Avatar of Penny

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Recent Statuses

5 mos ago
Current Achmed the Snake
1 like
9 mos ago
It's kind of insane to me that people ever met without dating apps. It is just so inefficient.
2 likes
11 mos ago
One, polyamory is notoriously difficult to administer
4 likes
11 mos ago
I'm guessing it immediately failed because everyone's computer broke/work got busy/grand parents died
9 likes
1 yr ago
In short: no don't use basic acrylics.
2 likes

Bio

Early 30's. I know just enough about everything to be dangerous.

Most Recent Posts

Bargaining, it was a predictable if slightly disappointing tactic. It wasn’t really Neil’s fault of course, he didn’t know the rules in her mind. One didn’t simply abandon a job because another job presented itself. That would be sloppy, and she couldn’t abide sloppiness. Fortunately he didn’t press the matter then and there as he might have done. Calliope at her steak. It was very bloody and she cut it into small neat bites before popping each into her mouth. The vegetables sat ignored, unworthy of attention. She wondered if it had occurred to Neil to poison her meal, that would be an interesting choice, if a little unorthodox for a thief, and besides, when would he have found the time to arrange it? Unless of course he had a standing arrangement to poison dinner guests with the restaurant. That was an interesting prospect, but seemed unlikely to come up enough to be practical. A good way of doing business, poison, something of a challenge compared to a blade or a spell, she should use it more often.



“Well,” Calliope began, reaching down and lifting a napkin to blot the slight accumulation of blood from her rare steak away from the corner of her mouth.

“I suppose that my ambitions are the standard sort, extract vengeance from those who owe it to me, establish my place in the world,” she lifted her wine glass and took a sip. First on her list was the cult which had exploited her, then the mages who had trafficked her to them in the first place. The thought warmed her and her lips turned up into a predatory smile. Those might have seemed like little ambitions, but the members of the cult were widespread and well placed within society, burning them all out would not be easy, but a task was a task and Calliope was meticulous when it came to carrying them out. The skills she had honed as an assassin would be very useful in that regard.

“Oh, and I want to live forever,” she added as though it was an afterthought, continuing to eat as though she had said no more than she wished one day to visit the Temple City of Ivashti.

“What about you?” she asked around a mouthful of bloody steak.

“What were your big plans going to be?” The unspoken assumption being ‘assuming I wasn’t going to kill you when this date concludes’.
Akendorf was something of a surprise. Such a small town, with barely a wooden pallisade, seemed awfully vulnerable this close to Blackfire Pass. The orc scouting party were proof of that, if the bandit attack on the hillfort hadn't been sufficient warning of the dangers. Emmaline had expected the towns closest to the past to be heavily fortified, the way towns deep in the Drakwald were, with keen eyed sentries on watch at all hours. Akendorf seemed a poor enough place for all that. Judging by the bales of hay and corn that were piled up in small sheds, it proabably did most of its bussiness supplying fodder for the merchants moving back and forth through the pass. The soil here was thin and poor, yielding little beyond grass and a few fields of stubly spring corn. The kitchen gardens beside each house were a little more ambitious, but not by much.

"I'm Gelf Gertel and this is my wife Myrtle," the peddler explained as he led them through the streets. Children paused to gawk and adults shot them apprising looks as they past.

"Your name is Myrtle Gertel?" Emmaline asked in some surprised. The goodwife looked despairingly at her husband.

"I married into it I'm afraid."

The Gertel home was one of the grander in town, a stone base with the timber and plaster upper story that Emmaline unconsciously associated with Riekland. The plaster was cracked and in dire need of painting, and the tiled roof was so patched with globs of tar that it looked like it was poxed. A hog wallow and a chicken coop were attached to the rear of the house, both of which contributed to the unique ambiance of the place. The inside was made up of four large rooms, including a kitchen, and for a miracle a pair of bedrooms, as well as a large living room with an impressive fireplace.

"Our kids are grown now, gone of south where its a little...well gone off south," Gelf explained.

"Reckon the two of you can bunk in there, best your gonna find in a place like this," he went on. Myrtle pushed forward.

"Gelf, why dont you attend to your business about town, I'll heat some porridge for our guests and get them comfortable." It seemed she placed a little more emphasis than was necessary on business and Gelf looked momentarily confused before understanding brightened in his eyes.

"Yes, right you are my dear," he told her then hurried out of the room.
Calliope accepted the dark red wine she was handed gracefully, sipping approvingly at the dry, sour vintage. It must have been something south from Kadar or Imbresh, though she hadn't asked. The servers were evidently giving them a moment to consider their orders and were maintaining a proper distance. It was an odd sensation to talk openly about what she did, so much of her life was kept in the shadows, either by necessity or by design. Well considering she was going to kill him after the date, she supposed there was no harm in sharing.

“Well, the choice of career options for blood magicians is smaller than you think. As you probably know, blood magic is a forbidden school, so none of the legitimate Magic Guilds will teach it.” Most people with magical potential had a particular school to which they were drawn, perhaps evocation and divination and could manage spells in other schools only with difficulty, if at all. Blood magic was a potent and extremely rare calling, most people who were born with the gift managing to kill themselves very early on. Like its darker cousin, necromancy, blood magic was forbidden because of the terrible and insidious perils it posed. In eons passed there had been Empires carved out by wizards who spilled the blood of thousands to power their great and terrible rites. These days the Arcane Assembly suppressed blood magic users, somewhat hypocritically as most of them had tried a few spells at some point. The Temple Cities were worse of course, sending out the Gilded or the Dustmen to snuff out blood magicians wherever they could be found. Calliope had been born with the gift, but her ability in other schools was too slight that she could ever hope to gain an education in the arcane arts, guilds only being interested in those they thought would be able to repay the debt in coin or political influence.

“When my gifts first manifested themselves I was taken in by a cult, they used me as an assassin for their own ends, got me some basic training,” she continued taking another sip of wine. Most of that training had been in the form of dusty grimoires, half of which had been ancient religious propaganda and the other half of which had been riddled with errors and misinformation.

“Eventually, they wanted services I wouldn’t provide, and I decided that I could make my own way without all the tiresome theology.” That had been a revelation to them. They had other mages among their little coven of course but she had been with them for years at that point, ample time to learn the subtle truths hidden among all the pious nonsense.

“Plus,” she added in a conspiratorial whisper, “it is really fun.” She leaned back on her chair slightly, enjoying herself more than she would have thought.



“What about you Neil, what was it that you did that caused the Syndicate to cash in one of the markers that I owe them? I don’t mean to boast but I am rather an exclusive service, they don’t whistle me up for every little thing.”


It seemed somewhat unfair to Emmaline that her ample behind should be such poor padding for riding, but after several hours of racing across broken terrain at breakneck speed, she seemed to feel every hoof beat up through her spine. Fortunately for the pair of them the twin moons provided enough light that they hadn’t tripped and fallen to their deaths during their escape. Not for the first time. Emmaline lamented having to leave the Empire. The Temple of Ranald had been clear that, while they appreciated their aid in ‘borrowing’ the Seal of Magnus and then returning it, that it would be best if they were both far away for a considerable time. Emmaline had lobbied for trying again for Marienburg, but the captain of the boat they had boarded had come upon a valuable cargo for Averland and turned around, leaving them the option of waiting for another or changing their plans. One route out of the Empire seemed as good as another, at least it did before you thought of the weeks of bumpy roads, bad food and bandit raids. Of course depending on the boat, you might trade that for bad weather, equally bad food and pirate raids, but at least it was easier on your ass.



“I can walk I think,” Emmaline told Amal almost giving the lie to her words as she slid from the saddle and found the ground strangely unsteady after the jolting ride. Her calves burned but she forced herself to stand and stretch them out. The southern approaches to the pass were more hospitiable than the the main gap, with numerous streams running with melt water from the high mountains. The water was cool and clear if slightly redolent of rock and metals and both horse and riders drank greatfully. A faint pink glow in the eastern sky suggested that dawn was not so very far off, but they needed rest. Emmaline was instinctively wary about staying in the open, and a little more backtracking lead them to a steepening gully carved by the summer torrents that raced through the creek banks.

“Do you think there are fish?” Amal asked, either reading Emmaline’s mind or hearing the rumble of her hungry belly. Emmaline was trying to think of a spell that would catch fish, when a familiar slithering around her wrist interrupted her. Asp had resumed his serpentine form and dropped to the ground with a reproachful look.

“You think you can do better?” Emmaline asked with an arched eyebrow. She swore the snake rolled its eyes and then slithered into the pond. There was a brief thrashing and a minute later a trout floated to the surface, a pair of neat fang marks above its gills. A second splashing yieled a second fish before Asp slithered from the water, he looked cold and sluggish and Emmaline knelt down and offered her arm. The serpent coiled around it greatfully and sank into her skin becoming the tattoo the creature sometimes favored. Ten minutes later they had fresh flakey fish cooked on some more mystically heated rocks. It wasn’t enough to completely fill their bellies, but it was a wonderful improvement. Emmaline was just about to suggest they move on when a sudden guttural voice split the bright morning air.

“Oi, you smell ‘at?” No human throat could have produced such a sound. Emmaline recognized the voice from their brief sojurn on Albion.



“All I smell is your arse,” another of the creatures grumbled, eliciting a laugh from a third. Emmaline and Amal froze in place, concealed as they were in the gulley. Amal seemed to be easing his blade very slowly into his hand.



“It smells like vish!” the first orc replied, closer now, somewhere off to the left.



“Yeah well so’s your arse!” the jokester retorted to further harsh guttural laughter.

“I’ve ‘ad enuf of uouze!”

“Yeah what you ganna do ‘bout it!” There was an ear splitting roar and a clash of weapons. The horse whinnied nervously but fortunately the sound appeared to be lost in the shouting.

“Any of the rest ov ya think youze so fukin’ funny?” the first voice demanded. There was a muffled chours of ‘no’ and ‘no boss.’

“Then lets get a move on, we aint gonna catch dem humize with the wagons hangin’ round here.” The sound of harsh voices faded away but Amal and Emmaline didn’t move for many long minutes. Eventually she managed to let out her breath and they climed to the lip of the gulley and peeked out. Emmaline opened her mouth to scream but Amal, sensing what was about to happen, clamped his hand down over her mouth.

“It’s dead Em,” he told her calmly. A fact that should have been obvious that the orc head not twenty feet from the gulley was separated from its body by the same distance, its bulding eyes forever frozen in a look of stunned stupefaction, its corpse steaming slightly in the chill morning air. It was wrapped in crude leather armor with a great cleaver gripped in its cold fingers that looked like it could cut a horse in half.

“Scouts,” Emmaline supposed, wrapping her cloak around her despite the warmth the rising sun was now providing.

“Likely, but if they are heading north after the bandits, best we get south and find something better than a ditch to hide in,” Amal opined.
Calliope had been watching Neil for most of the day, the same tracking spell she had used to locate him in the manor allowing her to follow unobtrusively. The aid of various glamors allowed her take on the appearances of those she had killed which by now gave her a considerable library to choose from. It became obvious quickly that Neil didn't intend to run. That was smart if surprising. Perhaps he was more than the low level mule she had been lead to believe. A part of her wondered what he had done to be marked for death, though she suprresed the curiosity. It wasn't part of the work that she knew what the target had done to deserve a visit.

Convinced that he wasn't about to attempt to flee on the next ship, she made her own preparations. As the seat of the Arcane Council, Kalx'molaris was a nexus for trade. The flow of silk, gold, gems and fine cloth from all over the Sundered Sea meant that the seamstress and tailors were among the finest in the world. Calliope found what she wanted at one of the most exclusive. She selected a velvet corset of dark leather and dragonbone, if anything, tighter than the one she had worn the previous night. Over this she added a long dress of scales of gleaming black iron, wafer thin and polished to a sheen that rippled sinuously when she moved. It hung off one shoulder, slinking down to reveal the swell of her left breast while maintaining her modesty. A long slit up the left side allowed her to maintain her mobility, as well as providing a glimpse at the black lace stockings that climbed up and out of sight. She finished the ensemble with black leather boots which reached her knees, laced tightly to compensate for the slightly over generous heels.

She appeared by Neil's side as suddenly as she had the previous night. Materializing out of the night like a wraith. He turned his head slightly and almost managed to conceal his flinch when he realized she was there. Her black hair hung in generous curls which had gleamed in the light and had been held up with a fine net of gold and silver threads.

"A good choice," she said in conversational reference to the restaurant.
All was chaos and confusion. Horses screamed and men shouted. An ogre bellowed in pain as three men menaced it with spears pushing it back. A hand gun went off and a gout of brains blew out of the top of its head in a shower of gore, the great beast toppled and smashed one of the lean to's to pebbles and kindling, smashing a hole in the low wall. The bandit attack had been a bold move, although up close they didn't look much like merchants. Scruffy bearded men leaped from beneath the covered wagons, one of which had been pulled up to block the gate. Emmaline saw a man lose a hand to the wrist, spinning away only far enough to be stabbed through the back by the rusty sword of his assailant. The reek of blood and ammoniac sweat from the horses was everywhere.

"What do we have here!" one of the bandits leered and grabbed at her, catching her wrist with dirty fingers and yanking her towards him. Something writhed and then the bandit screamed falling back and clutching at his wrist, the snake twisting back into a wristband. Black lines were already spreading up his arm as he fell to his knees.

"Shize, shize, shize," she cursed, ducking away from another man who grabbed at her and pulling the blanket up around her head to conceal her blonde hair. One of the ogres roared so loud it was physically painful as he reached down and snatched up one of the bandits, biting the man in half in a shower of blood and vicera. Emmaline racked her brain for some spell, some piece of magic she could perform, but her mind was a blank and formless as the ocean. Fortunately Amal chose that moment to arrive, his horse rearing. She was reminded for a moment of the magnificent horses she had seen in Araby. Imperials bragged and Brettonian's postured about their horses, but neither of them could hold a candle to the great Arabyians. She reached up and grabbed Amal's hand and he jerked her up. Emmaline promptly overbalanced and fell belly first across the horses rump.

"Good enough," Amal muttered, pinning her down against the horse with a hand and then kicking his heels to the beasts flanks. The horse jumped forward, vaulting over a guard who lay on the ground, blood seeping into the dirt.

"That way!" Emmaline shouted, feet flailing as she tried to point towards the break in the stone caused by the fallen ogre. Luckily Amal had already seen it and he wheeled the horse around and through the gap. The horse plunged down the side of the stoney hill, horseshoes striking sparks from flint in the loose shale. The horse kept its feet and Amal wheeled it round, he really was handy with that rope Emmaline thought somewhat inappropriately, and then they were on the southbound trail hammering south under the stars, leaving the shouts and clashing steel far behind, Emmaline draped over the back of the horse like a sack of grain.

Calliope had heard all manner of requests in her time. Most often they begged for their lives, that was tedious and impossible of course. Sometimes they had final wishes she could honor, word taken to loved ones, body left at a particular place. Occasionally they even surprised her, one woman had asked that she kill the client who had hired her. Luckily for her reputation, people rarely thought of that one. In her entire career though, no one had ever asked her to dinner before. She was momentarily flummoxed and that really wouldn't do. There could be no art, no pride in the job if she were left without a rejoinder. Plus, the balls on this one! She smiled inspite of herself, people rarely impressed her. A slow smile curled her lips.

"Now who is the one with the pair?" she asked, standing up and walking in a circle around the gargoyle and her prisoner, skirt whisking. The gargoyle was impassive now, holding Neil tightly in its stony grip.

"Alright," she said at last.

"Pick a place and I'll meet you," she said after a moment. She rolled her finger over the ruby ring on her finger, pricking herself and drawing drop of blood.

"Oh and Neil... I wouldn't think about running if I were you, I do hate to be stood up." The gargoyle's skin began to run and within moments it had collapsed into a pile of finely divided sand. By the time the dust had settled, Calliope was gone as though she had never existed.
"Well," Emmaline purred, shifting her hips to rub her bottom across Amal's thighs, "your talents in those areas are... prodigious?" It was her turn to be a little unsure, though she had spent long enough in an Araybian harem to be pretty fluent, some of the nuances of the language still escaped her. Amal snickkered.

"That means a type of fig," he informed her with a chuckle, shifting the blanket around them, edging closer to the warm rocks.

"Well your talents are not fig like," she confirmed.

"I meant like, really really large," she giggled.

"Well that is 'prodigious'," he explained, providing the Aryabic word for her, "and it is something every man loves to hear." She thought that between the two of them they would be well positioned in the Border Princes. Provided they didn't need her to try her awful Brettonian.

"I don't know about homes or kingdoms," Emmaline purred, "but I hear it is a place anyone can make a fortune." Her voice dropped into the throaty purr it always took on when thinking about gold, the warmth of their bodies pleasant as the evening chill began to deepen. Emmaline suspected that there were covert eyes being cast their way from the half dozen cook fires, but she didn't pretend to care.
Some people, most people perhaps, moved from task to task in life, fumbling along without every really dignifying the work. A smaller number of people, artisans and guildsman took some pride in there craft. A few people though, master artists, generals, perhaps some politicians, took their craft to a level of real art. Assassins also fit the bill. Oh not the dockside thugs who knifed a man for a handful of coppers, not the worksman like killers who took contracts from the Skulls with their writs and codes, but the true top tier, but the true paragons of the craft, they took some pride in their work. And so, when the syndicate had asked Calliope Sal Tayrin to do a job, it didn't matter that the pay was low. It didn't matter that they were calling in the marker she owed them for past favors. It didn't matter that the target was a two bit thief she had never heard of. It was the work that mattered, and the pride she took in doing it well.

Tracking him had been a simple enough matter for one steeped in The Secrets. There had been enough hair and blood in the prison cell to fashion a tracking spell. The manor was a nice touch. Who would think to look for a fugitive in an empty and decaying palace. In theory the place belonged to some magister or another. It was required that a wizard maintained a residence in the city in order to vote on the council and so there were many such dwellings, empty other than on paper. Of course the definition of 'maintain' was rather a fluid one. Overall she decided she liked the manor, and she just ADORED the gargoyles.

The first thing the target knew was that iron hard hands were seizing him. To his credit the thief was fast, he was awake instantly twisting and trying to get free. The massive gargoyle was unconcerned by the targets kicks and strikes. It was, afterall, made of stone. Calliope sat on a chair in the corner, dressed in a red and black corset and skirt, more suited to a ball than an assassination. She buffed at one blood red fingernail with a file, her perfectly quaffed hair shining in the moonlight that poured through the window. By now the gargoyle had lifted the struggling target up, one arm coiled around his chest, the other closing around his neck in a headlock. The spell which had equipped the brute with magical silence faded and its movements were suddenly counterpointed by a sound like rocks grinding in a distant avalanche. Calliope lifted her fingers to the light and inspected her manicure, the target now totally imobilized. She snapped her fingers and with a minor effort of will, the lamps and candles lit, filling the room with soft radiance. She stood up slowly, her reflection pale skinned and dark haired in the mirror on the wall, angular cheekbones standing out in the firelight.

"Well," she said with a satisfied smile, crossing to her immobile prisoner, the gargoyle now the same motionless statue it had been when she had collected it outside. The daub of blood on its forehead that had animated it now dry and flaking. Of course its new configuration included one apprehended target. She waved a hand and the mirrors reflection changed, summoning up an image of the target taken from the mind of one of the syndicate flunkies she had interviewed. It was a little blurry, as memories often were, but she took a moment to confirm that the target before her matched the one in the mirror. The mirror target was a little less squirmy, but she was confident she had her man.

She sat down on the edge of the bed in front of him and crossed her legs, smoothing her skirt out.

"Any last requests?" she inquired politely.
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