. I will provide information when I can. In the mean time, keep your ears and eyes open and we'll be in touch."

"Very well. Its been good catching up with you cousin. Be sure to tell Aunt Fabrice a good hello for me." Bertram paused then regained his composure.

"I'm sorry to say Rumor that my mother passed away quite unexpectedly a few years ago."

"Oh, I didn't know! Nothing was said! I'm sorry for your loss Bertram."

"A slants all to brindle, its all in the past now, and you didn't know."

"Well again, my condolences. And we should endeavor to meet more often than every seven years."

Bertram looked wistfully distant "True cousin true."

A Runner's runner with a red gem, two blue and a purple gem on its hatplate was waiting for Finnegan just outside the office door.

Bertram said: "This fine unit will escort you back home. You'll keep my cousin dry in the rain I trust?" Bertram added to the Runner.

"If it is required then it will be done." was what was answered.

Finnegan's mind swam all the way back to his apartment. He got in and was able to close the study windows just as the nightly deluge began.

Write about sinking

Three days into the journey and Arthur had finally gotten used to the idea about heading to the refinery, sure that he could tell someone what sort of mistake had been made.

While he hadn't been able to talk the captain into getting a larger room, at least he was free to walk about this one.

The captain had come down shortly after leaving the harbor and, upon seeing Arthur had been a mass of wild eyed panic, his greasy hands leaving dark streaks through his hair as he pushed it back from his eyes.

"You're not a child!" The captain had stated and began pacing in front of the door. This caused the Lemur-men to look around in agitation.

"You are correct, my good man. In fact I haven't been a child in a very long time. Care to untie me?" Arthur had said.

"My contract is to only take the slimes and the occasional fur baby." Arthur noticed that the captain hadn't even looked over at the lemur men when he had made the specist slight."

"Be that as it may, I am quite willing to attest to this faux pas and relieve your burden, simply untie me, drop me off at the next port of call, and I shall simply let bygones be bygones. I'll have you know this hasn't been the first time I've been mistaken for a child." Arther flashed a grin, hoping it was as caviler looking as he was trying to be.

"Gods be damned, you're not a slime, nor fur baby. Slants all to brindle! My contract is for slimes and furs..."

Arthur's smile faded. "We've established that. Now simply untie me, and drop me off at your next port of call."

"Next port is the Refinery." the captain had started wringing his hands.

"If geography serves the isle of Alta is in between here and there, without being too much out of your way. Simply drop me off there?"

"Can't schedule to keep. They'll know if we've deviated. Only enough coal to reach the refinery."

Arthur was beginning to feel some of the captain's panic. No one chose to go to the refinery.

"Why are you taking children to the refinery anyway? Last I heard it was for the desperate and the cast out."

"Do you know what ship this is?" The captain asked suddenly.

"The Wonsoon." Arthur said without thinking, but then quickly added, "But if you drop me off I could forget quite easily. All these coal steamers look alike to me."

"Slants all to brindle!" He shouted; "You!" he pointed at the nearest lemur man hanging from a rafter, go get me some marsh so I can figure out a way out of this."

"Keep dealing with me my good captain and I can have you in as much marsh as you can drink!"

"Slants all to brindle... Slants slants..." And with that he slammed the door closed. Seconds later he heard the agonized scrape of the bar sliding across, blocking all egress.

Arthur heard the lock click. He sloughed off the ropes that bound him that he had been loosening for hours and stood up to stretch. All his muscles ached. Even standing up straight he was only 2/3 the height of a lemur man.

That exchange had been three days prior. Food had been delivered by a non-speaking Lemur man. Arthur spent many hours gazing out the one porthole that was mere feet above the water line, listening to the constant thrum of the boilers. By his reckoning he still had another three days before they made it to the Refinery.

While all obvious enchantments had been relived from him, he could still see the aura of location around his clothes. Hoping against hope that Vincenti and the others had a map fine tuned enough to divine his location out at sea.

At one point he tried to call Vincenti using a crude wire ring hanging from a rat's whisker he was able to procure, but without fire the thaumurgy had little chance of success and there was very little that was flammable in his room anyway.

On the fifth day he awoke to a change in the engine pitch. Perhaps they had hit a headwind or the tides were against them but either way the engine was now straining. Arther was also pushed against the hull slightly from where he was sleeping. They were turning, a sharp turn. For an instant Arthur allowed himself fantasy of a change of course to Alta, but then he heard the thunder. Or what only sounded like thunder. Seconds later what sounded like a giant with a sledge hammer hitting the steel of the ship's frame made his teeth rattle.

Arthur scrambled up to the porthole. In the morning haze, dimly silhouetted and brooding not fifty feet above the water was an enourmous double bodied zeppelin. The gondola hanging below was many times the size of the wonsoon itself. A cargo platform had been dropped from the gondola and small steam powered cruisers were making their way towards the Wonsoon. The fog lit along the port sides of the zeppelin in an eeriy orange as another round of artillery left. Then came the thunder. Arthur dove behind a barrel just as the porthole he was looking in opened to the outside. The hole was barely above the water line and the stray wave began splashing in the jagged hole. Another flash, lit his room. This time Arthur could barely hear the thunder of the guns as the engines changed again to a deafening roar. Dimly he could hear someone shouting something about water in the boiler room.

Arthur found the sturdiest barrel he could and began pushing it towards the gash just as another volley made it even larger. Water began flooding into his room. The Wonsoon was officially sinking as Arthur could see the bulkhead of the compartments below his already filling with water.

One more heave and he and the barrel landed in the ocean, freezing water gripping his limbs and shocking his breath from his body. It took everything he had to position his body over the mostly-floating barrel so that only his legs were in the water. He watch the Wonsoon careen away from him, leaving his barrel twirling in the wake so that once every 2 seconds he had a view of the now listing ship.

Men, women, Lemur-men and women were darting amidst the rigging, some making graceful dives into the frigid water. Then the sea hit the boiler. The last thing Arthur saw was the bright orange ball of flame that seemed to split the Wonsoon in two. Arthur held onto the barrel for dear life as pieces of the wonsoon began raining down. It was one of these pieces that came down on his still tender head.

"Slants all to brindle." He mumbled as he lost consciousness...

In The Distance

The tunnel opened before me.  I could feel my pulse rise and my breath came fast in my throat.  There was no light in the distance.  No sound.  No breeze.  Just dead dark.  My hands began to shake as the tunnel seemed to close around me and I'm sure I would have fallen if Umberto hadn't wrapped and arm around me.

"Raz?  Raz?  Are you ok?" he asked me.  "Are you sure you wanna do this Raz?  It looks kinda dark...."

Something about the stupidity of that remark shook me back on my feet.  I pulled out of his grasp and rummaged in my overcoat pocket to find the gem Jules gave me.

"No shit it's dark you idiot," I grumbled, slapping the gem in my hand and watching as it flickered to life, "it's a secret tunnel.  What do you think, it's going to have lighting installed?"  I strode off in a huff, the eerie blue gem light casting shadows along the tunnel walls.  It didn't illuminate far ahead but enough that I could see where I was going.  I heard Berto shuffle behind me.  When the trap door closed, the darkness fully engulfed us but I refused to let my steps falter.  I kept my breathing steady and focused on Jules' gem light.  I did, however, set a brisk pace.  I wanted to get to the end of this passage and out as soon as possible before panic overwhelmed me.

The tunnel itself rose sightly.  The ground was muddy and the sides were rough cut stones.  There was enough height to stand comfortably but if I were to stretch out my arms, they would easily touch the sides of the passage.  Single file was our best option.  With Umberto's hulking footsteps behind me, I lead the way into the darkness.  Time is a funny thing.  In the dark, without any sounds or outside cues, it's easy to lose track of it.  We couldn't have been walking long before I saw a bundle up ahead.  I slowed as I approached.  In our pathway, crumpled on the ground, was a brown coat. Never one to leave a pocket left unsearched, I knelt down and rifled through the coat.  A few pence, a small notebook that was too hard to read in the gem-light, and a round silver watch with the initials ARW engraved on front.  I tucked my treasure into my pockets and motioned Umberto to follow.  The ground of the tunnel was damp and muddy as if a great flow of water had recently passed through.  It made the going slow as our footing was questionable.  But still the tunnel traveled up.  After an indeterminable amount of time, I could make out a faint glow up ahead. I tapped our gem off and stood for a moment, letting my eyes adjust.  The darkness began to settle about me.  Again, I could feel my heart starting to seize up and my head began to spin.  It was so dark.  So dark.

"Raz?  Um, why are we stopped?" Umberto whispered into my ear.  For once, I didn't care about appearances.  I reached back and grabbed his big warm hand.  Together, we crept toward the glowing outline of the door before us.  When we reached it, the muffled sound of voiced carried into the tunnel.  I could hear clinking glasses and laughter.  It sounded like a party.  I had hoped the entrance to the tunnel would be in a secluded place we could just slip into.  That was not going to happen.  We were going to have to make a very loud entrance.  Loud and fast.  I stepped back from the door way to think.  I wished there was some way to get a peek on the other side but we were going to have to go in blind and hope for luck.  Not the way I like to operate but, truth be told, it was my usual modus operandi.

I stretched myself up on tiptoe to reach Umberto's ear.  "OK brother, here's the plan....."

Write about Lamps and Candles

Finnegan strolled through district after district hoping that his head would clear, the Forthent would take effect and possibly his headache would go away. Near suppertime, his feet aching from the miles he had put down swung by a cart and bought three skewers of bay fish, sauteed over charcoal braziers. The carter wrapped them in newspaper for him and he made his way to a cafe only a few blocks from his apartment.

The sun was low on the horizon. Filtered through the smoggy clouds it loomed large and dark orange, silhouetting the ships in the bay. Finnegan could almost look directly at it without leaving spots in his eyes.

The waiter showed him to a table on the second floor of the cafe, out on the balcony. It was early enough and very few diners had decided to make their way out yet so Finnegan had the balcony nearly to himself. His head had finally cleared, The headache simply an unpleasant memory from the afternoon. He laid out the fish on a plate in front of him and ordered his favorite dish to go with it, roots and vegetables from the southern isles shipped nearly every day to the city. It wasn't quite fresh, but the flavors still transported him away.

He had read that the southern isles had air so fresh you could stay out in it for days. The rains there wouldn't leave gritty residue when it dried. Someday he would travel there and see it for himself. Until then he merely needed to bide his time. And possibly make some headway into the disappearance of the slimes' children.

The waiter brought his salad, two more fingers of Forthent and a large cup of coffee then went about lighting the gas lamps and candles. The tables held small rings of bright cheerful yellow light. The gas lamps showered a larger area with their flickering blue tint.

The sun sank so low under the bay that merely one angry orange tip still shown above the surface, illuminating the undersides of the storm clouds forming over the city. There was going to be another gale hurtling itself at his shutters again tonight.

Finnegan read his paper as more and more diners joined him on the balcony. He was immersed in a detailed exposition on the benefits of opening trade with Tarn-across-the-sea that he hadn't noticed that the din of the cafe had dwindled to nothing.

He wasn't sure if it was the lack of sound, the sure footsteps on the slate or perhaps the first drop of rain blotting his shirt sleeve that broke his revelry, but he looked up from his paper and noticed the cafe-goers
starting behind him.

Turning, his breath caught in throat. A Runner's runner was methodically making its way towards his table. Its dark green glowing eyes starting directly at him behind its clockwork mask of a face.

It halted before him spewing a little cloud of steam into the air that smelled vaguely of cloves and ash. Finnegan could hear its boiler popping with heat in its chest. The air around the thing shimmered with the stink of heat and thaumaturge.

When it spoke, it spoke in an even cadence, its voice sounding like a chruch organ crossed with a train whistle. Hard consonnents vibrating on its wooden lips. Its voice was at beautiful odds with its function.

"Rumor Jorgen Finnegan?" It asked. Finnegan knew more than to attempt to lie. Behind that passivly ornate metal and wood face, magics and science, the likes of which he could barely comprehend were watching, listening and analyizing everything about him.

"You know this to be true Runner's runner."

"You are to come to the Citadel with me regarding your inquiries vis a vi Cuttle and Lemurian offspring non-location."

"The disappearances?" Finnegan breathed a slight sigh. At least it wanted him work related. He'd heard horror stories of those under interrogation never coming back the same to their families.

"You are to come to the Citadel with me regarding your inquiries vis a vi Cuttle and Lemurian offspring non-location. Section 14 article 6 clause 19 of the City charter requires you to comply with my request. You have one minute to settle your affairs at this place of commerce."

Finnegan's heart raced again. The runner's runners could make even the act of paying a check sound sinister. He looked over to the waiter who was simply standing in the corner trying not to attract the automaton's notice. Finnegan made an imaginary check mark in the air. The waiter mouthed "Its on the house." to him.

"It appears that my affairs are in order at this location. Shall we be off?"

The runner's runner didn't move for a long minute, then turned and began walking.

"You will escort me to the Citadel."

"Right, on our way then." He picked up his bowler and overcoat from the chair next to him. Finnegan saw each and every eye in the cafe follow him out. He hadn't been to the Citadel in years, decades actually. How long had it been? 5? No, 25 years. When Artimus had become commissioner, his first wife's cousin. That had been something, all pomp and circumstance. But that had also been 4 commissioners ago. He wondered if there would be any familiar faces there when he arrived.

On the Horizon

There are few things you should know about me.  I guess now is as good a time as any to fill in some of the details before events start to unfold.  First, I am the youngest of nine.  At least, at last count it was nine.  We all share the same mother and are scattered across the City and even some of the outer Islands.  Old mom got around.  Second, mom had the gift.  She practiced the Dark Arts, had an understanding with the devil or could touch the other side.  Whatever you call it, she had the goods.  Each of us got a taste of her gifts to varying degrees.  Of all of us, I think I take after her most.  I was tested at age 12.  The results were off the cart and I was quickly bundled up and stowed on-board a ship for a direct journey to the University.  Luckily, the masters didn't appreciate my skill with locks and I slipped off that ship before it set sail.  Which leads me to the next little quirk I have.  I love locks.  Mechanical, ethereal, alchemical, or just down right nasty, I adore them all.  If I was ever to go straight, I'd open a locksmith shop over on Market Street and spend the rest of my days happily tinkering away.  But the straight path just isn't in the cards, as my older sister would say.  And she would know.  What Elsie can see in her deck would turn you hair.  But I digress.  Lets see, what else?  Ah yes,  I suppose I should catalog my weaknesses as well as strengths.  The one I'm most branded with is arrogance.  Go figure, right?  Rashness.  Again, totally unjustified.  No concept of reality.  And fear of the dark.  No really, I'm terrified of darkness.  It isn't something I'm proud of but there it is.  Next break in the actions I'll give you the details but for now, we are out of time.  We've reached my sister Imogien's house.

Imogen isn't the oldest of the bunch, that distinctions belongs to Rueben.  But she is the oldest female which means she loves to boss us all around.  She also insists, as eldest daughter, that she be keeper of the family ring.  Arguing with Imogen gets you know where, trust me I've tried, so we've all resigned ourselves to this set up.  Imogen did well for herself.  She married early and well.  But things didn't work out so great for her husband.  I guess marriage to my sister isn't conducive to a long life.  Suffice to say, she married young, widowed even younger, and has been living large ever since.  Her home is in the posh part of town.  We've learned to approach by the servants door.  As we unlatched the side gate, Umberto's face lit up.  He loves Imogens.  Thinks she's a fine lady of quality.  Just more proof that Berto's mental facilities are a bit on the shaky side.  But I was more than willing to use it in my favor.

"Hey, Berto," I began as we rapped on the delivery door," why don't you pop on up and ask Imogen if we can borrow Mother's ring?  I know she'd love to see you."

Umberto nodded eagerly and a big grin broke across is broad and homely face.  Nellie, the downstairs maid, opened the door and waved us inside.  I settled down on the kitchen table and tucked into a nice meat pie while Berto followed Nellie upstairs nattering on happily.  Imogen loves Umberto.  It's a bit of a bone of contention between us. She would like nothing more than to make him her ward, slick him up, and introduce him into Society.  I believe Bertos strengths lie outside of cotillions and high teas.  More ont he side of barroom brawls and muscle work.  For this reason, I try to steer clear of old Imogen.  Our "discussions" usually turn into something much nastier.  So I was content with my meat pie and wheat ale.  It took about and hour or so before Berto came downstairs.  I don't know how Imogen did it but in that time she had managed to wash, trim and oil his hair, fit him with new breeches and a thick woolen overcoat.  But no matter how you dress a turkey, it's still a turkey.  Berto stood before me, shifting from foot to foot and picking at his sleeve.  He managed to work loose a seam thread and I watched the cuff begin to unravel.

I sighed.  "Did you at least get the ring?"  I asked.

"Yeah Raz, I got it!" Umberto stuck out a meat mitt and there on his pinky rested a clouded red ruby set in a silver band.

"Alright, lets get out of here," I said and headed for the door.  Berto grabbed two pies for himself and by the time the side gate had latched, his woolen overcoat was decorated with trails of grease and pastry crumb.  By the time we reached the street, his coiffed hair had returned to its disheveled state and he was looking more and more like my brother every minute.

The sun was just hitting the horizon when we arrived at the wharf.  The seagulls circled and called out in harsh tons above our heads and the smell of salt and raw fish lay think in my mouth.  I could just see a large vessel way out on the sea.  It shimmered in the suns last rays.  More mirage than real as it slipped over the horizon.  I lead Berto over to the rock wall I had investigated last night.  It looked as solid and substantial as before but a light push on the right spot and..... the hidden door popped open silently.  I took a moment to admire the mechanics of it.  Very well done and maintained.  This close to the sea everything rusted fast but these hinges and bolts were solid and well oiled.  This was not a rarely used bolt hole.  This door was too well cared for for that.  Ahead, the tunnel was a deep black.  And remember that fear of the dark?  Yeah, that's going to prove problematic in a few moments.  Very problematic.

Write about one precious thing lost

Vincenti awoke with a start, still bound to the old woman's chair. The light creeping in from behind the shades and under the gap in the door implied late afternoon, but not quite evening. He saw the ceramic urn on a table next to him and surmised from the symbols on the side that it contained the dagger. His wallet was still in his great coat pocket.

"I am awake now. We can discuss payment. I have some money now but can give you more if you require."

He took a second to feel and savor the lack of pain in his chest. His relief as was palpable as the pain had been.

"Hello? Old woman?"

"I'm here I'm here." The old crone shuffled in from the other room. "You don't need to continue on. I should charge you more for letting you sleep here all day. Runners going this way and that. Maybe I should have let them find you hmmmmm?"

"I have no issue with the runners." Vincenti lied. "You could have let them in."

"Bah." She took the wad of currency Vincenti had brought it and tossed it onto his chest. Vincenti cringed ready for the pain but the would was already fully healed.

"Isn't that enough? I can get more."

"I don't need that money."

"If you release me I can get other money to you. I admit I was traveling a bit unprepared last night."

"Your accounts have been settled golem." She started loosening the restraints. Vincenti's arms ached and his shoulders creaked as he moved them.

"Are you sure you won't take money?" Vincenti asked. He began to dread what the crone took but a quick search of his pockets showed he still had all the lint and dust as when he had come in. "What, may I ask, did you take as payment?"

"You won't miss it, golem." It was an old joke, golems and souls.

"You can have my soul, if you can find it." he quipped.

"Bah, golem thinks he has a soul. Even if you had one it wouldn't be worth the flesh it occupied. I took your last breath golem."

That startled Vincenti. "Do I have many left?"

"Enough." She said. "You are finished here. I fixed your eyes, you will be able to make it home now and stop sullying my parlor or I really will call the runners on you."

Vincenti sat up, rubbing his wrists and waiting to regain feeling in his legs. "I thank you madame."

"Don't forget your jar. As I said you paid me to remove it not to store it." She walked to her front door and opened it, dark orange sunlight crept across the floor.

"Certainly". Vincenti expected to blink away tears with the light, but none came. He wrapped the jar in his overcoat that was still damp from the rain of the previous night and smelled vaguely of bayeed. "Again thank you."

He stepped out into the afternoon light and bathed in it. It had been quite a long time indeed since he'd seen daylight with his own eyes.

"Ming! The Wonsoon! He had to tell Ming that Arthur was on the Wonsoon." Putting the Trident on his left he headed out to tell Ming the news.