Open Zann's Alley/Backyard Follow the Bums

[Perila Z. Mogul]

OOC:
This thread serves as the reintroduction to the Crossroads Detective Agency, first founded in 1731 by Nichacht Reptilius and Gideon C. Blayre.
The CDA is a private investigation firm run by Chief Detective Nycaria Blayre Lafrey that serves to solve all manner of mysteries throughout the Vulpinsula, and it is now actively recruiting.
Anyone wishing to sign on as a CDA detective, be it for the love of the game or a steady paycheck, can join this thread or participate in another at a later date.

BIC:
The Frockbottom Dresses Co. Warehouse was an old behemoth of wood and stone, all flat-faced and ugly and stretching much too wide so that the streets around it, cut jaggedly throughout the Northern Warehouses District, veered crazily around the structure's odd angles and protruding walls.
Its main doors, big enough for a small army of wagons and laborers, were locked tight with rusted chain, had been since it closed during the Infamous Revolutions of 1748.
There was a backdoor, through a tall, rickety iron fence that was a lot newer than the rest of the space but just as coated in graffiti.
In the daytime, the neighboring warehouses and the broad, zigzaggy streets connecting them were usually abuzz with activity, and the hulk of the MinoComm building could be seen towering above them from its spot between the Northern Warehouse District and Zann's Backyard.
At night, the area was typically deserted but for Fogey patrols and packs of vagrants who, while forced to vacate during the day, made the quiet industrial area their home past sundown.
A small fire crackled in a nook between the fencing and the Frockwood Warehouse wall.
Beans sizzled in a pan over the flames as a bottle of New Addersfang Grog was shared and the eyes of two vagrants, a rat and a wildcat, shined in the orange glow of the firelight.
The rat was a small, rawboned drifter named Scrimshaw. She had the smarts and cool confidence of experience, and was most easily recognizable for the ragged but dashing musketeer hat that oft crowned her brow.
Her companion was a wildcat of shifting moods and uneasy temperament registered in Veterans' Affairs as Corporal Alburn W. Thawes, though best known on the streets as "Screws." He was a veteran of the Imperial Civil War, and often twitched and muttered unintelligibly or barked orders and answers to orders from battles past.
He wore his green army jacket the day he was discharged for unruly conduct, and wore it still in its significantly worse shape many years later.
Screws and Scrimshaw also happened to be two of a broad pool of bums, performers, street kids, strumpets, thieves and trash sorters at the Agency's disposal, easily-missable people who were the eyes, ears, and more occasionally, the mouths, slippery fingers, lockpicks or knives that made up much of the C.D.A.'s power.
There were them, and there were detectives, but the Agency didn't have much in the way of those yet. It had only just restarted, after a temporary decades-long retirement involving the mysterious disappearance of one founder and the suspicious death of the other.
In the past few weeks leading up to the early morning of Soggus 27th, 1765, posters had begun appearing throughout Bully Harbor. They depicted a three-pronged crossroads with a great glowing lantern at its center.
Above the image, the poster read:
"BRAVE AND CLEVER SOULS NEEDED FOR CROSSROADS DETECTIVE AGENCY. LONG HOURS. FAIR PAY." and beneath it:
"INQUIRE OF LOCALS OF NORTHERN WAREHOUSES, SOGGUS 27TH, AT MIDNIGHT."
The offices were a secret. They were meant to be a secret.
Whoever wanted to become a C.D.A. detective would have to put in the small effort of sniffing around the Northern Warehouses district until they found one of the C.D.A.'s many vagabond contacts who would direct them to Frockbottom Warehouse, the beginning of their journey to becoming among the Imperium's finest private eyes.
Chief Detective Nycaria B. Lafrey, who followed helplessly in her father's footsteps but swore she wouldn't die like him, awaited her recruits... and a new special contact for what her old friend Satira Pratt described as "a hell of a deal."
What excitement awaits!
Of the two bums hanging around near the fenced-in back entrance in the light of their fire, the rat noticed the newcomer soonest.
She peered through the foggy, streetlamp-lit streets with surprising clarity for somebeast with a New Addersfang grog bottle in her paw.
With her free paw, adorned on the back with a faded octopus tattoo, the rat tipped her ragged musketeer hat.
"Evenin'." she called to the stranger from her seat atop a scavenged crate. "Know what time izzit?"

 

[Bezine D'Oiravere]

Bezine D'Oiravere raised a brow at the question. "Is night," she stated, as if it should be obvious. The weasel crossed her arms, examining the two strangers critically. She'd grown up among thieves, swindlers, and cutthroats, even helped in a few of their schemes, and she could recognize a dangerous beast by their bearing. Neither of these two were such. Most beasts on the street, Bezine knew, were fundamentally honest beasts who sometimes resorted to dishonest means for survival. Nonetheless, the wealthy tended to view them with suspicion, believing that desperation would drive a beast to depravity. Bezine thought that spoke more to the mindset of the rich than that of the poor.

The weasel had dressed practically for this outing - dark trousers, orange button-down, and purple vest, with only a small, practical knife at her side. She'd been mistaken for a jack three times that day, not that she minded anymore. It usually wasn't until she opened her mouth and beasts heard the timbre of her voice that they reassessed her gender. Her eyes trailed over the pair, looking for any obvious signs of ill health. Contrary to the opinion of the landed wealthy, vagabonds and vagrants were not necessarily broke. In fact, those who could either grift, busk, or beg for sufficient coin could certainly keep themselves alive, and those who found paying work could make it go far. There were limiting factors on wealth, though; the more you had, the more risk that someone unscrupulous would try to take it from you, and that could become deadly. Therefore coin tended to go quickly to the 'intangible essentials', the things that were truly necessary to quality of life and, once in paw, were harder to take away than mere coin. Food and drink, eaten quickly or in the presence of trusted beasts, was one such essential, as was care from either one of the doctors of dubious care who accepted impoverished patients, or one of the bleeding hearts from Pyrostoat Memorial who did charity work in the community. Anything left over went into a carefully hidden and guarded stash. All of that was to say, this pair were, by the standards of the community, doing quite well for themselves, which meant they likely had a benefactor.

Bezine glanced up at the sky, trying to gauge the angle of the crescent moon. "I zink is almos' midnight," she assessed. She returned her gaze to the group, looking at them skeptically. "I am looking for ze Crossroades Agenzi. I understand you may 'ave information... I am sure for a cost." She made a small slight of hand trick, pulling a golden gilder from her sleeve. She knew from her own time as an Erlani, roaming from town to town with her father and performing for (and stealing) coin, that a request was best paired with an offer.

 

[Perila Z. Mogul]

The rawboned rat in the musketeer hat took another swig of grog as she looked over the practically-outfitted, clearly analytical and heavily-accented little weasel, and grinned in delight. "Aye, cully." She said, of Bezine suggesting it was midnight. "It certainly is."
The wildcat in the army jacket eyed the weasel with a scruffy ear and a thick eyebrow crooked. "Sergeant Pallor! They're hidden in that brush." he muttered just loudly enough to be heard above the crackling of the fire. He accepted the bottle from his companion. "Corporal Pontifugh suggests the squad split and perform a Meroving'ian Manoeuvre. Yessir! Blood an' glory, sir."
He stopped speaking in the low, quick, harsh tone once the coin came out, and both vagrants eyed its golden glimmer fondly.
"Yeah." said the wildcat, and he took a pull from the bottle whilst the rat gave the beans in the pan a stir. "Damned right for a cost, miss. Wish I had me a good Kreehold crossbow. Two gilders. One for me, one for my friend," he leaned over the fire to pat Scrimshaw on the back, a serious look on the felid's features. "It is the Homeguard way. I'll even share our beans with you."
"They're mighty tasty." said the rat with a wink. "Screws 'n' I c'n whip up some honorable street fare."
"Scrimshaw's better at it." said Screws.
Scrimshaw leaned over and rapped on the iron fence next to them, and there came a creaking as a small gate swung open, leading into a small yard of dead grass and stacks of old, dusty crates marked "FROCKBOTTOM DRESSES CO. - FRAJILL!!"
To the left of the crates, a wooden door. Someone had tagged "Rockin' Tids!" on it in big orange letters, next to a little cartoon of a hissing weasel.
Another, older tag nearer the bottom just said "Phil '26"

 

[Bezine D'Oiravere]

Bezine raised her eyebrow at the offer of beans, her stomach growling. Money had gotten tight over her time back in the Imperium; her busking and gigs at local taverns wasn't bringing in much, and Eirene was still struggling to land a job with the Fogeys or Stoatorian Guard. Even for two gilders, information and beans wasn't a bad trade. She produced the second coin with a flourish, handing one to each of them. "I'll be back for ze beans," she promised.

Bezine passed through the gate, her eyes glancing at the various tags, lingering on the use of 'Tids' in one. She couldn't tell if it was meant to be disparaging or reclaiming of the offensive term. She shook her head and moved to the door, giving it a try. Finding it unlocked, she pulled open the door and strode inside.

 

[Nycaria Blayre Lafrey]

It was a huge, dark space, stretching on and on seemingly forever besides for a single space lit up as an orange rectangle in the darkness, twenty paces directly across from the backdoor.
This rectangle contained a long, patchy sofa, an armchair and a wicker chair in the Baroque style, a battered oak cabinet, a Gothic style desk, and a ferret at that desk in the Baroque wicker chair.
She was lean and angular, with big, soulful blue eyes and a pointed face, with a long pink scar snaking from her right cheek, across her chest and collarbone to her left shoulder, visible due to the low dip in her white shirt.
She wore gray pants, a checkered blue waistcoast, and a black bowler tipped to the side. Smoke trailed from the cheap Wordsworth cigar in the fingers of a right paw draped lazily back, and there was a gap in her teeth from a missing right fang as she spoke, her eyes watching fixedly on the weasel.
"Well..." the sable ferret said, and she took a slow pull on the cigar and released a thin cloud between her and the weasel. "You certainly look like someone I should know about, but I'm afraid you've caught at a disadvantage."
She gestured with the cigar to herself. "Chief Detective Nycaria Blayre Lafrey, acting president of the Crossroads Detective Agency. And yourself?"

 

[Bezine D'Oiravere]

Bezine approached cautiously, not bothering to try to go unheard. Her eyes scanned the darkness around her, habits of old returning in this cutthroat world. The ferret certainly looked young to be running whole detective business on her own, bit then again, Bezine was probably half her age when she'd been recruited to the Dusk Watch. For all the weasel knew, she could have entered this business as a child.

Bezine stepped into the light, meeting the ferret's gaze and trying to compose herself. 'Gates, she hated job interviews. She never knew what to or not to say, and always felt scrutinized. She cleared her throat, gesturing to herself. "Bezine D'Oiravere," she introduced herself, pronouncing it bet-ZEE-nay DWAR-ah-VER-ay. "I come because I 'ear you seek beasts 'oo are good at finding zings, 'oo listen well and go unnoticed. Zat is me."

 

[Nycaria Blayre Lafrey]

Her mouth split into a wolfish grin at that. "Well shucks, Dwaveree, I wasn't especting you to sound like that. What an adorable accent you have."
She shook ash from her cigar with a flick of her finger. "Yeah." she said. "I am looking for good people. Good detectives. It's a new, changing world, and Bully needs us more 'n' ever."
The ferret pushed her chair back and tugged open a desk drawer, placed a paper on the desk and indicated a silver pen and inkwell. She beckoned Bezine forward, releasing another cloud of smoke and propping one leg over the other.
"C'mere. Sign this."
It was a simple employment contract, an agreement to work on any job assigned; accept a pay of 200 gilders a week with a bonus of 150 gilders for every contract completed plus expenses; to keep the location of the main offices a secret; and to never disclose the full contents of a case to anyone but superiors on request.
Nycaria continued to watch Bezine carefully, puffing leisurely on her cigar. "Tell me about yourself, Miss D'Oiravere." she said, in a more serious tone. "Where have you been all this time that I don't hear about you? You seem... fairly memorable."

 

[Bezine D'Oiravere]

Bezine started slightly at the comment about her accent. She wasn't used to beasts finding it endearing. After the Winter War, Varangian immigrants, even a few generations removed like she was, were generally not looked upon favorably due to Varangia's participation in the invasion of Bully Harbor. It had worked out for Bezine, though; she'd been recruited to work for MAUL based specifically on her language skills, and some of the intelligence she'd intercepted had helped to win the war - or, at least, so she'd been told. She'd always suspected that Karath might have overstated her contribution to be kind.

Bezine took the contract and, while reading through it, sat in the open chair. Her eyes scanned through, trying to find any hidden snares in the language, but, truth be told, that wasn't her specialty. Morgan, much as Bezine found the girl infuriating for it, had better Vulpinsulan than either her or Eirene, and she was usually the last to read any official documents in the language just in case there was something her parents misunderstood.

She glanced up from the page as the young detective inquired about her history. This was the part she always hated; trying to sell herself to someone. She considered how to phrase her experience in a way that wouldn't result in a recission of the offer of employment. "When I was young, I started out in ze Ministri of Misanzropi," she stated, deciding that was the safest place. "I worked under Minister Karaz Nickolas in ze Dusk Watch - 'is replacement for ze Director's Beasts. I did missions for 'im and zem, mostly in ze Imperium, but some abroad in Varangia and 'Anshima. When zings in ze 'Arbor went bad, I leaved and go'ed - go'ed? went - abroad again, 'ere and zere for zirty years. I zink you would call it 'freelancing', no? Now, I am in ze 'Arbor again, per'aps for good zis time." She set the contract down between them, examining the young woman. She would have been very young when Bezine left the Imperium, a few years old at most. She'd come of age in a world at war with itself; how would that have affected such a beast? What lengths would she have gone to for her survival? Bezine had seen the best and worst of beasts over three decades across numerous nations and conflicts, and while she doubted that this woman would turn her in, there was still a risk involved.

Shi tu lao ma, she could almost hear Eirene's voice reminding her. This femme knew her business, and Bezine was good for business. She just had to trust in that. She took a deep breath before advising, "I should warn you, my parting from Misanzropi non was fond. I non know if you 'ave business wiz zem zat you non want to compromise."

 

[Nycaria Blayre Lafrey]

Nycaria smiled, but it didn't meet her eyes. "Thirty years," she said, accenting her words with a jab of her cigar through the air, "Is a long time outside of the Imperium. What time you do claim to have spent here, how I know any of that's true? I can't exactly contact Minister Nikolas. And if this is all true, you have bad blood with Misanthropy, had a hard time in the Harbor that sent you globe-trotting for three decades..."
The ferret gave an easy shrug of her shoulders and a smoky smirk, her blue eyes narrowed slightly in thought as she continued to prod deeper into her potential new employee. "Why are you back, huh? What'd keep you around? No offense meant, of course, if you really are M.A.U.L. leftovers, some cloak 'n' daggers, cool-blooded professional, you'd be an excellent addition to the team and I'd want you in my corner."
The ferret detective winked. "I just needa know."

 

[Bezine D'Oiravere]

Bezine wasn't surprised by the challenge to her credentials. She sighed and, reaching into her vest, found what she was looking for in an inner pocket. She pulled out a leather flip case, folded it open, and set it on the table. The top fold had two components: stitched into the leather was an embroidered patch showing a stylized red sun setting behind a black horizon, with strata of yellow, orange, and purple making up the sky. Beneath it, pinned into a leather loop, a metal badge, tarnished around the edges by time, showed the Ministry of Misanthropy emblem with the letters M.A.U.L. across it. On the lower fold, a thin pane of glass, holes carefully drilled into its corners, was sewn to form a protective surface over a slip of paper, one somewhat faded by time and starting to yellow and fray around the edges. It listed her as Bezine D'Oiravere, age 17, weasel, femme, with the rank of Special Operative. Below it was signed with the slanted signature of Karath Nicolas and stamped in red ink with the Misanthropy seal.

Bezine debated telling the truth to this beast. Technically speaking, beasts like here were still outlawed, even if things had changed and those rules were no longer enforced. It was a risk, but... well, she also had certain suspicions about this femme. "I have a family 'ere," she admitted. "My daughterre is in ze navy now, my..." She swallowed before admitting, "My wife is trying to be a guard. Zat is 'er specialty. I am no assassina; I am a spy and infiltrata, and I am good at it. M.A.U.L. will not 'ave me again, and, despite my 'istori, I non 'ave intention to 'urt zis land by working for its enemies. So, zis work seems ze best for 'aving challenge, using my skills, and I get paid."