Despite the high noon, the weather in Sayrn was foul. The murky grey skies hung heavily over the city, swallowing the highest peaks of skyward buildings in the last remnants of the morning fog. The everpresent dust, filled with moisture clung to everything it touched, dirtying people’s faces and clothes with every gust of wayward wind; no one in their right mind would wear their good garments out on a day like this. The very few nobles Arbos spotted passing through the square were hidden behind the tightly sealed windows of their palanquins and carriages, relying on shiny brass filters to give them clean air on the inside. The drivers and carriers on the other hand had to get by with masks and shawls tied over their faces just like the rest of the common folk.  

The massive cast iron hands of the main clocktower shifted reluctantly and a heavy tired bell rang twelve, prompting Arbos to look around in displeasure throwing sideways glances at the statue of the emperor he was standing next to. The stylized, angular creation wrought of pure brass did well to convey the perfect facial features of the imposing man; it’s been good three centuries since the King last met the Emperor, but something told Arbos that even after all this time the man would look the same. One does not bear the nullomantic power worth rivalling the elder gods without getting a few paltry benefits like longevity out of it, after all. That kind of power comes with a great ego, of course, and that’s what annoyed Arbos at the moment. As the wet dust continuously covered and marred the brass it would not be long before caretakers would show up to clean and polish it; and standing next to janitorial works would be nowhere else as cool looking. 

Making a minimal effort to expel any dust from the area around him, Arbos raised an eyebrow and turned to the group of people entered the square. Four… Five nullomancers?  About damn time, his face widened in a sly grin, before turning to bepuzzlement as some child brushed past his enforcers and stopped dead in her tracks. Giving her a puzzled look Arbos turned to the other group that approached them – several low level flunkies from the city outskirts, a young woman and a young girl- 
[i]“That sparkly motherfucker… I’m gonna kill him. First thing I do when I get a body – kill him. Then revive him and kill him again. With a spoon.”[/i] – Arbos thought to himself as he forced a lopsided grin on his face and cocked his head to the side.  Another woman in her early twenties approached them quickly as well. Despite looking like a Cauhri, Arbos could tell she was of a different race; which exactly however remained a mystery for now. Another one, a man, stood somewhere on the other side of the square but did not approach. Well, instructions were given loud and clear, and Arbos was not about to babysit anyone – these four would have to do for now. With a click of the fingers he motioned his enforcers to round up the four women and line them up in front of him. One of the rebel escorts bowed courteously.

However just as he was about to pen his mouth for formal introductions, the youngest one of the group started yapping instead, much to his surprise.
"Hmm yep, I sense a spectre! You could've chosen a better vessel though, he smells horribly."
“[i]….huh?[/i]”  Arbos thought to himself, taking a good full second to comprehend the amount of stupidity that just transpired. The two enforcers exchanged surprised glances and as if by command stepped the hell back. Arbos on the other hand stepped forward and cocked his head to the side, a vein pulsing on his temple. This was almost too tasty to pass up; he’d even spend a bit of a more precious charge just for this moment. 

“[b]Halt.[/b]” – The old man’s eyes flashed gold as the word left his mouth, getting imbued with a minuscule fraction of the Voice of Yorr. The word, although quiet in volume washed over the entire square in a heavy unstoppable wave, never dissipating. The next instant everyone in the area stopped dead in their tracks, mouth open mid-speech, legs raised mid-step. Fear and confusion flashed in the eyes of the four novices, as they realized that they could no longer move their eyes, much less their bodies. Slowly and pointedly Arbos stepped forward and pointed his finger at Selessia.
“You, [i]sit[/i]” – His finger pointed to the ground, and the young girl immediately fell on all fours. Arbos’s face took on a twisted smirk. – “Now, [i]bark for me[/i].”
Absolute commands are absolute for a reason and Selessia, despite all efforts to the contrary, began doing her best dog impression, loudly going ‘Woof Woof’. Arbos chuckled grimly as the scene went on for a full minute, before scanning the rest of the novices with his eyes.
“Now listen up, you bunch of useless frog eating peasants. My name is Arbos Xell, but you may call me ‘master’, ‘sir’, ‘boss’, ‘your godly excellence’ or in a pinch ‘super extra awesome guru’. For what it’s worth, courtesy of my idiot apprentices, I’m going to teach how to use nullomancy in a way that does not lead you to blowing your own tits off or having your fingernails pulled out by the head torturer of the Empire. Stick with me and before this decade is through we’ll be drinking hard liquor out of the Emperofag’s bleached skull, but to that extent you will do what I say, when I say it.  Cause if you don’t…” He glanced at Selessia, still woofing, and his eyes gleamed with murder. “…being made to bark in public will be your [i]best[/i] option. Everyone gets me? Good. Let’s move.” 

Arbos then casually walked past them, releasing the control with a snap of his fingers and laughed loudly as everyone in the square, with the exception of his two enforcers, fell over; their strained efforts to move catching up to them all at once. The enforcers paused for a moment, waiting for the novices to get their bearings and then motioned them to follow the old man. 

The trek through the maze-like back streets of the City of Dust took some good five hours, during which a rainstorm broke out. Arbos and his enforcers weren’t bothered, the droplets simply avoiding them in mid-air, but the other four had to deal with the weather the good old-fashioned way. For a moment Arbos thought back to the fifth nullomancer who was at the square earlier, but quickly dismissed the thought. If he was one of the novices he would have approached with the rest of them; must’ve been a marshal recruit on recon. The late autumn days were short, and coupled with the heavy rain, pretty soon the group was moving in pitch blackness. The shawled and hooded street custodians were scurrying about, replacing the light crystals in the streetlamps, but the rainstorm made the darkness fall sooner than they expected, and they were struggling to keep up. As such most back alleys were still completely pitch black, save for the dim light of an occasional shop or barber sign.  It was in front of one such sign that the group finally stopped. Wrought of glass, copper and wood, the big sign shone brightly in the darkness, reading in bold letters: “Winchester Pub”. Arbos pushed the heavy oaken door, and with a ring of the bell went inside. 

Inside of the pub revealed a rather rich establishment.  Heavy oaken tables and chairs were polished and sturdy, glass cable lined the ceiling – glowing with a dim pleasant light from the main light crystal behind the bar. Each table had its own brass and copper lamp, allowing the few remaining cutomers to read quietly. Even the walls were covered with pine planks, stained burgundy and lacquered, giving the place a very subdued and comfortable atmosphere. A sharp eye could notice that most of the customers were dressed in suits and hats very similar to the ones that Arbos and his enforcers were wearing, albeit not seemingly made of normal cloth, and not whatever the silver material was. An aged but well maintained piano stood in the corner of the pub, although its seat was empty in favour a large music box made of rosewood and gold, which quietly played a piano and brass song at the time. The bartender – a man in his later fifties, clean shaven and with more than a touch of grey in his hair, shot a glance to the new arrivals and bowed his head respectfully to Arbos. The rest of the patrons did the same, without moving off from their spots. 

A motherly woman of indecipherable age, dressed in a spotless white apron walked out of the back room and rushed over to the group, instantly starting to fuss over them.

“Oh gods, gods master Arbos! First the poor boy from yesterday, and now these poor women! Would it kill you to be a little nicer to your friends? They are soaking wet for Aluthea’s sake! Come come here dearies, I will give you some towels to dry off!” She ushered them to the corner of the pub, where a large table was set up, separated from the rest of the establishment by a chest high wooden partition. The seats here were soft and cushy, covered in dark red leather, allowing the exhausted group to finally relax. 

Arbos smirked and went over to the bar, quickly downing a full tumbler of whiskey that the bartender had poured him ahead of time.
“How many times do I have to tell you Maggie? They’re not my friends by any stretch of the imagination. More like… minions, I’d say? Cannon fodder?”  He looked over the wet and trembling group and sighed. “I was promised fighters gods damn it, who the fuck sent me this kindergarten?! …Alright, fuck it, Maggie!! Bring them some hot food and drink. Some nullomancers they are - can’t even dry themselves off properly… “

The woman scoffed at his remark as she handed out crispy fresh new towels to everyone and then scurried off into the kitchen to get the food going. Arbos sighed again.
“Seriously, when will I get some damn respect around this place?... Gonna fucking kill every one of you assholes when I get my body back…” He muttered under his breath and without much warning stopped possessing the old man Williams. His spectral form spread out, taking up much of the space at the head of the table. The wide shadowy cape and wide brimmed hat made him appear far larger than might’ve been in less fancy clothing, but alas he had no choice on the garb he was offed in, back in the day. The crystal lights flickered as his form was finally unshackled from the constraints of a mortal non-nullomantic body, his sheer presence washing over the newbies. His eyes, shining brightly in gold scanned the four women present and he smirked. 

“Alright you broads, share your gossips or whatever eat, drink, get to know eachother. This is the last night you’ll get to chill in your lives. If you got any questions,” He pointed at the bartender, “ask Klaus. I’ll be upstairs sorting some of my own business out; don’t bother me unless it’s important.”  That said Arbos gave them one more toothy grin and disappeared into thin air, only the after image of his shining eyes lingering for a second longer. 

It was six in the evening, dark and raining outside, and hot food was on the way. Everything seemed like the rest of the day would be spent making introductions, alas the group did not yet know that one more event was to occur that night. Whether they would finish getting to know each other before the time came, however, remained to be seen….

[hr]

[@Anndgrim]

Meanwhile, back at the central square, Corvo was pacing back and forth under a small awning of a local pastry shop, hiding from the pouring rain. After waiting for over five hours he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but it seems the so-called King of Thieves never showed up. Or did they miss eachother? Either way the darkness had long since fallen, and he was getting to the end of his patience. 

“Sorry mate, do you have a moment?” A deep, raspy voice spoke out from his back. Corvo turned around and looked over the three cloaked men that stood before him. They were wearing well-fitting leather and mail armour under their coats, with intricate metallic gauntlets on their hands. Two of them were carrying long metal staves, while the third one (their leader by the looks of it) had several dozen daggers and needles strapped in multiple layers around his waist. His gauntlets were much larger than those of the others and adorned with some kind of intricate metal coils. Even in the darkness of the autumn and through the heavy rain an insignia of four white lines could be seen marking their chests and shoulders, marking them unmistakably as Imperial Marshals. 

Corvo found himself with a dilemma: To fight was to die, so will he run? He could escape one marshal, but will he manage three, one of them most likely a captain or lieutenant? The streets of Sayrn grew slippery with the muddy puddles of infinitesimal dust, and the custodians had not yet lit the lamps. Will he use that as a chance to try and escape, attempting to brave the street maze of the cursed city? Or will he try and talk his way out of it? Time to decide was nigh.