Every morning I wake up in my own bed feels like a miracle now. Not because I had gotten used to drinking too much -- or taking too much ecstasy -- and falling asleep in strangers’ beds. That was never my style, contrary to the rumors among my fellow fashion models. Nor is it because I thought I would die young. So few of us seem to reach old age (Fletcher notwithstanding), but I had always held a weird optimism since I fell into the modeling business that I had escaped the cycle. I was not going to die young, nor was I going to be Taken again, now that I was more publicly known -- and publicly seen -- as Robin Pasque, female fashion model who sometimes wore men’s clothing. There was no need to correct them, no need to tell them it was the other way around, no need to tell them who I really was. The confusion kept me hidden even as I led something of a public life, until I left the city to search for my “brother.”
But I just had to return to the city. I just had to find him, even though I have not actually seen him since the fleeting glimpse I caught during the Marketplace bombings nearly 8 years ago. I just had to take the money Locke D’Vestavio offered me, more money than I had even seen in my best modeling days. I just had to listen to his advice that my “brother” might actually be back in the city again. I just had to join this growing company, with its extremely visible creative director, instead of staying with my small dress shop in São Almador. I just had to reclaim my identity as Bailey Raptis, instead of Robin Pasque. I just had to decide that participating in the very public dueling venues was the best way to sharpen my rusty sword skills. I just had to fill in for Mason when he injured himself practicing for a magic duel, revealing to everyone in the community that I can use magic. I just had to step back into a magic ring again, confirming those abilities.
Every morning I wake up in my own bed feels like a miracle now. Because each and every day I am not Taken back to Arcadia is a miracle.
((Originally posted August 24, 2015))
Hidden in Plain Sight (Originally posted 2015-2016)
Moderators: Bailey Raptis, JewellRavenlock
-
Bailey Raptis
- Seasoned Adventurer
- The Stolen Child
- Posts: 481
- Joined: Fri Apr 17, 2015 9:25 pm
- Location: Can be found many places, but resides in Old Temple
Hidden in Plain Sight (Originally posted 2015-2016)
It's the disease of the age
It's the disease that we crave
Alone at the end of the rave
We catch the last bus home
Protect me from what I want
It's the disease that we crave
Alone at the end of the rave
We catch the last bus home
Protect me from what I want
-
Bailey Raptis
- Seasoned Adventurer
- The Stolen Child
- Posts: 481
- Joined: Fri Apr 17, 2015 9:25 pm
- Location: Can be found many places, but resides in Old Temple
October 11/12, 2015
By the time I left Purgatory Sunday night, I was not sure whether it was still Sunday anymore, or if I was now encroaching on the early Monday morning hours. I had stayed in the club far longer than I should have, given the fact that I had to be at work at 8 a.m. sharp. Even though our stores are closed on Mondays, the start of the week ends up being our busiest day, as the store managers present sales figures and the designers their newest creations. It is typically a night where I stay in, or where I make certain to return home from my evening plans before...well, before I have lost track of what day it might be.
Yet here I was tonight, shivering as I walked home in the dark, unsure if the calendar pages had flipped over or not. My clubbing outfit -- a white nepped v-neck tee with navy stripes from chest to stomach, resin washed dark blue jeans, and all-black low-top sneakers -- had been fine while I was rolling in a club packed with bodies. It was less ideal for the fine mist dampening my clothes, threatening to erupt into full-blown rain, or the cold, thick fog rolling in off the water. I picked up the pace, scurrying through the sleeping neighborhoods, my footsteps all too often the only sound echoing on otherwise empty and silent streets.
It had been a disappointing night. I wanted to lose myself in the beat, the E, the warmth of my blood pumping through my heart and the bass throbbing in time with my body. Instead, the DJ they brought in tonight played nothing but glass-shaking, earth-quaking, subwoofer-destroying hip-hop. It pounded me in waves, trying to break me down, but I stubbornly clung to the hope that his set would come to a close, and a DJ spinning house would take over. However, when the first DJ’s set ended, and they brought up another person playing more rap, I decided to cut my losses and head home, a spark that never ignited.
By the time I got back to the WestEnd street my apartment was on, I was more or less running, hoping to beat the downpour that threatened to soak me to my skin at any moment. Perhaps it was the haste in which I had been moving, perhaps it was the faulty security light that flickered off and on far too much to have any efficacy, or perhaps it was the fading effects of the drugs, but I did not see the two people standing in front of my apartment building doorway until I had already jogged up the concrete steps onto the small landing. I nearly stumbled into them as I came up, staggering backwards with an apologetic look on my face.
“Sorry! I am sorry!” I turned my gaze up from the ripped jeans they both wore, at their upper bodies and faces. The man on the left was a full head taller than me and wore a black leather jacket with safety pins lining the shoulders. His bronzed skin, particularly on his shaved head, seemed to catch the sporadic light from the glimmering lamp and radiate it back towards me. The thick scar that extended from the left corner of his lip to under his nose gave his sneer extra menace. The teen on the right was shorter, but still a half-head taller than me, and the neon blue mohawk he wore spiked up nearly as tall as his companion’s height. He wore an acid-washed denim jacket, the chest of which was covered with a variety of buttons. Some of them were simple anti-authority logos, like a red “Anarchy” symbol and a black upside-down cross on a white background. Others were the emblems of local music groups: an oak leaf dripping blood from the stalk, a red dragon rearing up over white-capped mountains. But one of them, worn directly over his heart, was an outlier. It featured a long iron spear through a silver crown, imposed over a green background. My eyes lingered on it for a beat, then snapped back up to its owner. He was snarling as well, his forked tongue slithering between his lips and back into his mouth intermittently. I quickly looked to his left, only to see the nail-studded baseball bat he had slung over his shoulder.
“Excuse me, gentlemen?” I asked in a quiet voice. I nodded at the door, then walked toward it, only to find the bronze man sliding over to block my path. He extended an arm outward, pressing the palm of his hand into my chest.
“We need ta talk, Bailey Raptis,” the mohawked teen said, hissing the last syllable. My eyes went wide for a second, before I composed myself.
“It cannot wait until morning?” I took a step back, away from the outstretched hand, my own hovering near the dagger sheath on my hip. The teen responded by pointing his baseball bat at me, and his friend lifted up the corner of his jacket, revealing a holster.
“No,” the bronze man replied in a gruff tone, pulling his jacket back down. The baseball bat followed suit soon after. “It can’t.”
“All right. Why not start by telling me how you know my name, since I have never seen you.” I leaned off to the side, against the cool, damp metal of the mailboxes.
“Everyone at the Courts knows the story of the Raptis Family. It’s a, uh...cautionary tale.”
“Yes, well, I am still here, and I am not exactly interested in relieving painful memories. Now, if you will excuse me…” I slid out of my lean and tried to slip past the two again, but a baseball bat quickly jutted into my path. I inched backwards, settling against the top of the rusting railing around the landing.
“You’ll excuse us if we don’t stop with that. See, you’ve been back in RhyDin for almost two years now, and we’ve yet to see you at the Courts.”
“Yeah!” the snake-tongued punk interjected, earning him a stern look from his partner. Ah, the leader, I thought, sneaking a glance at the bald man.
“As I was saying...we’ve not yet seen you in the Courts, and before that, no one knows where you were.”
I scrunched up my nose, and then answered. “Not that it is any of your business, but I was in São Amador, looking for my ‘brother.’”
“And before that?” He either did not notice, or ignored, the emphasis I placed on the word “brother.” I smirked. Good. These assholes do not need to know about that.
“Before that? I was hiding in plain sight.”
“Well, we couldn’t find you.”
“Perhaps you were not looking hard enough.” Mohawk lifted the bat up and growled, but the leader held up a hand, and he lowered the weapon with a chuff. After adjusting the cuffs of his leather jacket, he turned his attention back to me.
“Whatever. See, here’s what we think. The Raptis family gets wiped out. Except, of course, for you.” He pointed at me, and his finger held the weight of accusation. “They bring you back, brainwash you, drop you back in RhyDin or São Amador or wherever the fuck, and let you go back to your life. But there’s a spell in your brain, a trigger-” He tapped at his temple, rapid fire, as he continued. “-where They turn you against us. Turn you against the Courts. See-”
“Let me stop you right there,” I interrupted, ending my lean to stand up as straight and tall as I could. “I would never turn traitor.”
“So why did you go to the Fae Baroness’ Dockside Daggers-”
“Because I stumbled upon it while-”
“And her Fight Like a Squire event?”
I paused. I was not even 100% sure why I had attended. “I do not have to explain myself to you. Or the Courts. Since when did they become so high and mighty, sending babacas to my apartment to harass and threaten me?”
“Since the Raptis incident. Since the city grew more and more tolerant of the Fair Folk’s influence. Since Little Elfhame. Since a Fae took a barony and started calling herself Empress. The days of going Courtless are over, Bailey. You’re either with us, or against us.”
I narrowed my eyes, studying the pair of them intently. Then, I leaned back and laughed as loud as I could. “‘You’re either with us, or against us’?” I parroted back to him, matching the roughness of his voice. “That is what you are going with? A cliche? Either try to kill me, or let me go inside, but please, quit wasting my time. I am bored of you, and I would like to get inside before it begins raining.” I folded my arms and slouched.
The bronze man turned fractionally toward the teen, and nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly. Before I could follow his gaze, the punk struck like a viper, cracking the bat against the side of my head. I stumbled back into the railing and bounced forward, falling to my hands and knees. I smelled iron in the air, felt the blood drip down my temple and cheek, saw stars in my eyes. With the ringing in my ears, I couldn’t hear them as they stepped closer to me, bending down to look me over. I blinked, saw the bat cocked back, then a leather-clad sleeve imposed itself between me and the weapon. I shut my eyes, and felt cold, metallic fingers on my chin lifting it.
“We’re not here to kill you, and we’re going to let you go back home. But first-” He pinched my cheeks between his fingers, pulling my head up even further. “-you’re going to promise to do something for us. To prove your loyalty. Or the next time you see me, it will be with a gun barrel against your head.”
“Wh-what?” I croaked, shaking my head vigorously to try and clear my blurred vision.
“You’re going to kill Jewell Ravenlock.”
((Originally posted October 12, 2015))
By the time I left Purgatory Sunday night, I was not sure whether it was still Sunday anymore, or if I was now encroaching on the early Monday morning hours. I had stayed in the club far longer than I should have, given the fact that I had to be at work at 8 a.m. sharp. Even though our stores are closed on Mondays, the start of the week ends up being our busiest day, as the store managers present sales figures and the designers their newest creations. It is typically a night where I stay in, or where I make certain to return home from my evening plans before...well, before I have lost track of what day it might be.
Yet here I was tonight, shivering as I walked home in the dark, unsure if the calendar pages had flipped over or not. My clubbing outfit -- a white nepped v-neck tee with navy stripes from chest to stomach, resin washed dark blue jeans, and all-black low-top sneakers -- had been fine while I was rolling in a club packed with bodies. It was less ideal for the fine mist dampening my clothes, threatening to erupt into full-blown rain, or the cold, thick fog rolling in off the water. I picked up the pace, scurrying through the sleeping neighborhoods, my footsteps all too often the only sound echoing on otherwise empty and silent streets.
It had been a disappointing night. I wanted to lose myself in the beat, the E, the warmth of my blood pumping through my heart and the bass throbbing in time with my body. Instead, the DJ they brought in tonight played nothing but glass-shaking, earth-quaking, subwoofer-destroying hip-hop. It pounded me in waves, trying to break me down, but I stubbornly clung to the hope that his set would come to a close, and a DJ spinning house would take over. However, when the first DJ’s set ended, and they brought up another person playing more rap, I decided to cut my losses and head home, a spark that never ignited.
By the time I got back to the WestEnd street my apartment was on, I was more or less running, hoping to beat the downpour that threatened to soak me to my skin at any moment. Perhaps it was the haste in which I had been moving, perhaps it was the faulty security light that flickered off and on far too much to have any efficacy, or perhaps it was the fading effects of the drugs, but I did not see the two people standing in front of my apartment building doorway until I had already jogged up the concrete steps onto the small landing. I nearly stumbled into them as I came up, staggering backwards with an apologetic look on my face.
“Sorry! I am sorry!” I turned my gaze up from the ripped jeans they both wore, at their upper bodies and faces. The man on the left was a full head taller than me and wore a black leather jacket with safety pins lining the shoulders. His bronzed skin, particularly on his shaved head, seemed to catch the sporadic light from the glimmering lamp and radiate it back towards me. The thick scar that extended from the left corner of his lip to under his nose gave his sneer extra menace. The teen on the right was shorter, but still a half-head taller than me, and the neon blue mohawk he wore spiked up nearly as tall as his companion’s height. He wore an acid-washed denim jacket, the chest of which was covered with a variety of buttons. Some of them were simple anti-authority logos, like a red “Anarchy” symbol and a black upside-down cross on a white background. Others were the emblems of local music groups: an oak leaf dripping blood from the stalk, a red dragon rearing up over white-capped mountains. But one of them, worn directly over his heart, was an outlier. It featured a long iron spear through a silver crown, imposed over a green background. My eyes lingered on it for a beat, then snapped back up to its owner. He was snarling as well, his forked tongue slithering between his lips and back into his mouth intermittently. I quickly looked to his left, only to see the nail-studded baseball bat he had slung over his shoulder.
“Excuse me, gentlemen?” I asked in a quiet voice. I nodded at the door, then walked toward it, only to find the bronze man sliding over to block my path. He extended an arm outward, pressing the palm of his hand into my chest.
“We need ta talk, Bailey Raptis,” the mohawked teen said, hissing the last syllable. My eyes went wide for a second, before I composed myself.
“It cannot wait until morning?” I took a step back, away from the outstretched hand, my own hovering near the dagger sheath on my hip. The teen responded by pointing his baseball bat at me, and his friend lifted up the corner of his jacket, revealing a holster.
“No,” the bronze man replied in a gruff tone, pulling his jacket back down. The baseball bat followed suit soon after. “It can’t.”
“All right. Why not start by telling me how you know my name, since I have never seen you.” I leaned off to the side, against the cool, damp metal of the mailboxes.
“Everyone at the Courts knows the story of the Raptis Family. It’s a, uh...cautionary tale.”
“Yes, well, I am still here, and I am not exactly interested in relieving painful memories. Now, if you will excuse me…” I slid out of my lean and tried to slip past the two again, but a baseball bat quickly jutted into my path. I inched backwards, settling against the top of the rusting railing around the landing.
“You’ll excuse us if we don’t stop with that. See, you’ve been back in RhyDin for almost two years now, and we’ve yet to see you at the Courts.”
“Yeah!” the snake-tongued punk interjected, earning him a stern look from his partner. Ah, the leader, I thought, sneaking a glance at the bald man.
“As I was saying...we’ve not yet seen you in the Courts, and before that, no one knows where you were.”
I scrunched up my nose, and then answered. “Not that it is any of your business, but I was in São Amador, looking for my ‘brother.’”
“And before that?” He either did not notice, or ignored, the emphasis I placed on the word “brother.” I smirked. Good. These assholes do not need to know about that.
“Before that? I was hiding in plain sight.”
“Well, we couldn’t find you.”
“Perhaps you were not looking hard enough.” Mohawk lifted the bat up and growled, but the leader held up a hand, and he lowered the weapon with a chuff. After adjusting the cuffs of his leather jacket, he turned his attention back to me.
“Whatever. See, here’s what we think. The Raptis family gets wiped out. Except, of course, for you.” He pointed at me, and his finger held the weight of accusation. “They bring you back, brainwash you, drop you back in RhyDin or São Amador or wherever the fuck, and let you go back to your life. But there’s a spell in your brain, a trigger-” He tapped at his temple, rapid fire, as he continued. “-where They turn you against us. Turn you against the Courts. See-”
“Let me stop you right there,” I interrupted, ending my lean to stand up as straight and tall as I could. “I would never turn traitor.”
“So why did you go to the Fae Baroness’ Dockside Daggers-”
“Because I stumbled upon it while-”
“And her Fight Like a Squire event?”
I paused. I was not even 100% sure why I had attended. “I do not have to explain myself to you. Or the Courts. Since when did they become so high and mighty, sending babacas to my apartment to harass and threaten me?”
“Since the Raptis incident. Since the city grew more and more tolerant of the Fair Folk’s influence. Since Little Elfhame. Since a Fae took a barony and started calling herself Empress. The days of going Courtless are over, Bailey. You’re either with us, or against us.”
I narrowed my eyes, studying the pair of them intently. Then, I leaned back and laughed as loud as I could. “‘You’re either with us, or against us’?” I parroted back to him, matching the roughness of his voice. “That is what you are going with? A cliche? Either try to kill me, or let me go inside, but please, quit wasting my time. I am bored of you, and I would like to get inside before it begins raining.” I folded my arms and slouched.
The bronze man turned fractionally toward the teen, and nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly. Before I could follow his gaze, the punk struck like a viper, cracking the bat against the side of my head. I stumbled back into the railing and bounced forward, falling to my hands and knees. I smelled iron in the air, felt the blood drip down my temple and cheek, saw stars in my eyes. With the ringing in my ears, I couldn’t hear them as they stepped closer to me, bending down to look me over. I blinked, saw the bat cocked back, then a leather-clad sleeve imposed itself between me and the weapon. I shut my eyes, and felt cold, metallic fingers on my chin lifting it.
“We’re not here to kill you, and we’re going to let you go back home. But first-” He pinched my cheeks between his fingers, pulling my head up even further. “-you’re going to promise to do something for us. To prove your loyalty. Or the next time you see me, it will be with a gun barrel against your head.”
“Wh-what?” I croaked, shaking my head vigorously to try and clear my blurred vision.
“You’re going to kill Jewell Ravenlock.”
((Originally posted October 12, 2015))
It's the disease of the age
It's the disease that we crave
Alone at the end of the rave
We catch the last bus home
Protect me from what I want
It's the disease that we crave
Alone at the end of the rave
We catch the last bus home
Protect me from what I want
-
Bailey Raptis
- Seasoned Adventurer
- The Stolen Child
- Posts: 481
- Joined: Fri Apr 17, 2015 9:25 pm
- Location: Can be found many places, but resides in Old Temple
November 8, 2015
In the aftermath of the incident outside of my apartment building (and Purgatory’s unfortunate shift to hip-hop Sundays), I decided that for now, it was a good idea to keep my evening outings closer to WestEnd. The less time I spent venturing out of the scrying “dead zone,” the safer I would be from those who wanted to threaten me. They might know where I lived and where I worked, but I had wards on my apartment for the former and there was a guard at the Highlife Haberdashery building. At the least, he could buy me enough time to make my escape. As counterintuitive as it may have sounded, I was at my most vulnerable in my spare time outside of those two spaces, when I could not control who I see -- or who sees me.
Still, I had my needs, and I also had a hole in my Sunday night schedule that Purgatory could no longer fill. During one of my evening runs shortly after I was attacked (training that Eva suggested I get involved with), I discovered a beer garden and hall about four or five blocks away from my flat, just outside of the WestEnd. It was located in a sleepy, mostly residential neighborhood, across the road from a pair of three-story mixed-use brownstone buildings and a fish market. The garden and hall took up the entire block of the side of the street it was on, with most of that space dedicated to the patio itself. A tall stone wall, interrupted only by a taller wooden gate, fenced off the garden from the public. Right next door was a small tavern room, wedged between the garden and a squat two-story white brick building with large front-facing windows, steel and copper railings that lead up gray granite steps, and a pair of white Tuscan columns over a pair of double doors painted brown. On the archway above the doors that connected the columns, someone had placed two words in brass-colored letters that I had never seen before: ČESKÝ DOMOV. I was curious, so I dropped out of my jog, ducked my head inside, and asked them what it meant.
I found out the whole complex was owned by a group of Czech and Slovak immigrants to RhyDin, who wanted a taste of their old country in their new home. The beer garden and tavern (and, to a lesser extent, rentals of their meeting hall) raised money for them to maintain as much of their culture as they could here. It allowed them to offer language courses at reduced cost, maintain a library of Czech and Slovak materials, host lectures and plays, and provide support for newly arrived migrants who shared their language and ethnicity. I found their cause quite noble, and I enjoyed their pilsner-style beer much more than most beers I had drank in the past. Plus, I was not familiar with either of those languages, and I found them quite interesting. Therefore, I resolved to make this so-called Český Domov my home away from home on Sunday evenings.
So it was that I found myself pushing the tavern doors open and approaching the nearly empty bar this past Sunday night. The Samhain celebrations yesterday must be thinning out the crowds today. I nodded to the only other person seated at the bar, a rotund, dark-haired gentleman in a black suit lifting a large mug of some brown ale. As I sat, I smiled at the bartender, a skinny middle-aged man with thinning brown hair, steel-rimmed rectangular glasses, and a moustache. He smiled back, and immediately hustled to the taps to pour me a drink.
“Dobrý den, Jakub.”
“Nazdar, Bailey,” he said, setting a paper coaster down on the bar, followed by a beer. “It is less formal.” He spoke Common with just a hint of an accent, one I probably would have missed if I had not traveled as much as I have -- or spent as much time learning different languages.
“Pardon, pardon.” I picked up my drink, held it aloft, and tested out a new phrase. “Na zdraví!” The man in the suit leaned over and clinked his glass against mine, and Jakub grinned.
“Very good! You learn quickly.”
“Děkuji,” I said, chuckling. “But it is not that impressive. I only know a handful of phrases.”
“Yes, but you have perfect pronunciation of what I already taught you.” Jakub paused to refill the other patron’s mug, then continued. “You are so much farther on than I was when I started speaking Common. I still have an accent.”
“Nonsense, Jakub. If I have learned Czech faster than you learned Common, it is only because I have a gift for languages. It is no fault of your own. You have done perfectly well.”
“Thank you. Still, you will humor me and practice Common with me today?”
I took a sip of my pilsner and laughed lightly. “Of course, of course. I do not think you need the practice, but I am happy to help.”
“Oh!” Jakub held up a finger, and darted through a door behind the bar that led back into the kitchen and, presumably, the tavern’s office. After a few moments, he re-emerged, bearing a letter. “Somebody stopped by yesterday with this. They said to give it to you when I saw you next, ano?”
I took the white envelope from him and glanced at it. There was nothing written on either side of it, but the letter was sealed with red wax. When I scrutinized the seal, I instantly recognized it. A spear through a crown. I broke the wax, opened the envelope, and pulled out a small slip of paper. The note was brief, the handwriting crude and messy, but the message was clear as day to me:
Bailey,
Nice job joining the Empress’ dueling team. You know what to do next.
C. & V.
I folded it back up and slid it into the envelope. “Who gave this to you?”
“Two men. One bald and with a tan, like he spent too much time in the sun. The other with hair-” Jakub paused to make a stacking gesture over his head. “-and green.”
I stuffed the note into my pocket, frowning. Another sip of beer could not wash it away. “You only saw those two men?”
“Ano. These men are giving you trouble?” Jakub furrowed his brow, then shot a look over at the other gentleman at the bar.
“No, no trouble-”
“-Because if they are giving you trouble…” He tipped his chin towards the gentleman nursing his drink, who responded with a single, slow nod of his head.
“No, no, no. No need for anything like that. There is something that you can do for me, though.”
“Of course, of course.”
“Let me know when they come in? You can wait until I come back to tell me, or if you feel it cannot wait, send me a notice here.” I reached into my pocket and handed over one of my L.D. 50 business cards. His eyes flicked over it briefly before he put it away. “And if anyone else comes in asking for me?”
“I will tell you about them too.”
“Good.” I drained my glass quickly and hopped off of my stool. I set some silvers down and sent Jakub an apologetic smile. “I apologize for leaving early, but business calls.”
“Ahoj, Bailey. Be safe out there, yeah?” I held up a hand to acknowledge him, before pushing the door open and slipping outside. As soon as I hit the streets, I grabbed my coat tightly around my shoulders and shivered. I was not shivering because of the weather; cool, yes, but not chilly enough to freeze me. No, something else caused my blood to run cold in my veins.
They were watching me. They were spying on me.
((Originally posted November 8, 2015))
In the aftermath of the incident outside of my apartment building (and Purgatory’s unfortunate shift to hip-hop Sundays), I decided that for now, it was a good idea to keep my evening outings closer to WestEnd. The less time I spent venturing out of the scrying “dead zone,” the safer I would be from those who wanted to threaten me. They might know where I lived and where I worked, but I had wards on my apartment for the former and there was a guard at the Highlife Haberdashery building. At the least, he could buy me enough time to make my escape. As counterintuitive as it may have sounded, I was at my most vulnerable in my spare time outside of those two spaces, when I could not control who I see -- or who sees me.
Still, I had my needs, and I also had a hole in my Sunday night schedule that Purgatory could no longer fill. During one of my evening runs shortly after I was attacked (training that Eva suggested I get involved with), I discovered a beer garden and hall about four or five blocks away from my flat, just outside of the WestEnd. It was located in a sleepy, mostly residential neighborhood, across the road from a pair of three-story mixed-use brownstone buildings and a fish market. The garden and hall took up the entire block of the side of the street it was on, with most of that space dedicated to the patio itself. A tall stone wall, interrupted only by a taller wooden gate, fenced off the garden from the public. Right next door was a small tavern room, wedged between the garden and a squat two-story white brick building with large front-facing windows, steel and copper railings that lead up gray granite steps, and a pair of white Tuscan columns over a pair of double doors painted brown. On the archway above the doors that connected the columns, someone had placed two words in brass-colored letters that I had never seen before: ČESKÝ DOMOV. I was curious, so I dropped out of my jog, ducked my head inside, and asked them what it meant.
I found out the whole complex was owned by a group of Czech and Slovak immigrants to RhyDin, who wanted a taste of their old country in their new home. The beer garden and tavern (and, to a lesser extent, rentals of their meeting hall) raised money for them to maintain as much of their culture as they could here. It allowed them to offer language courses at reduced cost, maintain a library of Czech and Slovak materials, host lectures and plays, and provide support for newly arrived migrants who shared their language and ethnicity. I found their cause quite noble, and I enjoyed their pilsner-style beer much more than most beers I had drank in the past. Plus, I was not familiar with either of those languages, and I found them quite interesting. Therefore, I resolved to make this so-called Český Domov my home away from home on Sunday evenings.
So it was that I found myself pushing the tavern doors open and approaching the nearly empty bar this past Sunday night. The Samhain celebrations yesterday must be thinning out the crowds today. I nodded to the only other person seated at the bar, a rotund, dark-haired gentleman in a black suit lifting a large mug of some brown ale. As I sat, I smiled at the bartender, a skinny middle-aged man with thinning brown hair, steel-rimmed rectangular glasses, and a moustache. He smiled back, and immediately hustled to the taps to pour me a drink.
“Dobrý den, Jakub.”
“Nazdar, Bailey,” he said, setting a paper coaster down on the bar, followed by a beer. “It is less formal.” He spoke Common with just a hint of an accent, one I probably would have missed if I had not traveled as much as I have -- or spent as much time learning different languages.
“Pardon, pardon.” I picked up my drink, held it aloft, and tested out a new phrase. “Na zdraví!” The man in the suit leaned over and clinked his glass against mine, and Jakub grinned.
“Very good! You learn quickly.”
“Děkuji,” I said, chuckling. “But it is not that impressive. I only know a handful of phrases.”
“Yes, but you have perfect pronunciation of what I already taught you.” Jakub paused to refill the other patron’s mug, then continued. “You are so much farther on than I was when I started speaking Common. I still have an accent.”
“Nonsense, Jakub. If I have learned Czech faster than you learned Common, it is only because I have a gift for languages. It is no fault of your own. You have done perfectly well.”
“Thank you. Still, you will humor me and practice Common with me today?”
I took a sip of my pilsner and laughed lightly. “Of course, of course. I do not think you need the practice, but I am happy to help.”
“Oh!” Jakub held up a finger, and darted through a door behind the bar that led back into the kitchen and, presumably, the tavern’s office. After a few moments, he re-emerged, bearing a letter. “Somebody stopped by yesterday with this. They said to give it to you when I saw you next, ano?”
I took the white envelope from him and glanced at it. There was nothing written on either side of it, but the letter was sealed with red wax. When I scrutinized the seal, I instantly recognized it. A spear through a crown. I broke the wax, opened the envelope, and pulled out a small slip of paper. The note was brief, the handwriting crude and messy, but the message was clear as day to me:
Bailey,
Nice job joining the Empress’ dueling team. You know what to do next.
C. & V.
I folded it back up and slid it into the envelope. “Who gave this to you?”
“Two men. One bald and with a tan, like he spent too much time in the sun. The other with hair-” Jakub paused to make a stacking gesture over his head. “-and green.”
I stuffed the note into my pocket, frowning. Another sip of beer could not wash it away. “You only saw those two men?”
“Ano. These men are giving you trouble?” Jakub furrowed his brow, then shot a look over at the other gentleman at the bar.
“No, no trouble-”
“-Because if they are giving you trouble…” He tipped his chin towards the gentleman nursing his drink, who responded with a single, slow nod of his head.
“No, no, no. No need for anything like that. There is something that you can do for me, though.”
“Of course, of course.”
“Let me know when they come in? You can wait until I come back to tell me, or if you feel it cannot wait, send me a notice here.” I reached into my pocket and handed over one of my L.D. 50 business cards. His eyes flicked over it briefly before he put it away. “And if anyone else comes in asking for me?”
“I will tell you about them too.”
“Good.” I drained my glass quickly and hopped off of my stool. I set some silvers down and sent Jakub an apologetic smile. “I apologize for leaving early, but business calls.”
“Ahoj, Bailey. Be safe out there, yeah?” I held up a hand to acknowledge him, before pushing the door open and slipping outside. As soon as I hit the streets, I grabbed my coat tightly around my shoulders and shivered. I was not shivering because of the weather; cool, yes, but not chilly enough to freeze me. No, something else caused my blood to run cold in my veins.
They were watching me. They were spying on me.
((Originally posted November 8, 2015))
It's the disease of the age
It's the disease that we crave
Alone at the end of the rave
We catch the last bus home
Protect me from what I want
It's the disease that we crave
Alone at the end of the rave
We catch the last bus home
Protect me from what I want
-
Bailey Raptis
- Seasoned Adventurer
- The Stolen Child
- Posts: 481
- Joined: Fri Apr 17, 2015 9:25 pm
- Location: Can be found many places, but resides in Old Temple
Have I ever mentioned how much I hate preparing for suicide missions? I suppose not. It is not something that comes up in casual conversation, especially if I can help it. I do know that I have been even quieter than usual around my friends and teammates, but I do not think they know what I am planning. The only ones who know are C., V., and whoever it is who is in charge of the Court these days.
But that is neither here nor there. I will repeat: have I ever mentioned how much I hate preparing for suicide missions? Emphasis on the “s”, there. If he was here, Lyeorn would lecture me on the oxymoronic nature of the usage of “suicide missions;” if a mission were a true suicide mission, he would say, there would be only one. If you are following it through to the letter of the definition, it would end with your final, irrevocable demise. But Lyeorn is not here anymore and, against all odds, I still am. I am still alive and apparently, still flinging myself headlong towards death.
My first suicide mission came after I lost my family. It becomes a lot simpler to brace yourself for dying when the most important things in your world have been ripped away from you. I had no friends, no family, no lover. All I had left were a handful of Stolen One acquaintances who were too terrified to be seen with me, lest what happened to my family might also befall them, and two clues from the scene of the crime. An obsidian handled kukri coated in blood, and Fletcher’s last words to me. “The Snake,” he had croaked to me with his dying breath, and I took that evidence, along with my limited detective skills, as far as I could.
Us Stolen Ones spoke of the Snake in nearly the same hushed, fearful tones as we did the Fae. None of us knew much about him, save for his nickname and the fact that he controlled a small number of “collaborators.” Quislings. Traitors. We knew he worked for Them, returning those of us who had managed to escape back into Their clutches. We never had a firm count of how many had turned against all we held dear; our best estimates were somewhere between a dozen and 18. Numbers did not matter, though, when you could turn to the Fair Folk to flex your muscle when needed. No one quite knew what the collaborators got out of their arrangement with the Fae, or why They chose to work with them instead of kill or capture them. All we knew was that there were betrayers in our midst, who thought nothing of sacrificing others to Them. They had thought nothing of sacrificing my family, and they had to pay for that. Even if it meant running the risk of encountering Them.
I will not waste time, nor will I be prurient in describing what I did to seek out those who worked with the Snake, but I will say this: I managed to track down those associates of his who sold my family out, and I made them pay for their transgressions. I made them pay in blood. I had hoped to find a clue on who he was, precisely, but they were...stubborn. I was running out of leads, and the only options that seemed available to me were loud, noisy, desperate, and almost certain to put a target on my back for the Snake and the Fae to aim at.
And then I was tossed a curveball. Or perhaps the correct term is a lifeline? I was on my way to meet with someone I suspected to be a collaborator, glamoured up and dressed in a girl’s school uniform (All I will say on this matter was the man had very...singular taste). Even with a blue blazer on over my white blouse, and even with black tights, I was freezing cold. The city was caught in winter’s teeth, and each gust of wind felt like its jaws trying to shake us to death. I barely even noticed her as I hurried past, pulling that blazer close to my body as I walked past. The belted red trench caught my attention for just a split-second, and then my mind moved on to my quarry, waiting for me at the bar.
“Ma’am?” The word, quick and choppy and soprano, fell on my back, the echo of it receding with each of my footsteps. Then, it was joined by another word, even faster and louder and with a tinge of urgency. “...Sir?” I stopped, turned around, and saw the woman I had just passed. She was mostly hidden in that coat and a red/black/gray/white checked scarf wrapped around the bottom half of her face and throat, but I could see she was slim and slightly shorter than me, with green eyes and shoulder-length straight red hair.
“Yes?” Even as I replied, I glanced over my shoulder, in the direction of my destination. She must have noticed, because she got right to the point, still speaking fast, her hands cutting rapid gestures into the air.
“I’m Philippa Johnston from RhyDin Model Management. I’m a talent recruiter. I find models for most of the houses on Benson Boulevard.”
“Houses?”
“Fashion houses. Haute couture.” She shook her head quickly. “Never mind that. I know you’re in a hurry. As it turns out, we are too. We’re looking for models for Fashion Week, and you’ve got a unique look that’s caught my eye. However, the Remmington Collection is doing a casting call early tomorrow morning. I need to know, right now, if you’re interested or not. If you are, we’ll get you signed up and send you out there. If not, I’ll let you go meet your john.”
“I am...I am not a prostitute,” I protested in a quiet voice.
“Sure you aren’t. Look, this is your chance to get off the streets, make something of yourself. You can reinvent yourself: new name, new life, new story. You can get away from whatever drove you to-” She finished by gesturing at my clothes. “Give it a shot. If, after this casting call is done, you want to go back to this life, I won’t stop you. But I think you’ll find the life we’re offering is a lot more comfortable, a lot more lucrative, and a lot safer than walking the streets. So, what do you say?”
I leaned around her and looked down the road, where the bar and the possible collaborator were waiting. I leaned back and faced her directly, giving her a quick once over. I then sighed, turned in the opposite direction, and started walking.
“Wait-”
“Buy me a drink at El Limón,” I said, slowing down so that she could catch up with me, “and I will give you my answer once I am finished.” I pointed down the road, at a brightly yellow colored cantina about a block away. She nodded, and followed me without a word.
***
That is how I became a model. That is how my first suicide mission ended, incomplete, with neither my death nor my revenge to show for it.
((First posted December 3, 2015))
But that is neither here nor there. I will repeat: have I ever mentioned how much I hate preparing for suicide missions? Emphasis on the “s”, there. If he was here, Lyeorn would lecture me on the oxymoronic nature of the usage of “suicide missions;” if a mission were a true suicide mission, he would say, there would be only one. If you are following it through to the letter of the definition, it would end with your final, irrevocable demise. But Lyeorn is not here anymore and, against all odds, I still am. I am still alive and apparently, still flinging myself headlong towards death.
My first suicide mission came after I lost my family. It becomes a lot simpler to brace yourself for dying when the most important things in your world have been ripped away from you. I had no friends, no family, no lover. All I had left were a handful of Stolen One acquaintances who were too terrified to be seen with me, lest what happened to my family might also befall them, and two clues from the scene of the crime. An obsidian handled kukri coated in blood, and Fletcher’s last words to me. “The Snake,” he had croaked to me with his dying breath, and I took that evidence, along with my limited detective skills, as far as I could.
Us Stolen Ones spoke of the Snake in nearly the same hushed, fearful tones as we did the Fae. None of us knew much about him, save for his nickname and the fact that he controlled a small number of “collaborators.” Quislings. Traitors. We knew he worked for Them, returning those of us who had managed to escape back into Their clutches. We never had a firm count of how many had turned against all we held dear; our best estimates were somewhere between a dozen and 18. Numbers did not matter, though, when you could turn to the Fair Folk to flex your muscle when needed. No one quite knew what the collaborators got out of their arrangement with the Fae, or why They chose to work with them instead of kill or capture them. All we knew was that there were betrayers in our midst, who thought nothing of sacrificing others to Them. They had thought nothing of sacrificing my family, and they had to pay for that. Even if it meant running the risk of encountering Them.
I will not waste time, nor will I be prurient in describing what I did to seek out those who worked with the Snake, but I will say this: I managed to track down those associates of his who sold my family out, and I made them pay for their transgressions. I made them pay in blood. I had hoped to find a clue on who he was, precisely, but they were...stubborn. I was running out of leads, and the only options that seemed available to me were loud, noisy, desperate, and almost certain to put a target on my back for the Snake and the Fae to aim at.
And then I was tossed a curveball. Or perhaps the correct term is a lifeline? I was on my way to meet with someone I suspected to be a collaborator, glamoured up and dressed in a girl’s school uniform (All I will say on this matter was the man had very...singular taste). Even with a blue blazer on over my white blouse, and even with black tights, I was freezing cold. The city was caught in winter’s teeth, and each gust of wind felt like its jaws trying to shake us to death. I barely even noticed her as I hurried past, pulling that blazer close to my body as I walked past. The belted red trench caught my attention for just a split-second, and then my mind moved on to my quarry, waiting for me at the bar.
“Ma’am?” The word, quick and choppy and soprano, fell on my back, the echo of it receding with each of my footsteps. Then, it was joined by another word, even faster and louder and with a tinge of urgency. “...Sir?” I stopped, turned around, and saw the woman I had just passed. She was mostly hidden in that coat and a red/black/gray/white checked scarf wrapped around the bottom half of her face and throat, but I could see she was slim and slightly shorter than me, with green eyes and shoulder-length straight red hair.
“Yes?” Even as I replied, I glanced over my shoulder, in the direction of my destination. She must have noticed, because she got right to the point, still speaking fast, her hands cutting rapid gestures into the air.
“I’m Philippa Johnston from RhyDin Model Management. I’m a talent recruiter. I find models for most of the houses on Benson Boulevard.”
“Houses?”
“Fashion houses. Haute couture.” She shook her head quickly. “Never mind that. I know you’re in a hurry. As it turns out, we are too. We’re looking for models for Fashion Week, and you’ve got a unique look that’s caught my eye. However, the Remmington Collection is doing a casting call early tomorrow morning. I need to know, right now, if you’re interested or not. If you are, we’ll get you signed up and send you out there. If not, I’ll let you go meet your john.”
“I am...I am not a prostitute,” I protested in a quiet voice.
“Sure you aren’t. Look, this is your chance to get off the streets, make something of yourself. You can reinvent yourself: new name, new life, new story. You can get away from whatever drove you to-” She finished by gesturing at my clothes. “Give it a shot. If, after this casting call is done, you want to go back to this life, I won’t stop you. But I think you’ll find the life we’re offering is a lot more comfortable, a lot more lucrative, and a lot safer than walking the streets. So, what do you say?”
I leaned around her and looked down the road, where the bar and the possible collaborator were waiting. I leaned back and faced her directly, giving her a quick once over. I then sighed, turned in the opposite direction, and started walking.
“Wait-”
“Buy me a drink at El Limón,” I said, slowing down so that she could catch up with me, “and I will give you my answer once I am finished.” I pointed down the road, at a brightly yellow colored cantina about a block away. She nodded, and followed me without a word.
***
That is how I became a model. That is how my first suicide mission ended, incomplete, with neither my death nor my revenge to show for it.
((First posted December 3, 2015))
It's the disease of the age
It's the disease that we crave
Alone at the end of the rave
We catch the last bus home
Protect me from what I want
It's the disease that we crave
Alone at the end of the rave
We catch the last bus home
Protect me from what I want
-
Bailey Raptis
- Seasoned Adventurer
- The Stolen Child
- Posts: 481
- Joined: Fri Apr 17, 2015 9:25 pm
- Location: Can be found many places, but resides in Old Temple
December 2015
It was almost time for me to die, and I could not help but think my sacrifice would be greater this time than my last “suicide mission.” During my last brush with death, I had already lost so much going into it. My family, my friends, the safety of my home, the support of most of our community of Stolen Ones. I was a dead man walking, and they feared landing in the crosshairs of the Snake and the Fae. I did not fear death, though, and that gave me the strength to do what I had to do, until another option was afforded me.
Now, though, I could not see another way out. Either I killed the unkillable, which was virtually guaranteed to end in my demise, or I caught a bullet from C. and V. So faced with that fate, I began my preparations.
I sold everything but the bare minimum necessary to pretend to go about my day-to-day business. I went to pawn shops, consignment stores, antique markets, and any place I could find that would buy what I had to offer -- mostly clothing, but also some jewelry, rare books from Lyeorn, and other bric-a-brac. I had the most luck down at Dangerous Duds in Seaside. It was a little strange having a talking raccoon paw over my things -- well, things that used to be mine and now would be theirs -- but she seemed friendly enough and took most of what I had brought in for a fair amount of silvers. I also offloaded a good chunk of my remaining miscellany to Cheeky’s, pretty close to the Old Market district. The buyer there was odd as well, but not as odd as a walking, talking animal. He just never seemed to stop smiling and laughing.
With that task completed, I moved on to the second step in my plan: providing for my friends. I could not completely drain my bank account, lest that draw suspicion on me, but I could at least take out a good chunk of my savings and make sure my friends had a little bit of money to remember me by. I deposited the money I had made by selling off my possessions and began writing four-figure checks to my closest friends and colleagues: Micah, Locke, Andressa, Vicki, Eden, Mason. Five thousand silvers a piece -- as much as I could give away without raising suspicions. I did not know how long it would take my friends and colleagues to find out I was dead. Most likely, there would not be a body, and I would be thought of as one of the many the Nexus spirited away from RhyDin. Leaving money behind would make it seem more likely that I might return, and I wanted to keep everyone that was gunning for my back aimed firmly at me. I did not want the Fae coming for them next -- or for C. and V. to target them.
I handed envelopes addressed to my six friends to six different messengers, giving each one the same task: wait two days to deliver the missive (unopened, of course) and answer no questions that may be asked by the recipients about the message’s contents or the person who tasked them with delivering it. I sealed each envelope with plain red wax and did not sign the exterior in any way. Only their name was on the outside. Inside, on simple white lined paper, I wrote the same note. I should have personalized the messages more, but I was running out of time. I hope they will forgive me my rudeness, my impersonality.
***
If you are reading this, it is too late for me. For your own protection, I cannot give you more details about what has happened to me, but suffice it to say you will never see me again.
I am glad that I could call you my friend while I was here. Your support has gotten me through these past difficult months, but my destiny finally calls me, and not even the strongest bonds of friendship can keep me from fulfilling it.
I do not know what will be said about me when I am gone, or what information will be disseminated when everything has come to pass. All I ask is that you do not do this one thing when you have heard the news: seek out more information. Do not investigate what happened. Do not try to avenge me. Do not meddle. Mourn me or forget me, but leave what happened alone. There are powers at play far beyond us, and they will not hesitate to crush you as well.
Thank you for your friendship, and for doing this for me.
Farewell,
Bailey Raptis
***
With the letters written and distributed, there remained but one step to set in motion. I wrote a different letter, my hand shaking with each letter I pressed onto the page. It left my handwriting sloppier than usual, but I could still read what I had written. I could only hope the addressee could as well.
***
Empress Baroness Jewell Ravenlock,
I feel that we have gotten off on the wrong foot, and I would like to make amends for any misunderstandings or rifts that may be between us. It has been an honor and a privilege to be a part of the Royal Pains/Royal Rabble team, and I would like to give you a token of my esteem. Might you deign to meet with me at the Royal Rabble Club?
Send word on the time and date, and I shall be there.
Respectfully,
Bailey Raptis
***
With my last letter sent, all that was left was to wait, sharpen my knife, and pray that whatever god or gods were up there might see fit to conjure up a miracle on my behalf. At the very least, I hoped they would ensure that my demise was not too painful, and that my friends were protected. That was likely all I could hope for, and all I deserved.
((Originally posted December 12, 2015))
It was almost time for me to die, and I could not help but think my sacrifice would be greater this time than my last “suicide mission.” During my last brush with death, I had already lost so much going into it. My family, my friends, the safety of my home, the support of most of our community of Stolen Ones. I was a dead man walking, and they feared landing in the crosshairs of the Snake and the Fae. I did not fear death, though, and that gave me the strength to do what I had to do, until another option was afforded me.
Now, though, I could not see another way out. Either I killed the unkillable, which was virtually guaranteed to end in my demise, or I caught a bullet from C. and V. So faced with that fate, I began my preparations.
I sold everything but the bare minimum necessary to pretend to go about my day-to-day business. I went to pawn shops, consignment stores, antique markets, and any place I could find that would buy what I had to offer -- mostly clothing, but also some jewelry, rare books from Lyeorn, and other bric-a-brac. I had the most luck down at Dangerous Duds in Seaside. It was a little strange having a talking raccoon paw over my things -- well, things that used to be mine and now would be theirs -- but she seemed friendly enough and took most of what I had brought in for a fair amount of silvers. I also offloaded a good chunk of my remaining miscellany to Cheeky’s, pretty close to the Old Market district. The buyer there was odd as well, but not as odd as a walking, talking animal. He just never seemed to stop smiling and laughing.
With that task completed, I moved on to the second step in my plan: providing for my friends. I could not completely drain my bank account, lest that draw suspicion on me, but I could at least take out a good chunk of my savings and make sure my friends had a little bit of money to remember me by. I deposited the money I had made by selling off my possessions and began writing four-figure checks to my closest friends and colleagues: Micah, Locke, Andressa, Vicki, Eden, Mason. Five thousand silvers a piece -- as much as I could give away without raising suspicions. I did not know how long it would take my friends and colleagues to find out I was dead. Most likely, there would not be a body, and I would be thought of as one of the many the Nexus spirited away from RhyDin. Leaving money behind would make it seem more likely that I might return, and I wanted to keep everyone that was gunning for my back aimed firmly at me. I did not want the Fae coming for them next -- or for C. and V. to target them.
I handed envelopes addressed to my six friends to six different messengers, giving each one the same task: wait two days to deliver the missive (unopened, of course) and answer no questions that may be asked by the recipients about the message’s contents or the person who tasked them with delivering it. I sealed each envelope with plain red wax and did not sign the exterior in any way. Only their name was on the outside. Inside, on simple white lined paper, I wrote the same note. I should have personalized the messages more, but I was running out of time. I hope they will forgive me my rudeness, my impersonality.
***
If you are reading this, it is too late for me. For your own protection, I cannot give you more details about what has happened to me, but suffice it to say you will never see me again.
I am glad that I could call you my friend while I was here. Your support has gotten me through these past difficult months, but my destiny finally calls me, and not even the strongest bonds of friendship can keep me from fulfilling it.
I do not know what will be said about me when I am gone, or what information will be disseminated when everything has come to pass. All I ask is that you do not do this one thing when you have heard the news: seek out more information. Do not investigate what happened. Do not try to avenge me. Do not meddle. Mourn me or forget me, but leave what happened alone. There are powers at play far beyond us, and they will not hesitate to crush you as well.
Thank you for your friendship, and for doing this for me.
Farewell,
Bailey Raptis
***
With the letters written and distributed, there remained but one step to set in motion. I wrote a different letter, my hand shaking with each letter I pressed onto the page. It left my handwriting sloppier than usual, but I could still read what I had written. I could only hope the addressee could as well.
***
Empress Baroness Jewell Ravenlock,
I feel that we have gotten off on the wrong foot, and I would like to make amends for any misunderstandings or rifts that may be between us. It has been an honor and a privilege to be a part of the Royal Pains/Royal Rabble team, and I would like to give you a token of my esteem. Might you deign to meet with me at the Royal Rabble Club?
Send word on the time and date, and I shall be there.
Respectfully,
Bailey Raptis
***
With my last letter sent, all that was left was to wait, sharpen my knife, and pray that whatever god or gods were up there might see fit to conjure up a miracle on my behalf. At the very least, I hoped they would ensure that my demise was not too painful, and that my friends were protected. That was likely all I could hope for, and all I deserved.
((Originally posted December 12, 2015))
It's the disease of the age
It's the disease that we crave
Alone at the end of the rave
We catch the last bus home
Protect me from what I want
It's the disease that we crave
Alone at the end of the rave
We catch the last bus home
Protect me from what I want
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