The Mycologist smiled, giving a friendly bow to the Pianist, as well as the two kind gentlemen who had apparently taken up the invitation alongside himself. "The Correspondence. The key to Mr Stones' vaults, the language bats speak, the mathematics of Hell. I did my research, madame." With a pleasant smile, he pressed his thumb down as well. "Let us get this started... I take it at least one of these tasks involves fungi, or maybe..." he sniffed the Neathy air, and leaned in to whisper only to the Pianist. "The Sun." A small light flickered in his eye, imperceptible to all but those well-versed in the many deadly obsessions of the Neath.

"Would you believe that I have yet to see a single d--ned Blemmigan? I thought I was coming down here to further my research!" This was, of course, entirely untrue. His reasons for descending were entirely more esoteric than simple scientific curiosity.

Throughout her monologue Spencer's eyes never left her face. Not for a second, not even when that strange sounding creature entered. He watched every moment of her lips, how the shadows cast on her face changed the tone of her skin and how her eyes danced between them. He assumed she was beautiful, to a man with the appropriate ...'Equipment' he believed she would be lust worthy, Spencer wasn't admiring her beauty, he was looking for deceit, uncomfortably for him he found none, well nothing perceivable to him anyway. This did not sit right with him, nobody was this truthful in business, ever.

Spencer began to chuckle when he saw the tan creature place his thumb print on the paper. What a fool, he thought.

“My dear lady” he said, still chuckling “I have spent many years of my short life and many life times fortunes travelling the world; I have visited every physician, every doctor, every surgeon who was ever recommended to me” He lent forward now and lower his voice “I have visited every witch shaman and wizard I ever came across. None have ever been able to provide me with my hearts desire, none have even come close. What makes me think your Benefactor can provide me with what I desire? What insurance do I have if I complete what is being asked of me and your Benefactor fails to keep his side of the contract? Explain to me what binds your Benefactor to us?”

The Mycologist turned to his new, less eager compatriot, and gave him a wide, bright (literally?) grin. "My good man, perhaps you do not entirely grasp the concept, the BEAUTY, of our surroundings. We are in the Neath, a marvellous land of myth and legend. Down here, men can live for a thousand years, be stabbed in the heart and walk it off, Turn themselves into monsters of bone and rubber! Surely, even if your true desire, your deepest desire, cannot be attained, you can find some consolation in the marvels that surround us," he gave the man a sly wink, "And give it the old college try, why not?" Of course, the things the Mycologist said were... Half truths, in honesty. Men could live for a thousand years... But they would no longer be men. You could survive a fatal wound... But you'd be trapped in the Neath forever. And to become an otherworldly being for the sake of power... Was that really an option any sane person would even consider? But the Mycologist did choose his words carefully for a reason. If this man refused... Then the Mycologist would not receive his desire either. And he needed to see his great work completed.

Sitting back in his seat Miles thumbed through the contract, splitting his attention between trying to make sense of the convoluted lawyer speak while keeping one eye on the goings on of the conversation.

This 'Correspondence' was even more needlessly complicated that the required mandatory paperwork he'd had to fill out every day when working with the force- liberally sprinkled with strange terms he could make neither heads nor tails as to what exactly they could mean. With a dozen possible interpretations he was sure, even the most plainly spoken lawyer could spin circles around an issue if they wanted- Neathly lawyers had apparently turned it into an art.

The idea of being contractually bound to certain lawbreaking activities didn't sit well with him, especially with him being in such uncharted waters as it were, and his lack of familiarity of what exactly the Laws of the Neeth actually said made him a tad uncomfortable as well. As well as the thought that their absentee benefactor would even go so far as to 'kill the messenger' should she step out of line- through the mystical powers of contractual voodoo- set all that uncomfortable feelings edging farther into the level of intestinal distress, and that she signed so easily didn't help to reassure him in the least.

Then their new 'associate' piped up and Miles had to admit the off-putting yet eccentric man had a point as the detective recalled the distinctly soggy looking fellow he'd nearly bumped into on the docks. The idea of murder seemed to lose it's edge if the victim could merely walk off whatever violence had been done to their person... although that again brought up the concern of what exactly was considered ''illegal activities" down below.

"Neathly weirdness or not, Mr. Aristocrat over here has a good point," Miles finally spoke giving up reading the contract as a lost cause, "Some reassurance that this is all on the up-and-up wouldn't be remiss, don't you think? This No-show Boss of yours is expecting a lot to my way of thinking, and i'm not one for that kind of blind trust- especially in the face of breaking laws we don't even know about. I'd like to know what exactly is expected of us in this caper before I sign the dotted line, understand."

With the Pianist

The debonair pianist's demure grin flashed with disappointed frustration for the blink of an eye before rectifying itself. "I'm afraid that I cannot prove much to you at this juncture. Having four complex correspondence runes on the same piece of paper without it bursting into flames would impress many, but I assume you would want more assurance than our Benefactor's esoteric linguistic knowledge.". The bespectacled woman leaned in slightly, the smell of roses and honey becoming more pronounced. Her body shifted appealingly as she did so, and even the most steadfast eyes would have difficulty not wandering, no doubt in some part by design. She flashed her pearl-white smile ever so slightly, and continued.

"I could tell you that I have seen the capabilities of our Benefactor first-hand, and have bee suitably impressed. Though, I do not expect you to believe me. Though, the fact that I was so willing to bet my life, which of course holds great value to me, on our Benefactor keeping his side of the bargain should give you some indication."

She straightens slightly, her less formal speech and posture returning to their original courtesy and elegance. She speaks to Spencer first, her attention directing flatteringly towards him "I will arrange a demonstration of our Benefactor's capability in due time, once the first, easiest task is completed. If you are disappointed, then you can walk away from the contract and leave no worse off than when you arrived."

Turning to the detective, her spectacles boring into your eyes with a certain incorporeal intensity "As for the particular activities, I am afraid that my Benefactor has forbidden me from revealing them before the contract has been signed. You can, of course, once you learn what tasks will be required, leave the contract and end as you began, minus obviously the expenses of the journey, which I am sure can be remunerated”

She simply nods to Alexandre, perhaps answering his previous question, perhaps thanking him for his eagerness to participate in the contract.

Spencer smiled sarcastic at the eccentric new arrival and said sharply.

“Of course beauty is a subjective matter and this is business, not a childish adventure. Making up infantile stories are nothing more than that, stories. For all I know, Good Sir, you could be cohorts with this unseen Benefactor, walking in and blithely signing contracts in an attempt to encourage us to follow your foolishness”

Turning to the Pianist, he sat himself upright and looked her clearly in the eyes and again spoke sharply and clearly. Her look of frustration did not slip by unnoticed. A slight chink in the armour perhaps, despite all her beauty, perfume and flowery language just human after all.....

“Whether you are suitably impressed by the Benefactor or not has no relevance to me. It is me he needs to impress if he requires my services. The good Detective here is clearly of a similar mind to my own. Illegality is not something to be embarked on lightly, especially for men in positions like ours. I have also yet to read a contact that a man can walk away from unscathed”

Spencer sighed and seemed to deflate slightly.

“Dear Lady, I fear I have spoken to sharply to you. You have been put in an unenviable position with a rather uncompromising person. I do hope you do not take all I say as a personal assault.”

Spencer sat back in his chair and paused, as if concentrating.

“If, as you say the first task asked of us is relatively unchallenging and your Benefactor provides a demonstration of his skills that are acceptable enough to persuade me he has the talent to provide me with my hearts desire, then, I will reconsider signing this contact”

The pianists words brought a grim smile to the detective's face, although it looked more like a grimace than an actual smile. The empty platitudes rang a familiar bell for him, and not a good one. It was another one of those 'need-to-know' cases that always seemed to be needlessly messy and convoluted. He figured it would be as such simply from the hefty lawyer-speak that embroiled the 'contract' they were required to sign.

Miles perked up for a second as Mr. Cole continued to speak, the idea that they could begin these challenges before signing the magical-mumbo-jumbo contract seemed like a good one. A test drive of sorts- although as he continued to think about it, his sinking feeling returned, it might be more along the lines of 'don't look a gift horse in the mouth'.

After all, they didn't have to sign this thing, give this fancy lady a fine 'no thank you kindly' and be on their merry ways. If he read the situation rightly, this was going to be a sign first ask questions later kinda gig.

Still, the question was in the air, and so he sat back and waited for their lovely Pianist's reply.

The pianist's smile did not waver for a moment.

"I believe that would work, Mr. Cole, if you are wary about signing. I have the dossier here" and she pulled a small brown folder with a handful of sheets of white paper enclosed within.

"You perform this modest task, I talk to our Benefactor, and we reconvene in a few days to reassess the prospects of signing ourselves over". A gesture towards the paper hinted at a tinge of her own dissatisfaction, but even her disgust at the document did not come off as anything but elegant, her gesture fluid and rather appealing.

Provided there are no objections to this new agreement, which she will silently request with an implied gaze from behind her pitch-black spectacles, she continues and opens the folder, splaying the contents across the small table.

"Recently, a burglary occurred in the Flit. This would not be surprising to any Londoner, of course: Flit is a rooftop refuge for all manner of unsavory characters, made up mostly of shabby bridges and ramshackle establishments atop the reputable establishments of Lower Flit and Doubt Street. The Benefactor, and other parties of import in the City, have taken particular interest to this particular robbery, the theft of a large iron box, a square with a side of two or three feet, apparently locked tighter than any of the many contacted irreputable locksmiths have been able to open." she gestures to a black-and-white picture of a large iron box, its front lined with inset padlocks, sitting on a rather ornate table. "The property, being stolen for some time, is in a legal area more grey than usual in the City, and our Benefactor hopes that you will be willing to retrieve it, at which point I have been informed he will return it to its rightful owners, presumably in return for items or services I am not privy to. We hope you will find this assignment morally conscionable, as well as particularly easy." The pianist laughed her sonorous laugh, the high pitched gaiety filling the room briefly. "It is, as I have been informed, quite difficult to hide such a large and heavy item atop roofs among thieves. If you find yourselves in need of additional motivation, I have been informed that the particular unknown thief is particularly accomplished, and has in his possession stolen items of great value, which would be yours to take, either for yourself or to sell back to the constabulary as is their policy."

Her proposition completed to her satisfaction, she sank back into her seat, the documents and photographs still sitting on the table. She waited with rapacious interest for a response, clearly hoping that her new acquaintances would accept.

Miles' eyebrow rose as the Pianist agreed to the slight change in plans, the only outward sign of his surprise at her willingness to do so- let alone how easily it was done. He would have expected near hours of haggling and negotiating the terms for any sort of compromise like this to come into being what with all the lawyer speak and magical seals. But, he considered, that might simply be because of the lovely lady chosen to speak to them. She was an artist, not a lawyer and therefore not prone to act as such... although that cast their anonymous employer into an odd light indeed. Why all the complicated jargon and rigamarole if you weren't going to use a law man to back it up? Miles couldn't tell if he should be relieved at the lack or more suspicious than he was before.

He met the pianists eyes, silent acknowledgement passing between them. They did ask for this opportunity after all...

Miles' eyes lit up as the Pianist addressed the terms of their task. A burglary! Well now, things were shaping up much better than it seemed for such a task to fall so neatly into his line of work. Chasing down criminals was the bread and butter of detectives, with theft right up there with the murder and mayhem they inspired. This, he could handle.

Sharpening his focus on the information the Pianist was bestowing, Miles leaned forward and listened intently as he tuned his ears to pick up the vital bits:

The Filt- Rooftop criminal refuge on top of legitimate (criminal front?) establishments Lower Filt and Doubt Street.
Stolen Item- 2 to 3 ft cube iron box. Locked- Extremely Secure. (what is inside? Is there a key? Multiple keys?). considered heavy and difficult to move and/or hide. How yet unknown.
The Theft- Recent, long term stolen item? Benefactor interested in its acquisition. (And what others?)
Thief- identity unknown, existing reputation of other notable thefts (He?)

The Detective sat back as he processed this information, thoughts turned inward as he reached for the documents and photos to look through them more thoroughly- just in case they held the answers to some of the questions rattling around his head at the moment.

Miles couldn't help a slight creasing of the corners of his mouth, a pleased smile escaping him. The thrill of the mystery, along with the anticipation of the chase to come, yes- for all the strangeness and oddities of this Otherworldly Underworld- this he could handle.

He glanced back up at the Pianist, his questions burning on his tongue as he tried to hide the eager shine in his eyes, and tried to ignore the subtle screaming voice in the back of his mind. The sound of caution and self preservation trying its best to warn him against the coincidental convenience- of a trap well bated before him. And the small sinking feeling that he was well and truly caught.

The Pianist stood, and gestured for you to leave. Her manner did not suggest there was a choice in the matter.

"Good luck, gentlemen. I hope I'll be seeing you again very soon.".

The rest of the establishment looked unbearably dull after the intimate meeting room, the greys of the walls more dull, the stale smell of beer and mushrooms all the more unpleasant after the strange scents of the Pianist's refuge. Your two companions hurried out, clearly not planning on working with you or each other. Perhaps they were trying to curry favor with the Pianist. Perhaps they just wanted the money for themselves. Either way, their haste was understandable, if not beneficial.

The barkeep nodded as you exited, and the door locked itself behind you as you step out into the dark and fog. The fact that you are underground is apparent again, and the oddness of the now-fewer passersby hammers the point home. The brown walls and the grey lanes stretch out in front of you, and you feel the slight tugging of destiny.

Having been undeniably dismissed, Miles tapped the brim of his hat in farewell to their lovely hostess and made his way back into the hall. He moved quickly back through the bar, wrinkling his nose briefly at the smell of the place- had it smelled like this before? He couldn't remember it being particularly bad, but then he didn't make a habit of literally his way sniffing around...

Stepping out into the cool eternally-night air, Miles let the two odd gents exit the Singing Mandrake before him, and pausing on the stoop reached into his coat's pockets for a cigarette. After sifting through his pockets, he managed to retrieve his beat up box of cigs and a lighter... as well as a somewhat crumpled card.

Cigarette hanging from his mouth, he cupped his hands around it as he flicked his lighter. The orange light coming from the flame casting strange shadows in an increasingly strange place. His eyes followed a pair of passersby- six arms and eight legs between them, and an equally unsettling number of eyes looking back at him.

Sure. This place was strange. But people were people, and strange as they may be- as strange as this place could be- If there was one thing Detective Miles Hardy understood it was the motivations and shifting morals of people. Those deadly sins may not carry the same consequences down here, but that just gave people more opportunity to be... Inventive.

Inventive like stealing a 3 foot tall iron safe from a rooftop without anybody being the wiser. And now he had to find out, if not the how, or why, just who managed it and somehow reclaim this ridiculous vault.

And with that thought, the Detective stuffed his lighter and smokes back into his pockets- and keeping the crumpled card out, flipped it over to reveal the Precocious Peddler's business card, "At least I know where to start..."
He flipped it again to show the directions scrawled on the back: Widow's Tea Parlor, basement, back room, knock five times.

Taking a deep drag of smoke he exhaled a cloud of smoke and watched it curl away under the halo of the street lamp lights and set off into the neethy-night with a smile tugging at his lips.

The Widow's Tea Parlor, perched on the waterside of Spite, is clearly not what it is advertised as. At its door a handful of dazed-looking individuals milled about, milling like houseflies and only making the one sober man look all the more dangerous, his hard gaze and straight, fierce posture contrasting likely intentionally with the gaggle of wastrels. He looks at you and nods if you enter, clearly not placed to check identity but to prevent trouble from finding its way into the shoreside house.

The exterior of the house is all black wood and glazed windows, a nicer establishment than most in Spite, but still several tiers below anything to be found in Veilgarden. It abutted the sharp shingle beach, colored black and grey with notes of the confusing Pelegin zee, on which boats landed and set off surreptitiously. What causes the waves and tides underground is likely a mystery to even the most educated minds. Within the establishment is a completely different matter. While the outside is quiet, subtle and vast, the interior is loud, garish and what could be graciously called 'cozy', but would more accurately be called 'horribly cramped'. There are dozens of comfortable chairs, things of all shapes and sizes. A man sits behind a bar but there is no alcohol to be seen. The only bottles to be seen are produced to service customers in exceedingly small quantities, the same substance those card-playing suckers had been sampling, though of occasionally varying colors. One tablespoon given was red, one was blue, one was even a strange shade of Almost-Purple that you had a very hard time remembering afterwards. Irrigo, the color of Forgetfulness. The occupants are clearly delineated: the ones who are sampling the product, sprawled or lolling on seats or just planted on the floor, some chatting to others and most speaking into the thin air, and the employees, Dangerous looking men [and women] clearly on the lookout for either constables or troublesome customers. The outstanding occupant is a richly-dressed man with stubby horns and burning red eyes, his rather attractive face bearing a countenance of amusement and mocking disgust as he watched the inebriates.

The walk to the basement becomes much more serene as the rambling customers fade into the background, and the door is obvious in its elegance and bright emanating light. If you knock five times in quick succession, the door seemly opens by itself, and the room presents itself, bright, stark grey and empty except for two comfortable sofa-chairs either side of a deep mahogany coffee table.

Miles didn't know what it was but the detective came to find the walk to The Widow's Tea Parlor far more straightforward than it had been to reach the Singing Mandrake. Maybe it was the fact that he had been given actual directions to the place, or maybe he was getting used to this place... although from the swooping feeling in his stomach at the sight of the zee maybe not...

Or maybe it was a factor of the clientele, as he got inside the stoic and almost forbidding looking place and took a good look around at the occupants there. Miles didn't dabble in drugs himself, his occasional nicotine habit notwithstanding, but he'd had chanced upon an opium den once or twice topside and The Widow's Tea Parlor certainly rang to that sort of tune. From the muscle at the door to the zonked out guests, dazed and rambling to anybody and nobody the same, the only thing missing was the zen music and smoke so thick you could cut it with a knife. It was the kind of place that they'd want to be real easy to find by the right sort of people, with plenty hard and hardy people to deal with the wrong sort that might try to muscle in on their turf.

Realizing that he was garnering attention just by being upright and moving of his own volition, Miles adjusted coat and strode through the mess with purpose. There'd be no inconspicuous slinking here, so the only thing was to move with confidence like he had every right to be there. He even nodded to the rather dangerous, near frightening looking fellow who seemed to be the Man in Charge... and managed not to gawk at the horns, though he did give them a long look before turned away to descend into the basement.

Reaching the rather ornate door, Miles raised his fist to knock... paused, then smiled and gave into the temptation.

*Knock. KnockKnock-Knock. Knock.*

Albeit childish, he half expected the return sound of two knocks and was mildly disappointed when the door just opened without fanfare, and without further ado he strode inside. The place was well lit for one, so there was probably somebody 'home', whether that was the peddler man himself or not remained to be seen, so Miles decided to poke around- forgoing the chairs to stroll the room and see what the interior decorating might tell him about this place.