Nova Liberdade

[The Regent In Red]

Because Jolberto was Catholic, the service was a lengthy Requiem Mass, complete with Holy Communion. Lasiodora and the Regent talked quietly under their breath through much of the service. A little under half of the attendees took Communion, mostly those from or with roots in São Amador. Starkud and Lasiodora went up. The Regent stayed seated through the Eucharist. When the Mass concluded, it was time for eulogies.

Starkud, one of Jolberto’s oldest friends, started, telling the story of how they had met in São Amador, nearly coming to blows at a nightclub over a woman before realizing she had wanted them to get into a fight. Between tears and stammering, Lasiodora barely made it through a story about a time Jolberto managed to catch one of her rare accounting errors before they paid 10 times what they should have for copier toner and paper. Others followed, telling stories about his sense of humor, the times he paid off their tab at a bar, the fights where he fiercely defended his friends with his fists and a hidden blade in his shoe. Finally, it came time for the Regent to speak. They stood quietly, jogged up the steps to the lectern, and leaned against the wood for a brief moment, before clearing their throat.

“Two hundred forty-four. When I left, and when I left Jolberto in charge temporarily, there were two hundred forty-four Stolen Ones in Nova Liberdade. Every day, when I come into work, I remind myself of that number. It’s always in flux; Stolen Ones go missing or get Taken, Stolen Ones are brought back from Faerie, or they leave the Court entirely, for whatever reason. Sometimes, they die.” Something pinched their voice, and they paused for a moment before continuing. “There is always a little pain, when the number decreases, whether it’s because a soul might be at the mercies of the “Kindly Ones”, or when death finally grants them release from the suffering of the flesh. We’re either left to wonder what might have happened to them, what might be happening to them, or to breathe a sigh of relief. ‘At least they died in RhyDin. At least they escaped the Gentry, and the Wild Hunt.’ It serves as some comfort.” There was a long, almost uncomfortable pause, before they breathed into the microphone, “I don’t know where the comfort is here, for me, personally.”

“And yes, this is personal. I’m your leader, and it always grieves me when there is a loss in the community, but I am also a person, a person who knew Jolberto for years. I trusted him as my second-in-command, as my back-up in a fight, as my friend. There were two hundred forty-four Stolen Ones in Nova Liberdade when I left, and when I came back, there were only two hundred forty-three, and it hurts every part of me.” A sniffle echoed through the mask and into the microphone. Again, they paused, pressed gloved palms against the edges of the lectern, and continued.

“I wanted to tell you a story about him, and us, and then move on to our next steps as a Court. When we lived in São Amador, we would go to Praia das Maravilhas, sit in the sand, smoke cigarettes and drink caipirinhas, and talk. This was shortly after the Stolen One Court there had picked a fight with the Fae Court and lost badly, when I took over as their leader. This was also after I’d floated the idea of coming here, and excising the rot from Sandman’s court. One day, I asked Jolberto, ‘Do you think we can do it? Sandman’s been in charge so long, and so many other people have tried to drive him out and failed. What makes us different?’ Now usually, Jolberto was the kind of guy who’d set you at ease with a toothy grin, or a quip, or a chuckle. He never seemed to take things too seriously, but that’s the thing. He actually always did, he just had a way of knowing what level to dial it in at for his friends. That night, he must have sensed I needed more than a joke. He put both hands on my shoulders, looked me up and down, and nodded once. ‘I believe in you. You will make the difference.’ Then he took his hands off my shoulders, glanced over his back as if searching for spies, and looked back to me with a wink. ‘And you’ve got me, too, and Starkud. How can we possibly lose?’” Light laughter filled the room.

“How could we possibly lose? How can we possibly lose? As long as there are Courts in RhyDin and São Amador, he will be with us. We will carry him in our hearts. He is with us right now, and he will be with us when we go home to our friends and our loved ones tonight. And he will be with us on the streets of RhyDin, in the back alleys, in the warehouses and the safehouses and the cardrooms and all the other businesses the Bratva use as their fronts. He will be with us as we – and thank you to all of the other leaders who have pledged their support to Nova Liberdade in these trying times – as we march step by step, block by block, street by street, neighborhood by neighborhood, to root out and utterly annihilate the Bratva, Garter, Nino, and the Snake. I know it is dangerous, that it tempts the notice of Them to combine our forces like this, and we owe you a debt that I fully intend to pay back. But as long as they are allowed to run free in this city, they are a threat to Stolen Ones everywhere. We will bring Jolberto’s killers to justice, if it is the last thing we do, and if it is the last thing I do.” The Regent gripped the lectern tightly, then leaned forward with a sigh. It felt like there was so much more they could say, and yet they were out of time. All they could do was dip their head in an appreciative nod, and say, “Thank you for being here. Thank you.”

[The Regent In Red]

((Trigger warning: Misgendering a nonbinary character))

June 12, 2021
Anastasia’s
Old Temple

The Regent stepped through a purplish-black portal about two blocks from one of the Bratva’s main hangouts, Anastasia’s restaurant. They strode down a quiet, lamp-lit street in the evening hours, their oversized broadsword Vlammendzwaard in hand, as the cell phone in their pocket vibrated a symphony of notifications. A bluetooth headset tucked neatly around their right ear read off the messages in quick succession.

Starkud
alpha target neutralized

Tubar
Refúgio eliminado

McGraff
Gottem fleeing towards Dockside. Pursue?

“Yes,” the Regent spoke into the microphone, sending a message back to Nova Liberdade’s head of security. He heard the tell-tale *wooshing* sound of a text being set, just as he arrived at the restaurant.

Beige blinds had been pulled down over the front windows, but light peeked through the glass, letting them know that, despite a CLOSED sign prominently displayed on the front door, there were people inside. They walked up to the door, lifted their right leg up to put their boot through the glass –

– a shotgun blast boomed through the window, destroying the panes in the front door and sending the regent staggering halfway into the street. The gunshot blew off their mask and shattered it against the sidewalk, revealing Bailey’s face, clad in marble armor. Small rivulets of blood trickled down his forehead and cheek where the pellets had just managed to pierce the stone. Sensing another shot coming, Bailey pressed a hand to a cobblestone, ripping it from the road and flinging it into the broken glass door. It smashed that window further, making it even harder for the gunman at the entrance to get a clear shot at him. He watched as the blinds were flung open, and he darted across the street, ducking behind a dark blue sedan and pulling up more rocks for a makeshift shield between the street and the bottom of the car’s body. Pistol fire rang out as he lay flat against the ground, followed by another blast from the shotgun, which sent all of the door’s glass cascading to the floor. When there was a lull in the firing, Bailey acted. The stone shield that he’d used to augment the car’s defenses turned back into cobblestones, which he flung through the air towards the restaurant to add to the crashing cacophony.

“How arrogant, Mister Regent.” A man’s voice rang out from the damaged building. “How many do you think I have here? And just you?” He spat on the ground.

“It is not enough, Anatoli,” he said, not in the Regent’s dual voices, but just his, a thin and nasal thing that did nothing to hide his contempt – or the boast in that simple sentence. He stayed still, even though the Bratva clearly knew his position. There wasn’t much else for cover on this side of the road: a fire hydrant, a narrow gingko biloba tree, a mailbox raised a little off the ground with metal legs. Right now, the sedan was his best bet. He glanced across the street, looking to the left and to the right of the restaurant to see if they were advancing on his position yet.

“Ah, a man! I knew it could only be this. You hide in those clothes, that voice, but I know what you really are.”

“Enlighten me.”

“A coward. Only cowards hide behind masks.”

“Well, the mask is off now. Are you ready for me?” Bailey then slapped his hands against the street, creating a giant stone pillar that lifted up the car. The gangsters fired on the vehicle and the rock to no effect. With two quick hand claps, he shattered the column and suspended it in the air, along with the vehicle. Then, a third clap, and the debris hurtled towards the building, along with the sedan. The front nearly caved in from the impact, while the scraping of metal and the damage to the gas tank soon started a fire that engulfed the blinds, the tables, the chairs, and every other scrap of flammable material in the front room. Bailey sprinted across the street, threw his shoulder into one of the few remaining spiderwebbed windows, and rolled past the flames towards the main dining room. He spotted four men running towards the kitchen, while a fifth man with a shotgun stood slack jawed by the cashier stand. He quickly recovered, leveling the shotgun on Bailey and firing, but the former Archmage kicked a flaming chair towards the register, knocking the shot wide and striking the mobster in the face. Before he could recover, Bailey had thrust forward with the broadsword and punched through his chest. He coughed blood, looked down as Bailey pulled the sword back, and collapsed against the stand.

One down, hopefully just four more to go.

[The Regent In Red]

Bailey’s unexpected assault had driven away the restaurant’s civilians, the front of the house staff, and the kitchen workers. There were white tablecloths crumpled on the floor, silverware and bits of bread and borscht spilled on the red carpet, the stems of wine glasses separated from the rest of the body upon impact with the floor. The double-doors to the kitchen swung wildly, letting Bailey know someone had just gone through there. They’d left behind a pair of toughs in burgundy tracksuits with combat knives to impede his progress, but they were nothing to Bailey. He again started the fight by kicking one of the dining room chairs at the gangster to the right of the kitchen door. Not anticipating the attack, or the fact that the chair would fly so far and so fast across the room, the airborne furniture struck the vor in the gut, doubling him over and sending him stumbling back towards the restrooms. Bailey raced across the length of the dining room, throwing a marble-handed left at the other fighter who tried to intercept him on his way. Blood arced up from his nose as his head snapped back, giving Bailey time to run his sword through the mobster who had “caught” the chair. He spun around to face the other man, now roaring with blade in hand and a bloody nose. Bailey waited until the last possible to side step him, then slashed the sword down across his back. His momentum carried him into a storage closet with a loud crash and moan. With both men incapacitated, Bailey continued through the double-doors, the heat from the fire spreading in the front licking at his neck.

A rough hand reached for the collar of his jacket as soon as he stepped through, while another one stabbed through the fabric until it struck marble. Bailey countered by palm thrusting into the man’s throat, then ducking as a second man swung a frying pan at his head, cracking his partner in the temple instead. In the kitchen’s narrower quarters, Bailey couldn’t get a clean swing on either with the broadsword, so, after a quick parry of another frying pan strike with the flat of the blade, he strapped it to his back and switched to fighting hand-to-hand. The first gangster who had attacked Bailey was still coughing and clutching his throat, so he turned his attention to the second. He blocked another high cut from the skillet with his stony right hand, countering swiftly with a left-handed palm strike to the midsection that sent him careening back into the ovens. It bought Bailey a precious moment to take out his first opponent, which he did by grabbing his head and pulling it down towards his leg as he drove his knee upward. He shoved him aside, drawing the sword again as the space between him and the second ivor gave him a chance, then tucked and rolled back into the dining room when he drew his pistol and fired on him. Bailey ducked and dipped past overturned tables and a stainless steel serving cart as bullets pinged wildly around him. When the gunfire paused, Bailey picked up the cart and hurled it in the direction of the gunfire. He heard a grunt as it clipped the triggerman’s side, giving him a split-second of opportunity. He leaped forward, swinging Vlammendzwaard in a downward arc at the top of his skull. The blade cleaved him in two down to his ribcage. Bailey sighed, ripped the broadsword loose, and dashed through the kitchen. He hoped the last man hadn’t gotten too far away. Running past empty dishwashers, ranges, ovens, and prep tables piled high with cabbage, dough, and pelmeni fillings, Bailey slammed his shoulder through the back door that led behind the restaurant and onto the loading dock –

– and felt cool gunmetal press against the side of his head.

[The Regent In Red]

“I thought I recognize you. Bailey Raptis. Former Archmage. Former Baron. Former Opal holder. I like the duels, I do. Good for betting. Drop the sword. You might survive shotgun at distance but I doubt even you can take point blank pistol.” Metal clattered against concrete as Bailey yielded.

“Anatoli. I know who you are too. Pakhan of the Bratva.” Pause. “Or what is left of it.”

“Still arrogant, even with gun against head.”

“Did you check your messages while you were waiting out here to ambush me like a coward? You and the Snake stirred up a hive, without knowing how many bees would come out of it. Or that they would be hornets. Go ahead, check your phone. I will wait right here.” Bailey watched out of the corner of his eye as Anatoli did just that, the smug expression on his face fading as he read through the messages. He pocketed the phone, eyes now wide with desperation.

“The Snake will come. And I will have big prize for him. Now, step forward.”

“The Snake has abandoned you. Your men are dead or captured.” Smoke from the burning restaurant behind him filled his nostrils, obscuring and distorting even the air outside with its heat. “This place is destroyed.” Anatoli responded by nudging Bailey with the gun. “All right, all right, calma, calma.” Bailey finally did as he was ordered, stepping to the edge of the loading dock.

“Now kneel. Hands behind your back, fingers locked.” Bailey complied, pressing his knees against the cool concrete. Anatoli pistol-whipped him, sending stars dancing across his vision. Even armored up, that shit hurt. But the armor did lessen his recovery time. He heard a rustling and clicking sound behind him and immediately reacted. Bracing his hands on the ground with his left leg for additional leverage, he lashed out with a mule kick that landed with a satisfying *crack* on Anatoli’s left knee cap. The man screamed, as Bailey jumped up and spun around to see the pakhan had traded his firearm for a zip tie. Anatoli reached for the holster to retrieve his gun, but Bailey was faster. He rushed forward, feinted to draw Anatoli in, and threw a hook shot aimed at his liver. The body blow staggered him, and a follow-up jab from Bailey knocked him out cold.

“Restaurant neutralized,” he spoke into the bluetooth, letting text-to-speech turn it into a message sent out to the rest of the Stolen Ones. He then shut the device off. “Now what are we to do with you?” he asked Anatoli’s unconscious figure, taking the zip tie from his left hand and the pistol from the holster, slipping it into a jacket pocket. Seconds later, the Bratva leader’s hands were bound. Bailey spun his hand by his side in a counter-clockwise direction, opening up another purple-black portal. After hoisting Anatoli up on his shoulders in a fireman’s carry, he stepped through.

* * *

Bailey stomped through the Bramble, his jacket smeared and splattered with blood – most of it someone else’s. Anatoli moaned as the Stolen Ones’ leader carried him through a thicket filled with thorny vines that slithered around his ankles. A few flicks of his fingers sent traces of the blighting energy gifted to him by Pathfinder towards the intruders, and they scurried away just as quickly as they had when the Keeper of Keys had trampled through before. They passed through the muddy track with the bloody paw prints of the Gentry’s hunting hounds, to a copse of trees highlighted by white smoke and the scent of something cooking. Cooking, or rendering. Bailey’s nose wrinkled, but his resolve didn’t waver. Where last time he had been cautious approaching the fetchman’s hovel, this time he strode confidently towards the mud and straw-built structure. He dumped Anatoli to the ground with an unceremonious grunt outside the entrance.

“Here’s the body you requested. Do with him as you will.”

((The Bramble setting and fetchman NPC were created by Ettyn’s player.))

[The Regent In Red]

June 13, 2021
Dockside

Bailey woke up to the sound of water dripping and echoing against old concrete. He could smell the must and stagnancy in the air, but some sort of cloth obscured his vision, even after he opened his eyes. Somewhere, in this building, there was light, but it was a gauzy thing through the fabric and provided no warmth in this unseasonably cool building. He quickly realized he was seated in a chair and tried to stand. Rope bound his wrists and ankles to cold metal, and he soon quit struggling when he heard footsteps approaching from behind.

“Who – who is there?” he asked. Footsteps clicked against the floor, approaching the chair. They stopped, and the person spoke.

“No one you need to be frightened of. As long as we can come to an accord.” Though the voice spoke in a deeper register than usual, it was unmistakable. A bit thin, a bit nasally. The voice wasn’t just familiar. It was his. When the man slipped the blindfold off of his eyes, Bailey saw his own face. He screamed, and the kidnapper stuffed the blindfold in his mouth to quickly cut it off.

“There is no need for that. All right now, nod your head if you agree to hear me out and not scream again if I remove the gag. There are not a lot of folks around these parts and those that are around are quite used to strange and uncomfortable noises in their neighborhood.” Bailey nodded, and the man took the makeshift gag out of his mouth.

“Addison Schrover?! But I killed you on Z5456!” The man watched as Bailey struggled with the bindings on his hands, trying to get enough room to at least spin them by his side to open up a portal to fling himself through.

“That will not work,” the kidnapper sighed, pressing his fingers into his eyes.

“Why not?”

“I am sorry to break this to you, but you have no magic.” As if to rub salt into the wound, the man gestured by his side, the way Bailey had wanted to, and a purplish-black ring of energy formed by his side. “As much as you may think it to be the case, you are not Bailey Raptis. I am.

Another scream disturbed the warehouse’s peace for a split-second, before the blindfold went back into “Bailey’s” mouth. The real Bailey sighed again.

“What am I to do with you?” He turned around, muttering to himself. “This idea just keeps getting worse and worse, and we have barely even gotten off the ground…”

* * *

After a few minutes, the fetch in the chair calmed down enough that Bailey could ungag him, and give him a rundown of what was expected.

“We will be transferring from the Old Temple Black Magic Burger to the one near New Haven. There will be an apartment for you to reside in in Dragon’s Gate, reasonably close to the restaurant.” Bailey reached into his jeans pocket, placing a key and then a Nokia cell phone on “Bailey’s” lap. “Every night before you go to bed, you are to call me with this phone.”

“You could not spring for a smartphone?”

“Right now, I am paying for my personal phone, the Regent’s phone, and now this. And your apartment! You are lucky I do not tell you to just go down to the corner konbini and call me on a pay phone like a drug dealer.” The fetch sulked, but did not protest further. “As I was saying, every night before you go to bed, you are to call me and give me a rundown of your day. Nothing too detailed, just a quick summary and a mention of anything out of the ordinary that anybody might ask me about were I to take your place at work the following day. More importantly, if you have contact with my friends – and you know who they are – I need to know specific details about that. Really, though, we need to avoid them as much as we can.”

“Right, because that worked out so well for us in the past, playing the lone wolf.”

Bailey rolled his eyes. “I currently masquerade as the leader of a Stolen Ones Court, even though I personally have been banned and threatened with death by it. Keeping my friends in the dark keeps them safe from my enemies. Which I suppose is as good a segue as any as to the real reason you exist. In the near future, we will meet in public, myself dressed as the Regent in Red, and you as me. The purpose of this meeting will be to formally bury the hatchet between the Regent in Red, the Stolen Ones Court of Nova Liberdade, and Bailey Raptis. In addition, you will disavow the disruptive efforts of a group calling itself the Bastard Sons of Bailey Raptis. Bailey Raptis has no desire to rule Nova Liberdade. All he wants is what he has always wanted: to be left alone by the Stolen Ones of RhyDin City.”

“And what if I blow the lid off of this whole charade at the meeting?”

“I suspect we would be killed in very short order – you almost definitely. And even if I survive then, there will still be an army of Stolen Ones and Fae around the world and beyond looking for me to add my head to their trophy case. I am trusting that you have some level of self-preservation not to immolate yourself to damage me.”

“So I live parts of your life to make it seem that The Regent in Red and Bailey Raptis are two separate people. We have this meeting to clear the air. Assuming it works, and everyone buys it –”

“– They will buy it–”

“– What happens afterwards?”

Bailey pressed his fingers against his chin. “Well, as long as I am serving as the Regent in Red and running Nova Liberdade, I will have need of a double. It does not just go away after one press conference. It looks quite suspicious if that is the case. So until the Regent steps down as the Stolen Ones’ leader, which I sadly do not see happening any time soon, you will be needed.”

“And Zevarrna –”

“– Knows of this plan.” Bailey saw a familiar look in the fetch’s eyes, and turned away. “Don’t. You know I can’t do that. Don’t make me say it.” He watched as his doppelgänger set his jaw, then nodded.

“All right.”

“Which reminds me. Contingencies. If, for some reason, you call me on the phone and I do not answer after three attempts to reach me, Zevarrna’s number is programmed into the phone. Call her, and she will guide you on what to do next. If she does not answer the phone, then call or text Jewell. Chances are we have gotten into some Fae shit that she would be the best resource on extricating us from. If Jewell does not answer her phone, call Mallory.”

“And if Mallory does not answer?”

“If both Jewell and Mallory are not picking up phone calls and answering texts from me saying that it is a fucking emergency and my life is at risk, then RhyDin will have much bigger problems than me and Zevarrna disappearing. Like the end of the fucking multiverse. At that point, you are on your own.” Bailey finally knelt down beside the chair, first untying the ropes around his duplicate’s ankles and then moving on to his wrists. After putting the apartment key and phone in his pocket, he rubbed his wrists. He stood up, staring curiously at Bailey. “Hmm?”

“What are you going to call me?”

Bailey let the question linger in the air. “Wren.” Another long pause hung between them, oppressive in its silence. “Wren Raptis.”

[The Regent In Red]

July 2, 2021
La Maison De Libéro
Baudinville, Néa Gallía
RhyDin

La Maison De Libéro was located on a narrow street, jutting off of a boulevard that was a couple of blocks from a fountain square popular with both tourists and residents of Baudinville. The glorified alleyway, just wide enough to drive a Vespa down, was lined with cafes, bars, and bistros, some with two-seat tables jammed against the buildings that only left enough sidewalk space to walk by single-file, others with barely enough space inside for three or four tables that maybe a dozen people at most could sit at. This late, though, night had nearly turned into morning, and the streets were empty, save for the occasional trash man or cocotte walking home after a midnight liaison.

La Maison, too, was closed, though not empty. Three people sat at the bar, across from a pool table, with line of sight on a wall-mounted flat screen television. It was currently paused, on the image of a person in a ceramic mask, red jacket, and white silk trousers. The bartender, a tall, lean man in dark clothes and a white apron with a thin handlebar mustache, clicked a button on a remote to advance the program frame by frame. Eventually, the picture pulled back, showing both the first person and a second man, dressed in ivory capris, a blue chambray shirt and shiny burgundy Oxfords with no socks. He ran his fingers through his black hair in slow motion.

“We’ve been through this three times already, Glesni,” the bartender said. “I don’t think we’re going to find what you’re looking for.”

“Ya keep at it,” she said, stirring the dregs of her French 75 with a long, robin egg blue fingernail. She wore a midi wrap dress of the same hue, and had several peacock’s feathers stuck jauntily into her blond hair.

“Maybe we should give this up for tonight?” The man by Glesni’s side, dressed in a gray sharkskin suit that threatened to split at the seams from his muscle, offered the question up tentatively. “Sleep on it, get some fresh eyes and thoughts tomorrow.”

“Nah. This can’t wait. Keep at it, Stéphane.” She removed her finger from the glass and tipped it back to get to the last drops of liquor, as the figures on screen conversed one frame at a time. Even before Stéphane had clicked through to the end of the footage, though, Glesni had picked up her cell phone and called somebody. After answering, she turned the phone’s camera and set it on the bar. A pair of dull brown eyes and a blonde bob stared back at them.

“Good to see you Glesni, Raff, Stéphane. I’m guessing you want to talk about the press conference?”

“Ya still sure this Regent and Bailey are the same person? We watched this three times, and we can’t find any sign there’s a mirrorskin.”

“Yes, Glesni, I’m sure.” There was a brief flash of light where the woman on the screen was, some motion, and then she appeared to be seated on a brown leather recliner with a short bookcase next to her.

“Well, Nikda, it sure seems to me like ya might be wrong here.” Glesni scraped a fingernail against the flute. Raff and Stéphane winced, but Nikda just stared back serenely.

“He doesn’t have to be a mirrorskin. This is RhyDin. We know he has allies outside the Fae realm. Maybe he knows someone who can clone him, or knows some other shapeshifter in the city.”

“Maybe he still has his fetch,” Raff offered. Glesni bopped him on the head, prompting a pained cry.

“That’s stupid – what Stolen One would ever work with their fetch?” Stéphane nodded his head in agreement. Nikda, though, rested her fingers on her chin.

“Do we know what became of Bailey’s fetch?”

“Nah,” Glesni nudged her empty glass away from her, and gestured for Stéphane to pour her another. He nodded, then poured gin, lemon juice and simple syrup into a shaker filled with ice. “Nothing publicly happened, Sandman never mentioned it, nada.” Stéphane did his best to shake quietly, but the sound of ice scraping against the sides of aluminum still filled the nearly empty room. He strained the mixture into a champagne flute, topped it off with champagne, and took the last of the lemon twists from the garnish tray and dropped it into the drink. Glesni sipped it and sighed. “Thanks, babe.”

“It’s…” Nikda trailed off, seeking the right word. “...hard to prove someone is a fetch. Or a clone, or a doppelgänger, or a shapeshifter, or whatever other kind of duplicate is possible in RhyDin. I’ll look into it, but we may have to pull back here.”

“No!” Glesni slapped the table, spilling booze across the bar. Stéphane stepped in discreetly with his bar rag and mopped up the mess before it reached the phone. “I’m not giving up on the Bastard Sons.”

“Me either,” Nikda said, smiling a touch. “That’s the nice thing about political movements. Getting people to give up on them is tough. Even when your patron disavows you. Bailey going out and telling people not to support him for Court Leader may send some people away, but not all of them. Not most. This will be a problem he needs to handle hands on.”

“I like that. And while he’s busy…”

“We keep at it,” Nikda said, finishing Glesni’s thought. “I keep an eye on things. I wait for the right opportunity to strike. However it may be. Hmm…”

“What?” Glesni leaned towards the phone, flute in hand.

“Busy. The Regent will also be busy, if the rumors are any indication. They cut a lot of deals with a lot of different Courts around RhyDin to get the firepower to waste those gangsters creeping in on their territory.” Nikda almost sounded disgusted. “With that, and with them being down a lieutenant and the public face of their “legitimate” business dealings…”

“What can I do to exploit it?” Glesni tilted the glass back and drank half of the French 75 in one gulp.

“Leave that to me. Like I said, I’ll think of something. You just keep working on your end there.”

“No dramas,” Glesni said, looking over to Raff and Stéphane with a sharp smile. “It’s slow going, but…I think I got a plan…”

[The Regent In Red]

November 27, 2021
Baudinville, Néa Gallía
RhyDin

The Regent in Red spent much of the summer and fall paying off the debts they owed the other RhyDin Stolen Ones Courts for their efforts in neutralizing the Bratva threat in Old Temple. Some of the tasks were easy. São Amador asked them to assist in clearing out a baby kraken infestation at one of the city’s more popular beaches. They had anticipated a long, tough battle through the nearshore to drive the beasts off, but hadn’t expected the Regent to simply wade into the water and screech in what must have been their language for a good 30 seconds straight. Whatever they said, it must have worked, because the krakens bolted for the deep ocean immediately afterwards. They spent more time partying on the beach, sitting by a bonfire and eating roast pig, than they had in solving Os Abduzidos’ problem.

Other tasks had been more difficult. The Regent, McGraff, and Starkud had spent two weeks tracking down and then chasing a privateer through abandoned coal mines outside of Gruvebyen. The work was cold, dark, and wet. Many nights, after little sign of their quarry, they had slept in sleeping bags in tents in one of the mine’s cross cuts, with each person taking shifts watching out for their target – or other foes. When they finally found the privateer hiding in an old ore house connected to the mine, Starkud and McGraff had to stay the Regent’s hand from beating him too severely. The Gruvebyen Stolen Ones Court wanted this man to stand trial before he was punished.

The unpredictable nature of the favors the other rulers had asked of them left the Regent wary when, inevitably, Baudinville’s leader called upon Nova Liberdade for aid. As vague as they were with the request at first, The Regent decided to bring both brains and brawn – Starkud and Lasiodora – with them to handle this task. Maybe they’d get lucky and the court there just wanted money?

Alas, it wouldn’t be quite that easy.

The airship ride across the ocean to Néa Gallía was uneventful, as was the taxi ride from the aerodrome to their final destination. Lasiodora had looked up the address earlier, scouting it out on online map sites and business directories, but there were no clues as to what was there, save that it was next to a Chinese restaurant and nail salon, in a one-story commercial building a little ways away from the city center. So when they pulled up and saw a giant storefront window papered over with posters of a smiling woman, as well as other slogans in large block letters, it soon became evident where they were, even though they couldn’t read French. The heavy use of blue in the building’s design and decoration, capped by channel letters mounted above the entrance spelling out the establishment’s name (Le Nouveau Rapprochement), further hinted at its purpose.

“Lasiodora, do they have a governor election here too?”

Lasiodora pulled out her phone, scrolling through some screens quickly in search of the answer. “They do, but…I don’t think this is for that.”

“What…they vote on the ruler of their court?” As they stepped out of the cab, a tall man with an elongated neck and light yellow fur with brown patches approached them, smiling. He wore a dark suit, white button-up shirt, and a red and navy diagonally striped tie. He immediately stuck a hand out for the Regent to shake.

“Bonjour, Citoyen!” I’m Gerbaud, the campaign manager for the current president of the Baudinville Stolen Ones Court, Floraison. She’s just inside – did you need help with your bags?” The cab driver had already opened the trunk, and Starkud was lifting two of their suitcases onto the curb. The Regent gestured toward the boot, and Gerbaud picked up the third one. They wheeled the luggage over the sidewalk and into the election office. Once inside, Gerbaud continued to speak.

“We’re glad to see you, Regent,” he said with a bright smile. Inside, the office looked fairly plain, almost undecorated, a stark contrast to the number of posters on the windows. The walls were white, the floor was a plain beige tile, and folding tables were positioned at regular intervals. Laptop computers, telephones, and campaign pamphlets dotted the tables. Three workers sat inside: a bald man with one centrally placed eye talked on a telephone, a woman whose hair seemed to be made out of translucent pink crystal tapped away at a laptop, and another woman with eyes that seemed to be made of green beads poured water out of a cooler for herself. The two women nodded at the four new entrants, and they nodded back.

“Well, I didn’t have much of a choice, did I?” the Regent said, their twin toned laughter seeming to bounce off of itself.

“Well, we don’t like to think of it that way. This wasn’t the only way you could return the favor, you know. It just seemed like a way that might be mutually beneficial. We are very interested in the work you’ve done with Nova Liberdade, and we’d like to replicate the model, but first – the election.”

“How long has Baudinville elected its ruler?” Lasiodora asked.

“Over two hundred years,” Gerbaud replied, as he opened a door into a meeting room. There was another folding table and chairs here, but the room did have windows that looked out on the main area of the office. “Of course, democracy did take some time to, euh, fully settle in. But we’ve had continual regular elections for over a hundred and fifty years now.”

“It all seems a bit…” The Regent trailed off, but Lasiodora finished his thought.

“Open?”

“That’s close to the word I’m looking for. Public, maybe? How do you keep it from the Fae? How do you not confuse the mundanes here? Presuming they hold elections as well. And if they don’t, I can’t imagine they’d be too thrilled to find a subset of their community practicing democracy.”

“Baudinville and Néa Gallía are democracies,” Gerbaud said as he settled into a chair. “So nothing to worry about there. We’re all just the little eccentricities that you get when you live in RhyDin. Most of them just see us as a social club." He coughed into his hand, glanced over at the door, and then back at the three of them. “So, are you ready to meet the president?”

[The Regent In Red]

November 27, 2021
Café de Lys
Baudinville, Néa Gallía

The Stolen Ones from RhyDin and Gerbaud met Floraison at Café de Lys, a popular hangout for the Taken in Baudinville, and a popular hangout in general for the city. A pair of propane patio heaters blazed away, keeping those who wished to eat outside warm, while those who preferred to stay indoors sat at window seats and looked out at the city as daylight faded to dusk. Smartly dressed waiters in black vests and pants with white shirts and aprons rushed between the indoors and the outdoors, bringing out cocktails, bottles of wine, and small plates to customers in blazers and trousers and blouses and dresses that were tres être à la mode. Gerbaud wandered the sidewalk outside, peering intently here and there at the tables, until he straightened up and waved wildly as he found who he was looking for.

Floraison sat alone at one of the outside tables, a glass of red wine and a plate of burrata and cherry tomatoes in front of her. She wore a slit-sleeved dress in white with liberal splashes of purple watercolor details all over it and black kitten heel sandals. She had dirt brown hair with rose-pink peonies growing out from the roots, eyes the color of freshly mowed grass, and skin tinted green.

“Floraison!” Gerbaud greeted her with a kiss to the cheek, which she reciprocated before sitting back down. “May I introduce to you The Regent in Red, Lasiodora, and Starkud, from the Stolen Ones Court of RhyDin City.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” the Regent said, dipping their head in a bow.

“Y-yes, what they said!” Lasiodora stammered. Starkud merely nodded in agreement with his companions.

“Won’t you sit?” Floraison said in a quiet voice that just barely lifted over the hustle and bustle of the cafe and sidewalks.

“Yes, let’s!” Gerbaud exclaimed, loud and enthusiastic, as he brought the others through to the patio. After a few minutes, they had placed their orders for drinks and apertifs and settled into conversation. Gerbaud and the Regent did most of the speaking, with Lasiodora and Floraison chiming in occasionally when their areas of expertise – personal finance and gardening – came up. Starkud was his usual near-silent self.

Over plates filled with deviled eggs, ham toasties, and a variety of regional cheeses, Gerbaud finally broached the subject that brought the Regent to Baudinville. “I would hate to spoil the good mood with talk of business, but I would not be a good conseiller if I did not steer us to the reason for our meeting. Floraison?” A brief, awkward pause hung over the table, before she blushed.

“Oh, sorry, that is my cue, I suppose.” She straightened up, put her napkin down on the plate, and cleared her throat. “Citoyen Regent, I have called you here to request your assistance by appearing as a guest of honor at a campaign event for my re-election as president of the Stolen Ones Court of Baudinville. We are opening a new park, and I would like for you to talk it up, as well as talk about your Nova Liberdade project. We are planning to announce a similar campaign for our Court – upon my re-election – and who better to paint a picture of it, then the one who fostered it to fruition?”

“Well, I’m honored,” they said, tapping their heart with their fingers for emphasis. “Are you all right with Lasiodora appearing with me? She knows all the financial ins and outs of it – it’s now 100% hers, after…” they trailed off, as grief suddenly snuck up on them and stole their voice. Starkud rested a hand on their shoulder, and the Regent turned in their direction. “Thank you. But, yes. She’s the public face of the Nova Liberdade Autonomous District.”

“I-I’ll do my best, chefe! she spluttered, cheeks coloring slightly.

“That’s all I ask, Lasiodora.” Even with the mask, their smile could be heard. They then turned back to Floraison. “Is there anything I should know about this park? Your development campaign? The election in general?”

“Well, it’s been tighter than I had hoped,” Floraison said, picking up the napkin to twist at its ends.

“Tight, but we’re still in a good spot,” Gerbaud added. The Regent nodded as they picked up their wine glass for a sip.

“Who are you running against?” they asked.

“Some woman who’s pretty new to the city,” Floraison murmured. “They call her Glesni Upjohn. We’re pretty sure she’s Fairest, but –”

*Crack*

The Regent squeezed the stem of their wine glass until it broke. The base fell onto a piece of brie, while the stem shards cut through the Regent’s white glove, where red soon began to bloom. They dropped the glass on their lap, ruining their trousers. “Sorry – I just – sorry.” They stood up, clutching their injured hand and staining their other glove, and rushed inside the cafe to find the restroom.

“...Do you know what that’s about?” Gerbaud asked gently. Lasiodora shook her head, but Starkud did reply.

“She tried to take over RhyDin’s court a little while ago.”

“Oh,” Floraison breathed. She glanced over at Gerbaud.

“Well, now I feel even better about us inviting them to help us out. If anybody knows how to handle a RhyDinian problem, it should be them.” Gerbaud furrowed his brow. “Should we…check on them?”

“They’ll be fine,” Starkud said tersely. He picked up a bread crust and ate it, as if to emphasize his point.

* * *

The Regent braced their hands on the porcelain sink in the restroom, staring into the mirror. They sucked in a few deep breaths, their chest heaving with the effort, and then lifted their palms. They left a bloody half hand-print where their right hand had rested, and scattered blood drops on the left side. Their uninjured hand spun a clockwise circle by their side, opening a purple-black portal tall and wide enough for them to step through. They stepped into their Hollow, felt the bathroom tile give way to white sand, the cool conditioned air shift to a salty breeze, smelled the ocean instead of antiseptic cleaner. They glanced at the water lapping against the shore, felt the sun wrap them up in a warm hug. There was peace here, a beach chair just waiting for them to sit and sunbathe and forget all about how their enemies kept coming back out of nowhere. They could take a moment, rest –

No. The others would wonder where they were. They might ask questions the Regent didn’t want to answer. They could visit this place, but they could never stay for long. They thought of that, and they thought of what awaited them once they stepped back through the Veil into RhyDin, and there was only one thing the Regent could do.

They looked up at the perfect blue sky and screamed profanities at the top of their lungs.

[The Regent In Red]

November 28, 2021
Coulée Verte Palafox-Murat
Baudinville, Néa Gallía

The promenade plantée that formed Coulée Verte Palafox-Murat was located in the north of the city, close to where Baudinville gave way to its suburbs. A couple of decades ago, the northern neighborhoods had fallen on hard times, and a railway line that ran through here, as well as a train station servicing it, shut down and fell into disuse. Baudinville’s Stolen Ones had purchased the viaduct and the rest of the land the line had run on cheaply, and, with Floraison’s green thumb and guidance, converted it into a plant-lined parkway with both walking and cycling paths. Some of the park was elevated, running side by side with concrete apartment buildings and old stone townhouses. Sometimes, the buildings came so close to the path that it seemed like the greenway had sliced through it like tunnels through mountains. Some of those closer buildings, especially those that were partially or entirely abandoned, were painted with graffiti. On street level, the viaduct’s supporting arches had been converted into commercial space, where a number of clothing stores, bistros, and art galleries could be found. Further east down the line, the viaduct ended, and a series of stairs and ramps took walkers and cyclists down through a more traditional park, anchored in the center by a marble water fountain with a statue of a general on horseback, surrounded by grassy fields filled with picnickers and dog walkers. The rest of the promenade continued at street level, terminating at the old train station, now converted into an opera house.

At the western end of the coulée verte, a series of metal trellises were covered with pink climbing roses, twisting their way through the bars and filling the nearby air with their floral scent. Every few feet, the vertical trellises were swapped with arching ones, forming pergolas that provided partial cover from the rain and the sun. Beneath one of the arches, Floraison and the Regent stood, with Gerbaud, Lasiodora, and Starkud nearby. Under the next closet pergola, a small gathering of Stolen Ones faced them – most of them in campaign t-shirts or holding signs with Floraison’s face on it, but there were a handful in business attire who were likely journalists.

“<...and if you vote for me,>” Floraison said in French, “<I will work with the rest of the Assembly to ensure that this park is but the first step in our efforts to revitalize the Stolen Ones’ share of Baudinville.>” She paused, allowing the crowd to applaud. She fidgeted with the wireless microphone in her hand. “<With that in mind, I would like to introduce to you my good friend and leader of the Stolen Ones Court in RhyDin City, the Regent in Red.>” As the crowd clapped again, she handed off the microphone to the Regent, who murmured some thank yous to start.

“Can you hear me?” When they got no replies from the audience, they frowned, tapping the mike. A small squall of feedback washed over the crowd – some of the audience members yelped, others groaned, and most covered their ears. “Can you understand me?” Again, the Regent’s comments drew blank stares. Gerbaud scurried over, gesturing for the Regent to hand off the microphone, which they did.

“Sorry, citoyen, we forgot to flip the language converter on the microphone.” He clicked one of the switches on the side of the microphone up a slot, and handed it back to them. “Try it now.”

“Sorry about that. Can you understand me now?” After hearing a few shouted oui’s and yeses and additional murmurs, the Regent smiled beneath their mask and continued. “Thank you. And thank you Gerbaud for the tech support. I’m skilled with a lot of things, but technology’s not one of them, as Lasiodora can attest.” They looked in her direction, watching as red slowly spread across her cheeks. “I remember one time I was at my computer, and I was moving the mouse, and nothing was happening on screen. I clicked, I double-clicked, nothing. I called over to Lasiodora, ‘Hey, I think my computer’s broken,’ and she came over, took a look at me, took a look at the mouse, and then took a look at the cord that plugged the mouse into the computer. That was unplugged.” The Regent paused, as there were some chuckles from the crowd. “But that’s not all she’s good at. She’s the one who found out our former leader, Sandman, had been stealing money from RhyDin’s Stolen Ones for decades. She’s the one who realized he’d invested much of that money, that it had compounded in interest in a way where we were sitting on a lot of money, and we worked out the idea of Nova Liberdade with Starkud and Jolberto.” They made the sign of the cross after mentioning the latter man’s name. “It hasn’t been the easiest year, but nothing worth doing is ever easy. And although I don’t think you have a windfall the way we did, I think Floraison and your past leaders have set things up quite well financially for your court to do something similar. I believe her when she says this park is only the beginning of what you can do. You can co-exist here, the way we do with the Others in RhyDin.You can build an autonomous zone, the way we have. All you have to do –” One could imagine them winking behind the mask, as they paused for dramatic effect. “ – is vote for Floraison.”

“Who voted for ya, citoyen? A voice from the crowd interjected, their Common coarsely accented, their French a bit clumsy. The crowd buzzed, parting to reveal the source of the interruption: a tall woman with blonde hair and green eyes, wearing a blue dress and peacock feathers in her hair. By her side stood a woman just a little shorter than her, dressed in a gray pinstripe suit and black turtleneck sweater. She wore her hair in a blonde bob, her dull brown eyes seemingly staring past the Regent and their companions.

“Off with you Glesni!” Gerbaud shouted, rushing forward to wave his hands at the women, like they were pests to be shooed away from a picnic. “You were not invited!”

“I thought this was a public unveiling,” Glesni replied, nodding to her partner. “Or is this just more politics? Like Them?”

Gerbaud spluttered, but Floraison laid a hand on his shoulder. “It’s alright,” she said. “But perhaps you could be a little less rude to my guest? The debate is next weekend, and besides, they’re not running for office here.”

“Ya brought them here – they’re…what’s the word? A proxy for ya. So yeah, I think the fact they weren’t elected reflects on ya.”

The Regent turned to face Floraison and whispered in her ear. “Do you want me to answer this?”

“Up to you.”

“Alright.” They nodded, then pivoted in Glesni’s direction. “And I think that’s fair, to an extent. I think the model here – a model that RhyDin City’s mundane government shares with Baudinville’s Court – of electing the leader is, ultimately, a more sustainable one, and one that’s less likely to lead to abuses like RhyDin did. No one person should rule for thirty years or more. It stifles innovation, it breeds corruption, and ultimately, it weakens your court. I have been working with my council to implement a democracy like Baudinville has – it is part of the reason I am here right now – but we still have the Snake and his allies causing us trouble. When that has been resolved, and we have true peace, from both the Snake and the Fae – then I will gladly step aside and move to a democracy.”

“And will ya reveal yer face?” Glesni asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’d believe all that shit ya just said if ya weren’t wearing a mask.” She folded her arms across her chest. “It’s this sort of collaboration that endangers Baudinville. If yer leader is willing to ally themselves with a person who won’t even show their face, who else might she team up with? Collaborators? Privateers? The Fae?”

“You can’t compare the safety situation here with RhyDin. I already mentioned the threats we face. I am obviously not in the know, but from what I can tell and what I have seen, there are no privateers operating here, nor do the Fae trouble you.”

“If we’re not the same, why are ya offering RhyDin solutions for Baudinville problems?” Glesni’s question left the Regent staring at her for an uncomfortably long moment.

“Because I was asked to by your leader.” They looked over to Floraison, shoulders lifting in a shrug. “I’m sorry I became a distraction here to the real message. I’ll leave it to you and Gerbaud and Lasiodora.”

“Y-you’re leaving me?” Lasiodora panicked, prompting a laugh from the Regent.

“You’ll do fine. Starkud?” The Regent’s bodyguard and lieutenant fell in beside him, and the pair went to walk through the crowd. As they passed by where Glesni and her companion were, they felt a hand grab at their sleeve. Starkud moved to push back the source – the moll in the gray suit with the dull eyes – but the Regent held their free hand up, halting his attack. She grabbed the white robe tightly, pulled them close enough so that she could whisper in their ear.

“I know who you really are…Bailey Raptis.”

The Regent canted their head to the side, regarding the woman briefly. Then, they chuckled, spinning a finger in a circle by their temple. They pushed into the crowd, with Starkud’s rumbling laughter following in their wake.

[The Regent In Red]

December 19, 2021
Nova Liberdade

“...This is Stolen Ones Public News…A contentious election for the next president of Baudinville’s Stolen Ones Court has ended with Glesni Upjohn defeating incumbent Floraison. SOPN Baudinville reporter –” *CLICK*

“Well, shit.” The Regent’s two-toned voice was nearly flat, even with the contralto and countertenor playing off of each other. They looked to McGraff, Starkud, and Lasiodora, standing in front of their desk and staring at the magicked vacuum tube radio that kept SOPN’s broadcasts hidden from mundane radios and the ears of the Fae.

“That…could have gone better,” Lasiodora said, itching both her forehead and cheek with her left set of arms.

“No kidding,” they snapped, earning a reproachful glance from Starkud. “Sorry, sorry, I’m mad at myself more than anyone here. I feel like what I did backfired.”

“Well, they’re a democracy, though, right?” she stopped itching, folding both sets of her arms in front of her. “They probably have some sort of check and balance on Glesni’s power. I doubt she can just steamroll them all and do whatever she wants.”

“I guess we’ll see.” The Regent looked down at their desk, staring at their keyboard like the answers to their dilemma could be found in those letters. They finally looked up with a sigh. “Starkud?”

“Yes, chefe?”

“Do we have any Mirrorskin spies available to send out?”

“Hmm…we’ve never had many to begin with, and most of them are already busy with other assignments. However, we do have one new recruit waiting to be sent out. A man named Senki. But he’s very green, I’m not even sure he can imitate anybody.”

“I don’t need him to imitate anybody. I just need somebody who blends into the background, who won’t set off any warning bells. And who can switch appearances if things go south.” The Regent sat upright, steepling their fingers. “We send him to Baudinville, have him report back regularly on what’s going on. I don’t think he can infiltrate Glesni’s inner circle, but whatever he can tell us on the ground has got to be better than whatever fucking public radio says.

“All right.” Starkud nodded subtly, to the Regent first and then the others. “I’ll go brief him.”

"Sounds good. McGraff, please help Starkud however you can.” The Regent sighed. “Sorry, it’s not you. You all can go now.” They filed out of the office, leaving the masked figure alone staring at the radio. They turned it on, spinning the dial, trying to find a better channel to listen to.

January 31, 2022
Baudinville, Néa Gallía
Toit Imposant

Even in winter, Toit Imposant drew in plenty of customers early in the evening, when the golden hour was settling upon Baudinville and the bar’s perch twenty stories above the city gave patrons a perfect view of the sunset on clear days. Tonight, they lucked out – only a few wisps of sun-scorched gray floated through the sky, leaving perfect splashes of orange and red streaking across the horizon. Lights flickered on, one by one, at the businesses below the high-rise that lined the Baudinville River just a little ways away. The yellows and whites of vehicle headlights shifted into bright reds as cars and buses drove down nearby roads, crossed the bridge, hid from view on the other side behind houses and trees and street lamps. Electronic pop music covered up the thrum of traffic below, while box planters filled with lavender and lilies of the valley kept smoke and smog at bay.

Senki sat alone on a grassy lawn the bar’s owners had planted next to the patio, near a group of women sitting on cushions and a yellow wavy deck chair. They laughed as they nibbled at strawberries and pineapple and sipped from glasses full of burgundy. He tried his best to blend in with the young, hip crowd, wearing a gray suit with a plain white button-up underneath. He rolled up the cuffs of the trousers just enough to show some ankle, wearing low-cut off-white sneakers to further the look. A pair of Ray-Ban Wayfarers were nestled in the collar of his shirt; he slipped them on whenever he thought someone might be watching him – or his eyes – a little too closely. The women nearby paid him no mind, though, more interested in drinking and flirting with the bartender on the other side of the rooftop.

Exactly what he wanted. At some point he hopped up, boulevardier in hand, and reached inside his jacket pocket for a pair of binoculars. He wandered close to the edge of the rooftop, where a chest-high glass barrier stood, and took a closer look at the streets below.

Everything seemed normal at first. Traffic flowed, lights shone, people hustled and bustled from bistro to bar and back as the night began to unfold. Only – motion on one of the bridges over the river drew his attention towards it. He zoomed in on a group of figures gathering there. Two groups of ogres were carrying prefabricated security booths, placing them on opposite sides of the road. Another group of men, dressed in hooded jackets with reflective orange and yellow tape on their backs, were working on securing those booths in place, as well as installing a barrier gate arm system next to the guard shacks. Senki turned their attention a few blocks farther away, at another bridge, and saw the same thing.

“Shit.” He put the binoculars away, swapping them for his cell phone. While he sipped his cocktail, he dialed the Regent's number and waited for them to pick up.

“Hello?”

“Chefe, we have a problem.” Senki donned the sunglasses again when the waiter came by to take his empty glass.

“What is it?”

“I think Glesni’s setting up some kind of blockade or barrier or checkpoint to get into and out of the parts of Baudinville the Stolen Ones here live in. Somebody’s putting in shacks and barriers on the bridges over here.”

“How sure are you about this?”

“I’m pretty high up, but even here I can tell the difference between humans and ogres. These guys are at least half a foot taller than normal people, and their skin’s gray.”

“...alright. Hang in there as long as it’s safe for you, but get out the moment shit goes sideways. I’m guessing they’re not looking to openly go to war with the mundane government of Baudinville, so use that to your advantage. We’ll have an exfil team – is that what they’re called?” The Regent’s voice dipped in volume for a moment, as they talked to someone else near them. “ – Yes, we’ll have an exfil team ready, but obviously we can’t get there instantly, so…find a good hole to hide in if you can’t get out of the city. But let’s hope Glesni’s not stupid enough to actively antagonize anybody.”

“Sounds good. Thank you, Regent.”

“You’re welcome. Good luck.” They hung up, and Senki put the phone away. When the waiter came over again, he ordered a whiskey on the rocks. Things were about to get very difficult; he figured he deserved one last night with good drinks and a beautiful view.

[The Regent In Red]

May 1, 2022
Baudinville, Néa Gallía

A strange tension settled over Baudinville in the months immediately after Glesni took over as the president of the city’s Stolen Ones Court. The mundane population of the city tried to pretend nothing had really changed, eating and working and playing and sleeping as usual, but they kept a constant eye trained across the river, where their uncanny brethren did the same, albeit with a touch more secrecy than before. Some of the humans and other non-fae folks grumbled when they had to pass through checkpoints to get into Stolen Ones’ territory, but mostly because of the inconvenience and the time it added to trips over there. Only on one occasion did a Fae try to cross over, at which point the guards made it very clear (with several cold iron spears pointed at their foe) that their neighborhood no longer accepted the Gentry as visitors.

For the Stolen Ones, though, it felt like they were waiting for a powder keg to blow. While the Fae were banned outright from entering, and the non-fae scrutinized to make sure they weren’t hiding Arcadian blood, the Stolen Ones had a confusing set of rules and regulations that decided whether or not they could leave their neighborhood. In effect, most of them couldn’t leave. Permissions granted on a Monday would be revoked by Wednesday, without word going out publicly. Fear cloaked everything: fear of the Gentry, fear of the Regent and the RhyDin Stolen Ones Court, even whispered fears that Floraison might be planning a coup.

Meanwhile, Senki played the role of anonymous wastrel, spending his late mornings and afternoons wandering the city (seemingly) aimlessly, and his nights drinking at various bars across town. He dutifully reported back to the Regent and their lieutenants, even if he stood at the very back of the room, looking in on Baudinville’s court through panes of frosted glass. Sometimes, after a few Soixante Quinzes at his neighborhood brasserie, he could close his eyes, listen to glasses clinking and silverware scraping and customers murmuring, and it almost felt like RhyDin. Then he’d open his eyes, look over at the bridge, see a guard with boar’s tusks hassling a woman with firefly wings, and he’d remember where he was and what he had to do.

He spent his (late) mornings walking the street that ran parallel to the river, pretending to be a drunk stumbling home after a night in a flophouse or a worker desperately rushing to their banking job on time. As he rambled, he’d look across the street, at the booths and anybody who might be waiting in line to cross, and see if there was anything to glean from those fleeting moments as he passed.

One morning, Senki beat his usual path near the water, smoking a cigarette and rubbing the back of his neck. His gray suit was rumpled, and he’d nicked a finger tip the night before and dabbed some blood at the collar of his white dress shirt where, overnight, it had faded to rust. Like he did most days, he walked past the sentry shacks and observed what he could in passing. Which, at first, was very little. In the late morning, the commuters had already come and gone, while the lunch time rush was still a couple of hours away.

While he stuffed a cigarette butt into a black ashtray stand next to a bus stop, he chanced a peek over again. Two guards, dressed in security gray with a baton on one hip and a flashlight on the other, were talking to that same firefly woman again.

Just keep walking, he said to himself, watching them argue again. Don’t get involved, don’t stand out… And then the tusked guard shoved her backfirst onto the sidewalk, right onto her wings, ripping a pained scream from her throat. His partner, who sported an equine face, a palomino coat, and stood on two legs, whinnied as he laughed. Goddammit…

“Hey!” Senki shouted from across the street. When that didn’t do enough to fully grab the guard’s attention, he continued, “Yeah, I’m talking to you asshole. Try that on someone your own size.”

“Like you?” The boar took two steps toward Senki, while the horse yanked on both of the woman’s arms to haul her to her feet. As soon as that second step hit, Senki was off, bolting away from the bridge and river and further into Stolen Ones’ territory.

“After him!” Senki slithered through a crowd of gawkers watching the bridge sentries harassing the woman, hopped a patio fence and crashed through several empty tables and chairs, and took a tight turn at a corner that led down a narrow alley –

– crashing head-first into the barrel chest of another guard. The impact knocked Senki to the ground, and before he could scramble to his feet, the man grabbed him by the throat and lifted him into the air with one hand. His other hand reached for a walkie-talkie at his waist, unsnapped it from its holster, and spoke into the receiver, ignoring Senki’s frantic attempts to claw free.

“Scufo, Lassiter, target acquired. What do you want me to do with him, over.” A voice crackled to life on the other end.

“Roger, Grimdaer. Knock him out, we’ll bring him to Glesni and Nikda, over.”

“Affirmative. Over and out.” Grimdaer looked down his arm at the fading Senki – his iron grip on the man’s throat had him fading fast, but he was still conscious. “Sorry, citoyen, but you heard them. It’s time to go to sleep.” Pivoting on his hips, Grimdaer swung Senki face-first into the wall. White flashed briefly into his vision, before darkness swiftly replaced it.