Private The Slups Never Con a Con Artist

[Duchess Dusk Rainblade]

(Technically closed to myself and Thistle, but if you have interest and any ideas in how to join, just shoot us a message :3)

"Alright Marisha, what is so important that I needed to be called back from tea with my son?"

"My apologies, Minister. If this were not escalated to me-"

"Yes yes, 'if wishes were fishes, we'd all dine free.' Please, Marisha, just get to the point."

"Very well, Minister. Occult Division believes they have located a grade 3 paranatural."

"Grade 3? What's their certainty?"

"Only 64% at the moment. They haven't confirmed any active ability that couldn't be explained naturally; the beast could simply be a very talented con artist. He and his assistant have been operating out of a fortune teller's cart, and seem to be doing some brisk business."

"And you think he could be a true fortune teller? That's grade 1 at most. If I had to cut short time with my family because someone in Occult misgraded a simple clairvoyant-"

"Apologies, Minister, I think I buried the lede. It wasn't the clairvoyance that led to the classification, but rather the circumstances surrounding the beast. We have a chain of paratemporal incidents that we can link to the subject. Did you hear about the dock collapse last week?"

"Faulty maintenance, so I heard. My husband's beasts are already rebuilding it."

"We aren't so sure. A few weeks back, there was a fire in Kenny's Bunk Pointe. Six dead on a sight-seeing yacht."

"An unfortunate accident, but not unheard of. Some fool tourist must have knocked over a lantern."

"The yacht was in dry-dock, and it was broad daylight. No candles around."

"Arson then, insurance fraud most likely. I'm failing to see the connection."

"This beast, Thistle Brambledew-"

"Brambledew? A woodlander?"

"Hedgehog. Works with a porter of indeterminate species. He was in the town just a few days before; left before the incident. Do you remember the Tully Shore Resort?"

"Of course. I have a beach house there."

"You may want to check its value then. It got hit by a Very Large Wave last month; most of the resort was washed out to sea."

"How am I only just hearing about this?"

"All of the missertross gulls were washed out to sea as well, plus most of the staff."

"Don't gulls-"

"Fly? One would think so, yet somehow they all drowned."

"And let me guess, this Brambledew was there before the incident."

"Three days prior, yes. Occult Division is still attempting to correlate his movements with various disasters, but a clear chain is emerging. Wherever he goes, death follows."

"I see. And, let me guess - he's back in Bully Harbor."

"Yes, Minister. We already sent an undercover agent in to observe and report back. When he came back to us, he was broken, useless."

"His mind was that addled?"

"No, Minister. He said he'd experienced a 'catharsis', whatever that means. He turned in his resignation this morning; he said he's going to follow his dreams of being a florist."

"Alright, that is a bit bizarre. What are Occult recommending as next steps? Are we bringing Brambledew in?"

"Well, Minister, you see... Given the potential nature and severity-"

"They want me to take a look for myself."

"In so many words, yes, Minister."

"Incredible. Thirty years later, I'm still the only one who can get things done around here."

"I can assign an agent if you'd like-"

"No no, I'll go. If this beast is paranatural, I'll figure it out. If he's just a very unlucky con artist, well, I'll suss that out as well. Where's his last whereabouts?"

"The Slups. His cart is supposed to be... Well, the report states 'You'll know it when you see it'."

"I see. Well, clear my afternoon then. Oh, and find something nice to send to Alwyn as an apology for cutting our meeting short. Not chocolates, though. He'll just turn around and give them to some vixen."

"I'll see what I can do, Minister."

"Good. Now, get me my cloak. If I'm going to do this, best to do it in style."

---

Duchess Dusk Rainblade, Minister of Misanthropy, scowled as she scoured the Slups for her quarry. She hated walking in this part of the city; everything was so drab and depressing. The filth was one thing; it wasn't ideal, but she could bear it. It was more the hopelessness in the air that rendered it so unpleasant. One would think that Talinn might have demolished this place and built something more worthwhile in its stead, she reflected. Maybe a fish cannery. It could only improve the smell of the place.

The cart had been surprisingly difficult to locate, which, given its mobility, should not have been nearly so surprising. Eventually her inquiries, and the offer of gilders for information, had led her in the right direction. It was parked in what passed for a public square in the Slups, which was really just a wider section of road than the rest. Dusk had to admit, the cart certainly had the right ambience going for it. Maybe it was the thick fog that had rolled into the Slups, an unseasonable chill accompanying it, but even looking at the cart seemed to instill a sense of the macabre. Stop worrying, Dusk chided herself as she approached. You're almost as bad as those ninnies in Occult. You survived the Night That Fell; one lone con artist is nothing. Let's get in, debunk him, and be home in time for afternoon tea.

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

The cart sat slouched against the creeping mist, its old wood weathered but vibrant with life. Its wide doors stood open to the square, revealing shelves upon shelves of glass bottles, every shape and hue imaginable, packed tightly within. Some bottles shimmered with golden light, others glowed faintly blue or green, their colors dancing across the mist like reflections off water. Hanging chains and small signs crisscrossed the shelves to hold the bottles steady during travel, though now, while at rest, they rattled gently in the damp breeze. A strong scent of herbs, oils, and something faintly metallic curled from within.

Beneath the cart, a glint of movement stirred.

The Porter unfolded himself with eerie slowness, rising from the shadows on spindly limbs. His long, needle-like fingers gripped the yoke, and his wide, gleaming eyes fixed on the approaching figure. He neither spoke nor growled, only bowed stiffly at the waist, one clawed hand extending in a slow, formal gesture toward the open cart.

From within came a heavy thump, then a muffled clatter, followed by a disgruntled sneeze and a muttered, "Confound it all, where’s that blasted lamp?"

The cart rocked slightly, glassware chiming softly with the motion.

At last, the rear curtain twitched aside. Thistle Brambledew emerged in a swirl of patchwork cloak, his stubby figure dwarfed by the glowing wonderland behind him. His back bristled with bundles of dried herbs and tiny wrapped trinkets, each bobbing slightly with his movements. His spectacles sat crooked on his nose, catching the colored light and flashing like twin stars.

He cast a sharp, fond glance at the Porter, clicking his tongue.

"Good lad. Knows a soul worth greetin', that one does."

Then, beaming at the visitor, Thistle swept into a deep, theatrical bow, one paw flourishing his worn cloak, the other pressed over his heart.

"Welcome, traveler! Step close, step bold, for a gilded coin, truths may yet slip from the mists into yer waiting paws!"

He held the curtain wider with a practiced showman's flourish, the shimmering bottles casting shifting rainbows over his prickly silhouette.

@Duchess Dusk Rainblade

 

[Duchess Dusk Rainblade]

Dusk raised an eyebrow as she observed the strange beasts and their even stranger abode. So far she hadn't seen anything that would have sent her scrambling for a parallax net*, but still, she was proceeding with her eyes open and alert. None of the trinkets on his back were any of the known Unknown Ones**, but that didn't mean they weren't lurking. Dusk fished a coin from the purse on her belt, smiling a wry smile as she held it up. "I have come to seek many truths," she remarked, "from a beast who is said to be a purveyor of such. The first truth I would like to buy from you, stranger, is this: who am I?"

*The parallax net, a key tool in Occult Division's efforts to capture and contain the Inordinately Weird and Inexplicable, is a net woven of sturdy silk thread that, for reasons known only to senior leadership of the research team, is dyed a rich boysenberry color. The presumption among agents is that the color is somehow instrumental in containing the Weirdness, though this has never been empirically tested. Agents who have nibbled on the net reported it tastes like mushrooms and regret, and that it made them see the ghosts of fish dinners past for several hours thereafter.
**The Unknown Ones, a pantheon of dark and terrible entities of indeterminate composition and purpose, have been the subject of much research and focus by Occult Division. So far their efforts have confirmed that a) sightings of their true forms are entirely genuine visions and are not a byproduct of licking the parallax net, and b) they take a perverse delight in manifesting as misshapen sculptures, twisted pieces of wood, and particularly ambitious cake sculptures. These last forms are especially dangerous and are to be taken, whole if possible, to the Sunless Chamber, where their dark powers are conquered by cutting and dividing their effigies and consuming them in a solemn gathering of agents, usually while wearing ceremonial robes and conical party hats and chanting the Blessed Nameday hymn in reverse.

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

Thistle chuckled softly, a sound like the crackling of dry leaves, as he accepted the coin with a flourish. He did not pocket it immediately, but let it dance across his knuckles, reflecting flickers of the multicolored lights behind him.

"Ahhh, one who knows how to stir the deeper waters. Clever, clever indeed."

He tilted his head slightly, studying her through the glint of his crooked spectacles, his quills rustling faintly as he shifted.

"To ask 'Who am I?' is to pluck the harpstring of the soul, m'dear. A question that few dare utter, for fear of what music may answer."

The coin disappeared with a sleight of paw, tucked perhaps into some hidden fold of his cloak.

Thistle turned lightly, gesturing toward the interior of the cart where the bottles gleamed in the mist.

"Come, come. Step within. The mists are thin tonight, and truth stirs bold in the bottle’s heart. A name ye seek, a soul's mark upon the world... Such treasures are not for the impatient, nor the careless."

He smiled warmly, inviting yet with a glint of knowing mischief behind it.

"Tell me this, wise traveler, when you gaze into the mirror on a foggy morn, who is it that stares back at you? Answer me that, and perhaps we shall begin our bargain."

He stepped aside with a small, formal bow and held the curtain wider.

The Porter, silent and motionless near the yoke, tilted his head ever so slightly, as if listening to things beyond mortal hearing.

@Duchess Dusk Rainblade

 

[Duchess Dusk Rainblade]

Dusk listened skeptically to the hedgehog's routine, dissecting it for any hint of true understanding or power. In truth, much of it seemed the sort of generic mysticism that easily hoodwinked the foolish and those not in the know. Vulpinsulans were so credulous, they would believe about anything said in a vaguely spooky manner. It was much of the same technique as politics: say something vague enough to be applicable to anyone, and everyone would hear what they wanted to hear.

Still, she had to investigate thoroughly to be sure. If the beast was indeed paranatural in some way, even subconsciously, it was important that she find out how. She smiled and stepped into the cart, taking a quick, surreptitious look about. Nothing that stood out, but she hadn't expected anything to be so obvious. She took a seat primly on one of the cushioned spots in the cart, paws in her lap, and considered the beast's question. Honesty was the best way to elicit honesty, so...

"I see what remains of the femme I once was," she admitted. "Beauty fading, skin sagging, the only thing left my wits, and even that, I know, will not last me forever. Nearly six decades on this world - more than my mother or brother got, and nearly all my father had. It is hard not to look at myself and wonder if that will be the last time I see my own visage in the mirror."

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

Thistle listened, not with the eager air of a salesman, but with the patient, solemn regard of a monk hearing a confession. His head tilted slightly to one side, the light from the bottles painting shifting colors over his battered cloak and the bundles tied into his quills.

He placed one paw over his heart and bowed his head slightly.

"You honor me with your truth, traveler. Few are they who speak so plainly of the river's course."

He straightened, his spectacles glinting as he peered at her, truly peered, as if seeing more than the shape of her face.

"The mirror lies, as all mirrors do. It shows only the husk, the bark, the shell. It knows not the strength within, nor the battles fought to win each gray upon the brow, each line upon the flesh."

He turned lightly, gesturing toward a nearby shelf where several slender bottles nestled, each glowing faintly with inner light.

"There are gifts, aye, to ease the journey. Tonics to lighten the weary bones, to sharpen the wit, to quiet the mind when it drifts too far toward shadows. I offer them to those who need them, for silver buys only the bottle, never the blessing."

Thistle smiled, a warm, almost grandfatherly thing, the lines of his own face deepening into familiar, well-traveled roads.

"You, m'dear, have weathered storms that would have dashed many another soul to splinters. That is a beauty deeper than flesh and fairer than morning light. The spirits murmur it, clear as bells."

He let the words settle in the air like motes of incense smoke, patient and unhurried.

"So then," he said more lightly, "shall we see what more the mists would whisper in your ear, if you dare to listen?"

@Duchess Dusk Rainblade

 

[Duchess Dusk Rainblade]

Dusk listened to the beast's affirmations, one ear tuned to skepticism, the other to sensation. He was good, she had to admit it. Even if he was a fraud, his manner of speaking made one want to believe that it was real. His words were like honey slathered over an open wound: sweet, and surprisingly effective at stopping the bleeding.

The minister surveyed the collection of bottles, her eyes assessing the various shapes, hues, and viscosities. Most likely they were all some amalgamations of harmless plants and liquors, but she'd have to get Occult Division to test them individually to be sure. She wondered if it would raise suspicion if she bought a single bottle of each.

As she considered his words, at first she felt affronted at the implication that she'd had a difficult life. All in all, she'd come out rather well - she was a duchess now, she had a family of her own, more wealth than she knew what to do with, a position of power...

And yet here you are, sitting in a cart, talking to a charlatan about your problems.

Wasn't that, in and of itself, proof that she had issues left unresolved? She could have just taken him in, interrogated him in one of Misanthropy's cells. She'd come here instead, not just because he might be a fraud, but because he might be genuine. And, really, how long had it been since she'd had someone to talk to and confide in?

Dusk nodded her assent to his suggestion. A small, paranoid part of her stirred at the mention of the mists; she'd read enough of Occult Division's findings to know that the mist hid darker things than mere secrets, and invoking them invited those things to come forward. Still, no risk, no reward. "Please," she invited, gesturing for him to proceed.

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

Thistle's smile deepened into something gentler, almost reverent, as he reached for a battered cabinet tucked against the cart's inner wall. His paw, steady despite the slight tremor of age, slipped through a curtain of hanging charms and beads.

From within the dark recess, he drew out a small, square bottle of thick, dark glass, its mouth sealed over in wax the deep color of an old bruise. It clinked softly against its fellows as he withdrew it, the faint sound of old glass and shifting dust. The bottle was cool to the touch, its surface smudged by time and travel.

He held it lightly between two claws, presenting it with the care one might offer a sacred relic.

"A tonic, then, for the tremors in your mind. A draught to still the surface of the pond, so you may see what stirs beneath. Bitter as rainroot and dark as regret, but it'll weaken the pull between spirit space and reality... at least for a time."

He placed it gently on the small table beside her, giving a slight bow.

"The first is always free, of course," he gave a toothy grin.

As he straightened, Thistle turned to the brazier that squatted in the corner of the cart. With a flick of a worn match and a muttered blessing under his breath, he coaxed a small flame to life among the coals. The brazier hissed softly, breathing out tendrils of sharp-sweet smoke that curled along the ceiling beams.

And then, as if drawn by unseen hands, a clatter of hidden mechanisms stirred within the cart. A prism of metal and colored glass descended slowly from the ceiling, turning with languid, creaking grace. The brazier’s light struck the prism’s shifting faces, casting wavering ribbons of color across the cramped walls, sapphire, amber, verdant green, the colors bending and flowing like water in a dream. Every bottle, every bundle in the cart caught the shifting hues and glowed like stars trapped under glass.

Thistle stepped back, allowing the magic of the moment to speak louder than words. His posture was respectful, almost solemn, as if honoring a guest on the threshold of a sacred journey.

"When you are ready," he murmured, voice soft as smoke, "we shall listen together."

@Duchess Dusk Rainblade

 

[Duchess Dusk Rainblade]

Dusk would readily admit it: the showmanship was impressive. This beast certainly knew what he was doing when it came to controlling the ambience. More and more she was certain that there was no true paranatural ability in his craft, which, oddly, was comforting. Dusk knew how to deal with beasts; they were predictable, at least within certain variances, and con artists most of all. She could understand what there was to gain, what there was to lose, and deal with him accordingly. And if, in the midst of it all, she got to unburden herself a bit? Well, that was icing on the cake.

As she admired the light show, Dusk uncapped and carefully sniffed the vial. She didn't detect any of the common poisons beneath the bitter notes of... was that juniper? It was certainly derived from a tree product of some sort, alcoholic or no, with some other extract layered over it. He'd be a fool to kill you in such a place, she reflected, especially when he must know the attention drawn to him. If you die, he'll never leave the city alive. She braced herself and knocked back the concoction, her face screwing up at the taste. Even with her newly acquired alcoholism, that was still a kick in the teeth. She set the bottle back down, running her tongue over her teeth to attempt to clean the taste away. "What are we listening for?" she inquired.

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

Thistle gave no immediate answer.
He simply watched her, his old eyes half-lidded in the shifting colored light, as though weighing the question itself upon unseen scales.

At last, he spoke, his voice low and measured, more felt than heard.

"We listen for what is hidden beneath the clamor of the waking world."

He moved slowly around the brazier, the smoke curling about his cloak and quills like lazy spirits.

"The heart speaks first, in sighs and sorrows. Then come the echoes of old roads, steps taken and steps forsaken. Sometimes, if the mists are kind, we catch a whisper of what yet lies ahead."

He paused beside her, one paw resting lightly atop a battered tome on a shelf, as though steadying himself against the weight of unseen things.

"Not all who listen will hear the same. Some find comfort. Some, warning. And some,"
He smiled slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "some find the questions they were too afraid to ask."

He inclined his head in a small, formal nod, inviting her into the mystery without binding her to a single answer.

@Duchess Dusk Rainblade