So, somewhere on Fleurity's Big Houseboat in Shal-Mari, Tarot steps out of a cubicle. Her hair is razor-cut close against her head (and is so deep a shade like this that it is nearly black), mirrorshades cover her eyes, and a complicated tattoo of a wolf ornaments her back. She wears an efficient ivory bikini, and a firm belt with a few pouches attached.
Various stoned-looking demons glance at her, then away. One Habbalite, with raw-looking brands of leaf-patterns all over its skin, lounges on pillows, and raises a glass of something neon pink with an inviting smile in Tarot's direction...
Tarot extends one hand (both hands being ornamented with lace-up fingerless gloves of ivory leather that match the bikini) in a polite gesture of denial. She pauses a moment to get her bearings, then begins to navigate towards the surface of the boat, stepping over the odd collapsed body.
Surprisingly enough (or not, considering what Band she's impersonating), she's not bothered much, and soon enough, the busy streets of Shal-Mari are in view, just off the pier the houseboat is moored at...
Tarot reaches up to resettle her mirrorshades - the only sign of emotion she has shown so far - then heads for the pier, nodding to the guards as she makes her way to the gangplank.
She looks enough like a Habbie, the guards simply nod back -- that's Djinn for you. Great guards, but don't tend to take as much notice as they should sometimes.
The streets pulse with motion and garish colours and sound. Voices echo in the air like a heartbeat, offering, cajoling, begging, fragments of words suggesting innocent pleasures or vile perversions. Sheets of silk hanging from the windows advertise brothels, gusts of odours set the mouth watering, and the cadence of jeering laughter from behind some walls offers a shelter from the world in another person's misery.
Tarot uses her elbows and moves as viciously as any Habbalite would, stalking through the crowd, past two Balseraphs of the War on leave, between some Djinn of Technology who are refusing to express any concern as to where they should go (and bringing tears to the eyes of the Impudites offering them the latest in purple passion), through a huddle of souls that glance at her and decide not to object. Catching sight of a vendor of black leather bondage goods, she heads in its direction.
Through the crowds, the shop-front finally resolves itself -- it's partially enclosed, partly just a stall that projects a little into the street. In front, there's a leather-clad Calabite dominatrix, holding a bullwhip and occasionally using it on the viciously angry Habbalite chained to a red-enameled frame. He notices Tarot and glares over his bit-gag, obviously daring her to think anything but that he can take whatever punishement he's enduring to be staked out here as a demon's shop display.
The Calabite also notices Tarot. "Well, looking for something, angel?"
Tarot turns her shoulder slightly, her mirrorshades reflective in the strobes of light, emotions a flat and polished neutrality. "Some equipment. Is this your demonstration stand? It appears effective." Her head tilts as she considers some of the restraints in the window.
"Oh, it's *quite* effective," the Calabite grins, giving her captive a flick with the whip, then offers it to Tarot. "You want to test it?"
"Surely." Tarot has all the cold disdain of a Punisher as she folds her hand about the butt of the whip, testing the heft. Without looking at the Calabite, she considers the target's back. "I came in a hurry, you see, and left behind a number of useful items, and have an .. acquaintance .. to discuss matters with." The blow looks at least reasonably proficient.
There's a hiss from the target, but either he's restraining his resonance, or it's being restrained for him. The whip is *very* nasty, and leaves a thin red line through the others already there.
The Calabite smiles. "Well, if you want useful items for such discussions, I'm sure we can make some deals. What sort of items are you looking for? Restraints? Suitable chastisments?"
Tarot trails the lash of the whip through her fingers. "Handcuffs and leg-irons, lightweight but strong, a gag, perhaps a hood, a neck-chain, a riding crop. In a median size, for the human form. Can you supply those?"
"Certainly," the Calabite chirps. She snaps her fingers and a damned soul skitters out, wearing some kind of bondage harness. "Lee, show the nice angel the metallic restraints, gags, hoods, leashes, and the crops."
Lee does the "yes, mistress" bow and scrape, then stands up straight and beckons for Tarot to follow into the back of the shop proper. Behind them, the whip cracks a few times.
The store is only lightly crowded with customers -- mostly young demons, and a few servant-looking souls -- which is good, since it's *very* crowded with *stuff*. One section of wall displays whips, cat-o-nine-tails, floggers, paddles, riding crops, hairbrushes and such. Another shows restraints -- demonstrating it with a damned soul that's so bound up it's hardly recognizable as a non-mannequin. Outfits are in the back.
Tarot's attendant leads the way to the restraints-section.
Tarot inspects the restraint section thoughtfully. She collects cuffs and shackles and neck-chain - all in a size to fit Deborah - and adds a hood, riding crop, and small electric prod to the pile in her attendant's arms. Surveying it one last time, she turns to look for the proprietor again.
There's a couple of Djinn crouched at the opening of the shop, just behind the Calabite. One seems to be guarding, while the other sits at a desk and counts through little tokens with little buggy manipulators, looking like a furry worm in the rest of its body. Lee patters over to stand next to the desk.
The Djinn hisses, "Essence or barter?"
Tarot looks down her nose at the Djinn, and says, blandly, "Barter. What is the standard price in Essence for this selection?" One hand moves to lightly touch the pouches at her belt, and her gaze, behind the mirrored glasses, flicks to her selection, then the watching Djinns, then the passing crowd outside.
The Djinn sorts through the material with its insectile manipulators. "Two essence per cuff, three for the hood, one for the crop, one for the leash, seven for the prod. We haggle."
Tarot surveys the pile. She says, with the air of one making an eminently reasonable offer, "A Dorian for the set. Unused and in good condition, and one of the kind produced by Kobalites."
The Djinn fiddles with the items, lining them up precisely. "A Dorian, five Essence," it counter-offers.
Tarot makes a small gesture with one hand, faintly dismissive. "A Dorian, and a Malakite photo. Against a rocky background."
The Djinn mutters to itself, then turns to Lee, the soul. "Go ask Larinal if we're dealing in Malakim photos."
The soul patters off to the Calabite in front, there's a brief conversation, and Lee comes back to the Djinn. "She says only if they're cute, but nothing that looks like fraternizing."
The Djinn waves a couple of manipulators. "All right, let's see the trade-goods."
Tarot reaches into one of her pouches, and brings out a plastic-sheathed photo. A Malakite poses, wings darkly spread, scowling, against a cliff background, hands balled in fists. She offers it towards the Djinn by the tips of her fingers, politely aloof.
The Djinn fiddles with it, apparently *sniffing* it, of all things. "Got any more? The Dorian and two more of these, and the stuff's yours."
Tarot snorts. "How much of a gull do you take me for? The Dorian and one photo is an entirely fair price. A Malakite of Stone, even." Her posture begins to take on an edge, shifting to angry lines that suggest anger even if her face remains set and bland. "The Dorian and one photo."
The Djinn shuffles the photo and aligns it neatly to one side. "He's still wearing pants, and he's not tied down. We'll have to trade it on the underground. Dorian, this photo, and another one." It does seem to be eyeing her warily, though with Djinn, it's so hard to tell.
Tarot frowns for a moment longer, then snaps, "Very well. A second photo." She reaches into her pouch again, and fetches out another one, this one of a Malakite of Wind sitting in the branches of a tree, in a leather jacket. "Is _that_ sufficient?"
The Djinn fiddles with the photo, sniffing that one as well. "Deal. Do you need a bag for all this?" it asks as it gathers everything into a tidy bundle and waits for Tarot to hand over the Dorian.
Tarot sets the Dorian down in front of her, and lets the Djinn pick it up himself. "No, I believe that I shall carry it." She clips the cuffs and leash to one side of her belt, then attaches the electroprod and riding crop to the other side, stuffing the hood into one of her pouches. Her glance at the mirror is a brief one, and her mouth curls faintly at her reflection in the glass.
The Djinn gathers the items and files them under its desk (after sniffing the Dorian as well), and ignores Tarot utterly. Outside, the sounds of rapid whip-cracks can be heard, and the Habbalite on display finally keens through his gag.
Tarot does not look at the Habbalite as she walks out through the door, averting her gaze with a touch of disdain. She gauges her direction for a moment, then begins to head through the streets of Shal-Mari towards the direction in which she believes the Bordello lies, ironware chinking faintly at her belt.
The streets of Shal-Mari, crowded and enough to strain anyone's nerves with the frantic, desperate gaiety. Human souls jostle each other, trying not to jostle the demons among them, all seeking something they've probably forgotten by now.
Tarot, fortunately, is someone not to be jostled badly.
Until, that is, the crowd parts and she finds herself almost run over by a young-looking Balseraph (in "Naga" mode) with a microphone in front of an Impudite with a camera.
"Ah! Here, the view of the Habbalite on the street!" says the Balseraph, turning away from the camera and intercepting Tarot. "So, you've heard of the Game's raid on the Guildhall of Free Lilim, right? What's the word from your Choir, miss?" She thrusts the microphone in Tarot's face, and the camera-Impudite focuses on her.
Tarot's lips peel back to show teeth. She takes a step forward, moving directly into the Balseraph's personal space, and says into the microphone, "One would think that people so businesslike would hire better security. One waits with keen interest to hear the outcome of the affair. One hopes that the Media will bring their usual keen discernment to the story. One now advises the Media to move out of one's way."
The Balseraph backs a little -- though less than ...one... might hope. "And that's the Punisher's view of the situation, folks, as told by a Servitor of..." she trails off, obviously hoping to get Tarot's Prince's name.
Tarot unslings the electroprod from her belt, and thoughtfully taps it against the microphone, flicking the switch to "on". Her smile has eased back from an outright snarl to a pleasant curl of the lips.
The Bal drops the microphone from her hands to her tail and slithers back some more, bringing the microphone back to her with a slightly fast and breathy, "Habbalite of -- of Saminga!" She turns to the Impudite with the camera and does the "cut" gesture, then departs hastily.
The Impudite winks at Tarot and follows....
Tarot inclines her head to the Impudite, a touch of courtesy to the gesture, and begins to make her way through the streets again. From time to time she glances in a shop window, or at an angle, in an attempt to ascertain whether she is being followed, and if so, by whom.
Tarot makes her way towards one of the more public entrances to the Bordello, hopefully one that has a fairly large population moving in and out. She slows her step to a saunter, but a dangerous one: one that suggests she is taking her time while considering options.
Front door, and a nice steady stream in and out, with collections of damned souls hovering about begging for Essence. One timidly approaches Tarot and tries to look alluring. "Want to use those toys?" it asks in what is obviously supposed to be a "sexy" breathy voice and just comes out uncertain.
Tarot stops, turning to look it up and down. She frowns, faintly, and unhooks the leash from her belt, dangling the collar-end towards the soul. "Put this around your neck." Her tone is icy. "And understand, I pay you if I choose and when I choose. Start begging, and you will have less than nothing for your .. pain."
It looks at her with Big Eyes and finally takes the collar and snaps it around its neck. "Yes, mistress," it murmurs, eyes mostly downcast.
Tarot inclines her head, then stalks towards the Bordello again, not looking back towards the soul, but expecting it to follow obediently. She makes her way through the doors, eyes flicking from side to side behind the mirrored glasses, watching for cameras or obvious guards.
There are guards -- bored-looking Djinn, who manage to be somehow... solid, bulky, with leathery skin that looks soft enough to touch. A buxom Impudite, wearing some beads and trinkets and naught else, lounges beside one of them. Her ancient, knowing eyes drift over those entering and leaving.
Cameras are not in evidence, but the ceiling is a combination of mirrors and baroque gilt, and there would be any number of niches to conceal cameras... Or imps and gremlins, which scuttle about in the shadows of the corners from time to time.
The damned soul does seem to be following meekly -- there's no bad tension on the leash.
Tarot halts near a dark corner in which imps scuttle. She turns her head, to peer down at them, then snaps her fingers. "One of you. Lead me and this pet to a private room." There is nothing in her tone except a lazy expectation that she will be obeyed.
One of them jumps up, but is dragged down by another. A third creeps out and pipes, "This way to registration!" and scuttles off...
Tarot follows, stalking just a touch, the leash firm in her hand, her head flicking slightly from side to side as she attempts to get a sense of the internal geography of the place.
The imp leads her to a desk where a bored-looking spider-woman Djinn sits and flips through a Deborah Djinnporn book. She looks up, faceted eyes dominating her face, and eyes Tarot as if hoping she'll be intimidated and go away.
Tarot returns the stare, her mirrorshades reflecting it in blank silver. "One of the regular rooms." She winds the chain another twist around her fist, thoughtfully. "I have my toys with me."
The Djinn squints at Tarot for a moment, then goes back to her djinnporn. "Two Essence in the relic," she says dully, flipping a spider-leg arm in the direction of a phallic-shaped statuette sitting on the desk nearby. "Imp'll show you the way. Sure you don't want the dungeons? Only another spark..." (It sounds like a "you want fries with that?" question -- bored and rote.)
Tarot twitches her head in a neat shake. She reaches across to the statuette, and sets her hand against it, mouth thinning as she consciously spends two Essence.
The imp watches and, when she's done, hops to its feet again and scampers off, looking back over its shoulder to make sure that she's following.
The room it leads her (and her soul) to is a pretty standard looking thing -- sort of a hotel room done in bad taste. Velvet paintings on the walls of pornographic scenes. No cover on the bed (just the basic sheets). A couple of chairs and a table.
The imp opens the door, rustles around the room and under the bed for a little bit (looking for lost change?), and then skitters out again, leaving Tarot alone with her "toy."
Tarot reaches out to snag the imp before it can get away, if possible. She says, voice soft, "Stay a little while, impling, but sit on the floor by my pet. I have a couple of questions." She removes the leash from the soul's neck, gesturing it to the floor, as she shuts the door.
The imp isn't that speedy, and it hunkers on the floor next to the soul, glancing around the room as if to find somewhere to hide. The soul kneels prettily, sneaking little peeks at Tarot from its down-cast eyes.
Tarot says, quietly, "Little ones, I am here for a meeting. You do not want to hear who with, because it would be dangerous for you. You can, however, give me a couple of directions - and then you will have this room free for the allotted time, and you," she glances to the soul, "will be comfortably inside here. Do you understand me?" There's an edge to her voice.
The soul nods vigorously, looking a bit relieved. "Yes, Mistress."
The imp also nods, but has a rather cunning expression on its mannikin face. "I know lotsa stuff," it volunteers. "But sometimes it's hard to remember..."
Tarot idly draws the knife from her belt, and slides the flat of the blade along the side of her finger, the edge gliding smoothly along the skin and leaving a thin, thin line of blood. "How fortunate that I am very good at helping people remember things. You do not wish to disappoint me, do you, impling?"
It edges backwards just a little, eyes darting about even more. "Of course not, never, never, I'm good not disappointing people, just fine..."
The soul watches both Tarot and the demonling, with calculation in its eyes.
Tarot regards the red etching on her finger for a moment, then lifts her gaze to the soul and the imp. "I am very glad of that, impling. Now, tell me: first, where is the general communications room? Describe the layout from here to there."
"General communications?" The imp's eyes go big and it tries to run for the door -- and the soul reaches out and snags it, tossing it at Tarot's feet. (The soul knows which side its Essence is on!)
Tarot snags it by the back of the neck, straightening and slamming it face-first into the floor. Her hand remains where it is, as she touches the knife to the small of its back. "Hush, impling, hush." She glances to the soul. "Well done: remain where you are."
The soul folds its hands in its lap and sits, head bowed, eyes closed, and looking slightly smug.
Turning back to the imp, she lets the knife run down its spine. "Do you wish me to tell the person who waits for me that _you_ are responsible for my being late? Do you wish to have me assigned to deal with you personally?"
Gibbering, the imp 'babbles about layout, private rooms, penthouse suites, and "Authorized Servitors Only" doors... "It's not my fault, didn't know who you were, didn't know you were expected! Don'hurtmelemmego!"
Tarot's mouth curls in a faint smile. "Come now, if you do not deserve to be hurt, then I will not hurt you, will I? But you have been .. awkward. Very awkward. Perhaps..." she hesitates. "No, hardly worth it. After all, if I am here to escort a particular Lilim to a particular rendezvous, you could hardly help me, could you?" The phrasing is left open.
"Ur, urm, ah, sure-I-could!" the imp says quickly. "Sure I could, I know this place, all over, can find anywhere, who you need to talk to, where you need to take'em?"
Tarot's reply is slow. "You would be safer not knowing _that_, or who .. lusts for her presence. Now. The Lilim called Deborah. Where and how is she kept?"
"Deborah? Lilim? I dunno -- she one of the workers? They're usually topside. Or in the Prince's harem... Um...." It rolls its eyes wildly, obviously not happy to be mystified about the question -- especially not while caught by a Habbalite with a cattle prod.
Tarot considers. "She is probably in the high-security areas. Do they lie near to the communication room?"
"Uh. Yeah. Uh. Think so. Um. It's in the Authorized Demons Only section. Um. I could get you there!!" it adds, suddenly cheerful.
Tarot looks vaguely thoughtful. "I suppose you could. Then again, any other impling might do as well, and would not have given me any prior trouble. Unless I can count on you to behave yourself, impling?" Her voice shows no trace of tone or malice, simply a deadly quietness.
"Ofcourseofcourseofcourse!" it babbles. "No problem! I know my way around best, know everything you want! I'm no problem! I'll behave!"
Tarot's mouth curls. "I am sure that you will." She turns to the soul. "Remain here for an hour, then you are free to go where you wish. You will not speak of me or of these events." Her posture tenses slightly. "You understand?"
"Yes, Mistress," the soul murmurs. "What should I say when I leave, if any ask who brought me in here?"
Tarot considers, her eyes hidden behind the silvered glass. "Tell them that you do not know the name or identity of the person involved. Imply that they threatened you. I am sure that you can manage that." Her tone suggests an edge of humour, for a moment.
It nods, and manages to look appropriately frightened. "Thank you, mistress."
Tarot takes the loose length of chain, which the soul removed earlier, and slips it over the gremlin's head, keeping it pinned with the knife in her other hand. She murmurs, "Make yourself useful to me, impling. You do wish to be useful, do you not?"
"Yesyesyesyesyes OHyes!" it gibbers, tugging furtively at the leash. "Where you wanna go, boss?" It eyes the door, obviously ready to start running as soon as it opens.
Tarot leads the way out into the hallway.
The impling tugs surreptitiously at its leash, to see how secure it is, as it uses its other hand to point along the hallway. "This way, Mistress!" it pipes hopefully.
Tarot has made sure that the leash fits snugly. She follows behind the imp, her motions full of a quiet confidence and ease. Her motions lie.
The halls are, of course, dripping with decadence. Velvet wallpaper, carpet that has to be waded through, solid wood doors that muffle the sounds behind them to a suggestion of pleasures unspeakable...
Souls and demons occasionally pass by, barely noting Tarot and her 'pet imp.' Eventually, the imp turns down one of the hallways that leads from this corridor. The carpet thins, and the wallpaper is merely paper.
Tarot's body language might suggest a mild disdain of the goings-on around her, but such a thing is entirely normal for a Punisher. She says, voice pitched soft, "This is the communications room?"
The impling nods frantically, rolling its eyes at her. "Oh, yes, it must lead there! See?" It points to one door, which bears a brass plate with Helltongue glyphs on it. "It says, 'Authorized Demons Only'!"
Tarot considers the plate, hoping for some more details than that. After all, many areas could be authorised.
The impling tugs at the collar around its neck quietly, picking at it with tiny, near-useless claws.
Tarot leans down and picks up the impling, one hand on the small of its back, dandling it as one might a kitten.
The imp squeaks and kicks frantically!
Tarot rubs behind the imp's ears, soothingly. "There, there. If you have done well, then you have nothing to fear. Are you weak, little one?"
The imp stills tensely. "No, mistress," it says uncertainly. It rolls its eyes around.
Tarot nods, and reaches out to push the door open.
The door slides open noiselessly. Which is, perhaps, alarming. Beyond is more hallway, this time with plain office carpeting and gray-painted walls.
A small gremlin patters along in front of the door, glancing with mild irritation at Tarot and her imp as it continues on.
Tarot steps in quietly, but with the assurance of one who has every right to be there. She lets the door click shut, then walks purposefully down the corridor, eyes behind the shades flicking to left and to right.
The hallway is blank for several paces, and then plain doors appear on the sides, with little plastic-looking signs on them. The signs are all in Helltongue. The imp has its eyes squeezed shut. There is a half-heard sound suggestive of typing and filing.
Tarot spares a moment of gratefulness that she learned something of Helltongue, and makes her way along the corridor, looking for some kind of communications room.
She comes to a door that reads "STAIRS" first. There's a cat-door in it. Beside the door, is a fake-wood plastic plaque that has names and titles next to room-numbers. She can make out something about 'Assignments' and 'Sheets.' The rest seem to be names.
<
Tarot casts an absent-minded glance over the lists of names, looking in particular for Deborah's,
or for any marked as Lilims.
Deborah's name is not on there. However, there is something about: "Security. Floor B." The
plaque proclaims Tarot to be on Floor A.
A little gremlin, wearing a collar and looking like a poodle-cut furry iguana, pops out the cat-door
with something in its mouth. It runs down to one of the doors and starts scratching on it.
Tarot stands idly surveying the list, but watches the gremlin and the door out of the corner of one
eye.
After a moment, and several claws-on-chalkboard scratches of the door, it opens. A Balseraph
glowers down at the gremlin, manifesting enough of a vessel to have hands.
Tarot rubs the imp behind the ears again, soothingly, as she inspects the lists in a disdainful
manner.
The Balseraph picks the gremlin up, yanks the thing from its mouth with an annoyed mutter, and
tosses the demonling back into the hall as it turns and closes the door again. The gremlin whines
and mopes down the hall until its standing next to Tarot.
Tarot looks down at the gremlin. Eyes hidden by the mirrorshades, she snaps, "Is Senir on watch
duty today?"
The gremlin jumps and peers up at her with faceted eyes. "Watch where?" it asks, voice like a
cement mixer on helium.
Tarot says, boredly, as though it should be obvious, "Security. Well, if she isn't, who is?"
The gremlin clicks its teeth together and combs through its poodlecut. "Dunno. Don't do Security.
You lost?"
Tarot puts a shading of ice into her voice. "I am perfectly well aware where I am. I thought to
save myself some labor." She kicks the imp idly in the ribs. "What _do_ you do, then?"
The little demonling skitters away, surprisingly quickly. "Message-runner, 'course!" it says, with
a certain defiance. "Gotta message for me?"
Tarot pauses, thoughtfully. "I had a message for one Lilim here, but I understand she is somewhat
private. One Deborah, from an Earthside acquaintance."
<
The gremlin shrugs its furry iguana shoulders. "Don't know her. Where's she work? Floor or
support?"
Tarot shrugs, in turn. "I have no idea. Unimportant, in any case. Be about your business." She
turns to make her way to the stairs.
The gremlin yawns, showing needle teeth, and shoots through the cat-door to the stairs, narrowly
avoiding tripping Tarot. As she gets through the door, she can see it bounding down the
stairs.
The stairs seem perfectly ordinary 'fire-escape' style stairs, leading up and down. The carpeting
has vanished, in favor of bare concrete.
Tarot thoughtfully takes the imp from under her arm, where it was bundled, and dangles it. "You
may go. I would not speak of this, if I were you. Certain people would be angry. Do I make
myself clear?"
The imp blinks at Tarot. "Um. Um. I can't get out the far door, Mistress," it squeaks.
Tarot looks thoughtful for a moment, then shrugs. "I suppose that you have demonstrated some
usefulness." She stalks back down the corridor to the far door, and unclips the leash, preparatory
to dropping the imp outside.
The imp squinches its eyes closed and dangles tensely, apparently expecting to be
drop-kicked.
Tarot simply drops it. She says, dryly, "Grow stronger," and closes the door with it outside.
The hall is silent around her, with only faint typing and filing noises, primarily from the door that
the Balseraph had been behind.
<
There are, now that Tarot looks carefully, little cameras at the corners of the hall she's in.
Tarot does not make any suspicious runs for it. She steps across to the Balseraph's door, and
knocks briskly.
After a few moments, the door opens, and Tarot is face to six-eyed-face of a Balseraph who is
not manifesting a vessel. It uncoils its tail from the inside doorknob and squints. "Yes?"
Tarot lifts her chin arrogantly. "Are you one of the propaganda writers, or just a secretary?"
<
The Balseraph snorts. "I'm in Assignments, not Advertising. Why?"
Tarot says, still halfway looking down her nose, and folding her Geas-braceleted arm behind her
back in a way that is certain to be noticed, "A message for one of the angelporn writers from an
Earthside acquaintance."
Tarot attempts to convey the bearing of an arrogant Habbalite who does not wish to admit to
having been Geased into carrying a message.
The Balseraph does, indeed, follow Tarot's movement with a tiny jerk of its head. "Oh, well, one
of *them*," it sniffs. "You'll want to go up two floors for *their* offices. Just watch out, 'angel'
-- some of them like test-subjects."
Tarot inclines her head, stiffly. "God's blessing on your work." She turns, and stalks off towards
the stairs.
The Balseraph snorts again and closes the door firmly behind Tarot.
Tarot enters the stairwell, casting a hopefully unobvious glance around for cameras, and begins
to make her way upwards.
Mirrorshades are useful... Yes, cameras -- small, discreet things, at the corners where doors are.
There are, she also spots, more of those little plastic nametag plaques on the doors, at about waist
height -- a compromise for small demonlings?
The next floor is #1, with 'Toiletries' and 'Training Gear' most translatable.
Tarot glances at them as she passes, looking for anything remotely like "Security" or
"Communications".
Nada for Security or Comm. The next floor is #2, and has, "PR," "Recruiting," and
"Advertising."
Tarot could have sworn she was on floor A when she started... And Security was floor B...
Tarot heads for the one marked "PR".
Though this door, the carpeting is nice (if nothing that needs wading through) and there are
pictures on the wall. (Mostly in black velvet...) There are some cute little imps trotting around
purposefully, all collared with sparkling cubic zirconia. A pair of doors, down the hall to the left,
are labled, "PR" in Helltongue.
Tarot heads for the second door labelled "PR", and knocks.
There are sounds behind the door, but nobody seems to be answering.
<
One of the imps comes over and peeps up at Tarot.
Tarot looks down at the imp. "Yes?"
"Do you look for someone, Mistress?" the little imp says, flirtatiously.
Tarot says, without inflection, "I am looking for the room with lines of communication to the
other Principalities."
Tarot says "Is it not in this department?"
The imp blinks twice. "Oh, my, you want the Secure room? That's downstairs." It makes a cute
little face. "Or do you just want a phone?"
Tarot frowns faintly, then says, "A phone will do. Guide me."
The imp, flaunting its collar, reaches up and pulls down the lever on the door, then flounces
through. "This way, Mistress!" it says.
The room beyond is large, with "cubes" where various demons and damned type and scribble and
draw and call gossip back and forth to each other.
Tarot follows, with an air of mild indulgence. One hand toys with the hilt of the knife on her
belt.
Some of the demons look up as Tarot passes their cubicles, and frown, and whisper behind her
bck.
Tarot slows her pace to an insolent stalk, and glances from side to side, with small sharp
movements of her head.
The damned souls duck their heads and don't meet Tarot's eyes. (Or assumed eyes, behind those
mirrorshades.) A young-looking Habbalite raises its chin to her, though, as if daring her to take
offense.
Tarot's mouth curls into a half-smile. She says, to the scurrying imp, "Wait," and walks towards
the Habbalite's cubicle, step by step, fingers still on the hilt of her knife.
The "other" Habbalite stares down its patterned nose, though this is hard, since it's about Tarot's
height. Its skin is intricately etched in tattoos that look like a combination of celtic knots and the
Kama Sutra. Beneath one of its black-irised eyes, something like a Balseraph is doing unspeakable
things to something like a horse.
Tarot says, voice gentle, "It must be such an interesting, quiet life, working here. So amusing for
you. So unworried."
It flicks a small smile. "There are subtle ways to do God's work, sister. The knives are just harder
to see."
Tarot says, blandly, "Perhaps you would be more able to do such work if you were assigned
elsewhere. Closer to the humans, more able to use those - knives."
"And perhaps I would sacrifice the greater work for the... cruder," it purrs back. "Do you wish
to work here, sister? I could arrange that. You could see what can be accomplished..."
Tarot's mouth curls further. "I have a more pressing commission. There are those that answer to
me, above. This is merely a... vacation, one might say."
"Your loss," the Habbalite smirks, turning away ostentatiously. "Come visit someday, and I can
show you the more subtle ways to do God's work." On its back, the individual patterns of
debauchery (a human and a dog, a Djinn and a pair of imps...) blur together to something that, if
one squinted, would be an Impudite and something undefinedly humanoid, straining to ... escape?
merge? It is unclear.
Tarot turns away, a mirror image of the ostentatious ignoring. She flicks her hand at the imp,
gesturing it to continue.
The imp trots onwards, head up, displaying its oh-so-pretty collar. It leads Tarot through into a
room which is obviously the "coffee room." Various demons and damned lounge around,
gossiping. There are a couple of alcoves in the far wall, which have mundane-looking phones in
them. An almost pretty scaled-cat Djinn sits between the alcoves, brooding.
Tarot glances down at the imp with the collar, and says, "That will do. You may go."
The collared imp blinks up winsomely. "Are you sure, Mistress?" it peeps, in a high voice,
attempting to be seductive.
Tarot pauses. "I suppose you may be useful. Find some occupation here till I call you again." She
turns to walk across towards the phone alcoves.
The imp settles itself down. As Tarot approaches, the Djinn turns its liquid-green eyes on her. The
slit pupils are horizontal.
Tarot doesn't pause her step. She says, putting a hand on one of the alcoves, "What is the
standard charge?"
The Djinn regards her a moment. "Notch off the paystub," it finally purrs, in a surprisingly sweet
soprano.
Tarot leans forward, closer to the Djinn, and murmurs, "And the non-standard rate, mm?"
It continues a breathy purr. "A little Essence, a little... fun. Something pretty."
Tarot removes her remaining Malakite picture from her pouch, hand concealing it from the rest
of the room, and lets the Djinn catch a blink of it. She says, voice pitched low, "I hear Lilim are
very fond of these shoddy little .. trinkets."
It notes the photo as she flashes it, and licks its whiskerpads. (Simultaneously on both sides. It
would seem to have two or three tongues or something...) "They are. How long the call gonna
take?"
Tarot murmurs, "Only a couple of minutes. Time for you to go and get some coffee or
whatever."
"Mmmmm. All right." It fishes in its kangaroo pouch for a moment, and holds up a small coin-like
token. "Trade a ten-minute token for the picture?"
The phones, with a quick glance, do look like pay-phones.
Tarot frowns a moment. "Ten-minute token and a point of Essence."
It thinks, then licks its whiskerpads again. "Okay. Or a fifteen-minute token."
Tarot shakes her head. "Ten-minute and the Essence."
"Okay." It nods its head and holds out the coin, awkwardly gripped in its paw-hand.
Tarot reaches out and places the picture in its hand, delicately, then takes the coin, permitting the
contact long enough for the transfer of Essence.
The Djinn tucks the picture away before transferring the Essence, and then tries to lick Tarot's
hand with the three tongues as it stands. They are *long* tongues.
Tarot's face tightens, cheekbones showing sharp beneath the skin, as she removes her hand in a
swordsman's twist. Turning away from the Djinn, she steps into the alcove.
The Djinn stands, showing that it has three sineous tails waving behind it, and saunters off. Tarot
is left in the alcove, which even has a closable curtain. And, from a quick look, no real
camera.
Tarot does not trouble herself to draw the curtain. She does, however, turn her face to the wall
as she takes down the receiver, to prevent casual lip-reading.
The Djinn has vanished from the room, and seems to have taken the little collared imp with it.
<
<
<
Tarot drops her ten-minute token into the phone-slot, and punches in the Game Confessions
phone number.
The phone barely has time to ring before a calm, comforting voice says, "You wish to report."
<
Tarot says, voice hushed, "I do. I'm calling from the Bordello. It... it's been a while, but I had to
tell someone." She pauses. "I had to tell someone about what's going on here."
The warm, friendly, soothing voice says, "Go on."
Tarot takes a breath. "I slept with an angel. I know that they're supposed to Fall, but he... didn't.
And I was encouraged to do it again. It's going on here. More people than you know."
Like a feather blanket on a winter's night, the voice says, "It's good you're reporting this. Go
on."
Tarot swallows, audibly. "I want out. I want to get away from all the lies. I have names, and I'll
tell them, as long as there's protection. You don't know what they'd do to me if they caught
me."
A faint tapping, as of computer keys, can barely be heard on the other end. The voice soothes,
"We would not let them catch you. We would protect you."
Tarot says, carefully, "I'm just asking for a safe escort out of here. As it is, I couldn't even reach
the doors. I had to bargain to get to a phone." She lets a touch of desperation shade into her
voice. "Please tell me you believe me."
The voice murmurs, "I believe you, of course. We will escort you out. Where are you in the
bordello?"
Tarot says, quickly, "The advertising floor. I have to ring off. They're watching. Look for
Tempesta."
More key-tappings come, with an image of long fingers moving fast. "Of course. Wait there. You
will be protected."
Tarot hastily slams the phone down, rising with the rigidity of one who is mortally offended at
some proposition they have just received over the phone.
No one seems to notice Tarot's display . . . openly, at least. The room is filled with the same
conversations as before.
Tarot stalks away from the phone, attempting to project "angry Habbalite" with every line of her
body. She glances about, looking for the collared imp.
The imp seems to have vanished, annoyingly. A couple of damned souls edge away from
Tarot.
Tarot mutters a randomly chosen curse in Helltongue under her breath, and paces through the
room.
Tarot heads for the hall, ears pricked for people running and yells.
So far, all is quiet -- or at least, the soft din is normal.
Tarot glances to the wallsigns.
They have various little arrows pointing in various directions. "Recruiting." "Advertising." "PR."
By the stairs, there are more, which have arrows up and down as well.
The scaled-cat Djinn is curled in a corner next to the staircase. The collared imp who led Tarot
in is nowhere to be seen.
Tarot walks across to the stairs, to check the arrows and signs there.
From the signs, going further up gets "Cafeteria" and "Equipment" while going down gets
"Lobby," something to do with paperwork, and "Security."
Tarot glances to the Djinn. "Whereabouts are the angelporn writers?" As before, she lets the
Geas-braceleted arm slide slightly behind her, as though unwilling to show it.
It looks up, opening its eyes fully. "Upstairs a couple floors," it says sweetly. "In their private
rooms. Why?"
Tarot moves the Geas-bracelet further back, and snaps, "None of your business."
The Djinn shrugs, waving one tail languidly. "Of course. Shall I show you the way?"
Tarot says, drily, "Assuming you have no other duties. I take it that somebody else is watching
the phones?"
Its eyes crinkle in what might be a smile. "The phones can watch themselves for a while."
Tarot shrugs. She says, "Lead on, then." One hand drops, again, to touch the hilt of her knife.
It stands up, gracefully, and bats the door-handle to get to the stairway. It heads up the stairs,
doing some complicated patterns in the air with its tails that seem to show off how... agile they
are.
Tarot's step is quiet as she follows it, just out of reach of the tails.
At the second floor, as promised, it turns off and opens the door. The hall beyond is plush, as
opulent as what she waded through on the ground floor. There are slightly fewer sounds of
rampant desire behind these doors, though. Most of the doors bear names. A few have just
numbers.
The Djinn regards Tarot with half-lidded eyes and licks its whiskerpads and nose simultaneously.
Definitely three long tongues.
The place is too velvet-hung to carry sound well. She can't tell if the Game is storming the lobby
yet.
Tarot says, professionally, "Good." She tilts her head slightly. "I have an errand to see to first, but
after that - you have a room here?"
It purrs, a sweet tribbly noise. "Of course, Wolfling. Upstairs two more floor. Ysari. Will you visit
me?"
It licks first one whiskerpad with one tongue, then nose with another, then other whiskerpad with
the third, in awesome coordination and precision.
Tarot walks towards it, deliberately, and pets its head, rubbing it as she might a cat's. "Ysari, how
could I fail to notice you?"
It purrs more and rubs against Tarot's hand, like a cat. One tongue snakes out to trail along her
wrist. "It would be hard," it agrees.
Tarot says, reassuringly, "Well, then. I must complete the Geas, but then my time is my own. Two
floors up." She rubs along the base of the neck. "I shall not forget."
It arches and continues to tribble-purr. "All right. Do you need help finding someone here?"
Tarot frowns slightly, letting the expression show. "A Lilim called Deborah." Her voice is
disdainful.
Ysari thinks. "I don't know the name. She must be new. She'll probably be in one of the numbered
rooms, then."
<
<
<
Tarot shrugs, not letting her tension show in her body. "Well, she's a writer. Shouldn't be too hard
to work out which room she's not in." She disengages herself from Ysari, delicately, and moves
along the corridor to listen outside the numbered doors.
Tarot's posture is sharp, angular, Habbalite.
arcangel whistles.
Ysari trills again and turns to make its way out the door, back to the stairs.
The door closes, and all is thick and dead, smotherinly quiet save for the occasional little cry. The
numbered doors are mostly silent. One, also silent, appears to have a new lock on it -- shiny and
silvered.
Tarot brushes her hand lightly above the knob of the door, checking for the static of
electricity.
The knob seems to be inert.
<
<
Tarot shrugs, and tries the knob slightly.
It appears to be locked -- or at least *very* stiff.
Tarot strokes the knob, and murmurs, "Let me in, pet. I've got something very important for the
person inside."
There's a faint ting behind the door, and a few moment's later, a faint voice saying, "Okay, okay,
I'm decent. Come in." It may be a familiar voice? The door is still locked, though.
Tarot takes a deep breath, slips the cattle-prod from her belt, and gives the lock some
high-wattage electroshock therapy.
<
The doorknob makes a funny clicky noise, and the tinging sound beyond starts going off about
every two seconds. Annoyingly.
<
<
<
The voice behind the door says, "What the *HELL* are you doing?"
<
Tarot says, "Your pet critic here. Trying to get the door open."
The voice behind the door says, "WHAT????"
The voice behind the door says, "Got a crowbar? A dagger?"
The voice behind the door continues, "A letter opener?"
Tarot says, briefly, "Knife."
Tarot says "Two knives."
The voice behind the door says, "Get it under the door! Or a screwdriver if you've got one!"
Tarot slips the thin relic-knife from her belt - the one mentioned earlier among the trade goods
- and slides it under the door.
It is swiped quickly, and there is a great deal of muttering, and funny noises.
Tarot hears a faint chiming noise coming from the ceiling. Then the door opens -- from the wrong
side. Deborah stands on the other side. "Funny thing about hinges..." Hinge-pins lie on the floor
at her feet.
Tarot says, "Hang onto it. You may need it." She points towards the _other_ end of the corridor
from the one that Ysari went in. "We need to get out."
Tarot says, beginning to walk - note, walk, but fast - "The Game is about to invade this place,
under the impression that there are people here who want to confess wholesale collaboration with
angels."
Tarot says "If they have not already done so."
"No kidding!" Deborah has a manuscript in her hands and accompanies Tarot.
Deborah looks at the ceiling, where the chiming is from. "I think they're here. I've never heard that
noise before."
Tarot grins, briefly. It is not a friendly grin.
Tarot says "Are people liable to recognise you?"
Tarot drags Deborah along the corridor as they speak.
"Um.... I dunno. Um. Some of them, yeah. Um. The Security Djinn."
Tarot says "Right."
Tarot reaches into the pouches at her belt, and slips out the bondage hood, the neck-leash, and
the wrist-cuffs. "You get to wear these."
"They said that they got me out just before the Game got me. They said that my agent's fried."
She looks at Tarot. "WHAT?" A lamp-cover shatters on the wall. That was shrill.
Tarot says, flatly, "If you want to get out of here alive, you cannot be recognised. Nobody will
look twice at someone in this gear."
Tarot keeps walking, oh yes.
Deborah stutters, then swallows. "Can't you just put on the hood?"
Tarot says "It would not be the usual thing."
Tarot says "Consider it part of an agreement?"
Deborah grimaces. "Bless, that's true. Yeah, I think I can. Can you leave the cuffs loose enough
I could slide out of them, though, with a little work?"
Tarot nods. She says, "Fit them yourself, so you know they are loose enough. I will leave off the
leg-hobbles."
Tarot offers the wrist-cuffs. "Bear in mind that I will have to _act_ as though you are what you
will look like."
Deborah makes another face. "Oh, thanks. Here, hold this." She hands over the manuscript and
takes the cuffs. "Right, right, it's a scene. I get to safeword when we're out of danger."
Tarot nods. She takes the manuscript, and tucks it under one arm as she fits the leash on
Deborah's neck.
<
Deborah fiddles the cuffs on, gingerly, but they look secure enough to a casual glance. The
padding on them helps.
<
Tarot slips the hood over Deborah's head, neatly, and ties it in place.
Tarot then says, "Hold still."
Deborah mutters something grudgingly cooperative.
Tarot rolls the manuscript into as tight a tube as she can manage, and jams it into the halter-top,
so it is wedged between Deborah's breasts.
Deborah giggles.
Tarot says, briskly, "Keep your head down and keep bowed over as I lead you."
Deborah nods and complies. Her shoulders shake just a little, as if giggling. Or crying, or
something.
Tarot then leads Deborah to the stairs.
The alarm bells ring. Deborah keeps her head down and hunches her shoulders, disguising the
manuscript. Doors begin to open and querulous voices are absorbed by the soft velvet walls and
carpets.
Tarot ignores the movements around her, though her eyes are alert behind the wraparound shades.
Her pace is brisk, as she tugs Deborah along.
Tarot makes her way, calmly enough, to the stairs she came down.
The stairway is no longer as quiet as when Tarot followed Ysari. There is a patter of feet and
fluttering noises from above and below. Gremlins and imps scurry up and down past Tarot and
Deborah. A trio of Impudites, faces surprisingly grin for the scanty silks they're wearing, also pass,
wings outspread, heading downwards. The alarm bells are louder and more insistent in the
stairwell.
Tarot follows the Impudites downwards, not bothering to look back to check if Deborah can
manage the footing. She keeps up a fast pace.
<
Deborah doesn't seem to stumble much.
<
Tarot follows the Impudites on down, watching for any obvious doorways that people are heading
through, or signs marked "Exit", or anything else useful.
At the floor where the PR department was, the door is open, and there is much hurrying in and
out. One Balseraph is coiled in the hallway, hissing loudly, "Stations, *STATIONS*! Get me
Farli, get me Arhkaniah!" One of the Impudites peels off to talk to the Balseraph here. The other
two coast down, more flying than touching the stairs with feet. Further down, Tarot knows, will
be the door she came in from.
The stairs are more crowded here, with people going in and out (and coming up from lower
levels, or heading down to lower levels), and there is some jostling now. Deborah stumbles and
manages to cower against Tarot's back.
Tarot curses Deborah for a stumbling fool in an angular tongue, and backhands her across the side
of the head, before pulling her closer, and tugging her further down the stairs.
There is a hiss of Helltongue cursing from under the hood, but Deborah fakes meekness well
enough. A pair of burly Djinn shoulder their way past, heading up, with a Habbalite on their heels.
The Habbalite clutches an imp by the neck. Tarot and Deborah seem unnoticed.
<
Tarot drags Deborah on down the stairs.
A Calabite stands at the landing for the door Tarot entered the stairwell from the first time (the
one the demonling showed her, just a short eternity ago). His G-string is already getting tatty, as
is his leather chest-harness. He scowls at Tarot. "Authorized personnelle only!" he barks.
Tarot shows teeth. "Fine. Then which way out? I don't want my commanding officer catching up
with some of my ... acquaintances here." Her voice is nearly a snarl.
The Calabite snarls right back. "The way you got *in*, idiot! And leave the goods in their room
-- we're not running take-out here!"
Deborah mutters something *very* quiet, under her hood, and ducks her head further.
Tarot snarls, "She owed me," as she turns aside, shouldering on down the stairs, hand locked
firmly on the chain.
The Calabite grabs for Tarot's arm as she tries to pass. "Authorized only, I said!"
Tarot makes a noise in her throat, but turns back, dragging at Deborah as she reverses
direction.
The Calabite gives Tarot a shove up the stairs as she leaves, and mutters about 'stupid angels,' but
doesn't otherwise follow.
A Shedite boils down the stairs, displays some trinket to the Calabite, and continues down.
<
There is another door on the landing above.
Tarot watches, as she heads up the stairs, for some obvious way that the general mob is heading
through, whether it's a door or a passage.
The most traffic seems to be on the PR room, but there's a fair amount of incoming through the
door on the landing just below the PR one. Not much outgoing, but some.
Tarot drags Deborah next to her, and mutters into her ear, as though to curse her, "Do you know
what department is below the PR one?"
There's another mutter from the hood, then Deborah says, "One of th' lecture halls, mayb'?
Demos, semin'rs."
Tarot mutters, "Thank you," and resumes her previous stride, heading for the door on the landing
just below the PR one.
<
Tarot notices that Ysari is coming down the stairs quickly, all three tails lashing, batting
slow-moving gremlins out of its way.
Tarot makes her way for that door fast, attempting to give the impression of not realising Ysari
is stampeding downstairs.
And makes it through the door, forcing her and Deborah's way past the flow of demons (and a
few damned souls) who are trying to get into the stairwell.
Tarot's grip is probably going to require laser technology to dislodge from Deborah's
neck-chain.
Another set of hallways, but many fewer doors -- it looks more like the lecture-areas of
sleezy-ritzy hotels.
Deborah practically clings to Tarot's belt.
<
<
<
<
The crowds head for the door into the stairwell, but less Lust-looking demons and damned are
moving towards the *other* end of the halls.
Tarot heads for the other end of the halls. Her free hand is on the cattle-prod at her waist, and she
uses her elbows and weight as necessary.
There seem to be a pair of double-doors at the end of the hall that Tarot's on. People stream
through it into what looks like a lobby-type area.
Tarot merges with the stream.
Tarot loves the stream.
With some fighting and zapping of the recalcatrant, Tarot and Deborah manage to get into the
stream, and find themselves with the mob pouring into the upper level of the lobby that Tarot
came into -- there is a small balcony that looks down into the main lobby area.
<
<
<
<
<
<
<
On the lower lobby area, a pair of Djinn hold a Lust-Impudite between them as she screams and
flails, while a Balseraph looks on mildly.
Tarot glances around rapidly, looking for any obviously physical types, or Calabim, who are
showing any signs of wanting to find a way out _other_ than by the main lobby.
People balk at the stairs and suddenly stairs going up, and elevators, seem very popular.
One rather neat and tidy Calabite, with some medals on his coat, is drumming his fingers on the
balcony railing. He suddenly turns and makes for an unmarked door.
Tarot moves across to intercept the Calabite.
Tarot drags Deborah behind her.
Deborah is dragged. The Calabite doesn't seem to notice Tarot unless she physically throws
herself in front of him -- and considering that he's shouldering people aside rather forcefully, that
might be unwise.
Tarot endeavours to get behind the Calabite, following in the trail he leaves, as closely as
possible.
This is, indeed, possible. The Calabite gets to the door, pauses, and suddenly the doorknob
explodes. He puts his taloned hand through the hole there and opens it. Behind, is another short
hall, with a few doors to the sides, elevator doors at the far end, and a ladder beside the elevator
doors that goes up and down like Starship Enterprise Jeffries Tube ladders. The Calabite heads
for the ladder and starts going up.
Tarot pulls Deborah over to the stairs, and releases her grip on Deborah's chain, grasping
Deborah's hands and placing them on the rungs of the ladder. She says, simply, "Up."
There is suddenly a large disturbance in the lobby. Deborah says something quiet and devout in
Helltongue.
Tarot begins to climb. Fast. Very fast.
Deborah starts climbing too.
Tarot displays squirrel affinities, even.
There is a ... slickness .. to the air. It slides past the skin, tracing past each hair, causing
goosebumps, well, *all* over.
Tarot sets her teeth, and follows the Calabite up.
The scent of the place seems more... musky.
The Calabite seems to be gaining distance. Deborah mutters darkly inside her hood, fumbling.
At least the aura of LUST is fading as they go higher. Fading a *little*. They are still in a brothel,
after all.
Tarot reaches down to tug the hood off Deborah, so she can at least see to climb, then redoubles
her own speed. She's strong. More to the point, she doesn't want to get caught.
Tarot shoves the hood in one of her pouches, so as not to lose it.
Deborah shakes her hair out of her eyes, settles her manuscript more firmly between her breasts,
and CLIMBS, BABY!
Some seven or eight floors up, the Calabite leaves the ladder.
Tarot gets off at the Calabite's level, and does her best to keep him in sight.
Tarot grabs hold of Deborah's chain again first, mind.
The Calabite goes to the door at the far end of *this* short hall, opens it (not shattering the knob
this time) and makes due haste down a hallway to a double-door entry onto a balcony.
<
<
Tarot drags Deborah along behind, sprinting if she must.
The Calabite pauses at the glass double-doors to the balcony. He glances back over his shoulder
at Tarot and Deborah.
Tarot, while running, raises her arm in a salute. She gasps, "The Prince is in the lobby, sir!"
Tarot says this in tones of one who wants to be _elsewhere_.
The Calabite blows air out of his nose. "I noticed. Did you get your objective, Punisher?"
Tarot nods, sharply, and gives a tug on Deborah's neckchain.
Tarot says "Yes, sir!"
The Calabite frowns and mutters something about briefing officers and bullets. "Can you fly?"
Tarot pulls Deborah next to her. "Got Corporeal Motion, sir. I can break a fall, get down
safely."
The Calabite nods. "We'll see if the ground is cut off..." He turns and heads through the doors,
muttering about foulups, covers, and other problems.
Tarot follows, hanging onto Deborah.
Deborah does her best to look subservient. Below and opposite the balcony,
Shal-Mari spreads out. The Calabite leans over the balcony railing, peering down at the masses
in the street.
Tarot looks down at the people below, frowning.
The street, about 7-10 stories below (distance is odd in Hell) seems to have some Gamesters --
or *someone* -- setting up a perimeter. Tarot might be able to make it to the roof of the nearby
restaurant with her Song. Or might not.
The Calabite fans his wings and eyes Tarot and Deborah. "I could carry her, Punisher," he
offers.
Tarot says "Beg pardon, sir, but the Geas is to me. She might try running off if I let go of
her."
The Calabite nods. "Wouldn't want that, no, not if she's supposed to be in good condition."
Tarot nods, and picks Deborah up in a fireman's lift, ignoring any squawks as she hoists her over
her shoulder.
<
Deborah squeaks and clings to Tarot's belt with one hand, and her manuscript with the other.
The Calabite admires the view.
Tarot slaps Deborah on the rump. "Shut up, you." She gauges the distance to the theatre.
There is another loud Symphonic disturbance, but far enough away that it seems to be the
lobby.
Tarot glances to the Calabite. Words probably aren't necessary, as she prepares the Song,
tightening her grip on Deborah.
The Calabite asks, "You got anyone I should tell you're coming?"
Deborah clutches tightly at belt and papers, squeezing her eyes shut and muttering under her
breath.
Tarot shakes her head. "No, sir. It's deniable."
The Calabite spreads his wings and jumps to the balcony railing, balancing there
gracefully.
<
<
Tarot invokes the Song, then heaves herself up onto the railing, less gracefully with Deborah over
her shoulder: then she plunges towards the distant theater roof, like a diver cleaving through the
air.
The Calabite launches himself as well, circling Tarot for a moment before winging upwards to
vanish, black-on-black.
Tarot raises an arm in salute to the Calabite as she and Deborah hurtle through the air; this
hopefully doesn't result in a crash-landing.
---