The Chase Is On Part II (1/2)

It took Chase about two minutes to size up Lady Marks-Runcible, and realize that she was a monster.

The signs were unmistakable; her manor was practically an isolated fortress of security, the servants were fearful and strange in that way that only a group that shared a horrible secret could be, and Chase and Greta were meeting her in the middle of the night.

Really, the occasional screams that wafted upward from somewhere below the estate were an entirely unnecessary bit of foreshadowing that Chase nonetheless appreciated. There was something comforting about dealing with a traditionalist, you always knew where you stood with a fan of the old classic villainy.

Of course, there was a good chance she was wrong. After all, she hadn't met the lady yet. It was entirely possible that all this was a front put up to keep fortune-seekers from pestering the aging widow.

But Chase thought not. Cylvania was a... sheltered place, by comparison to her homeland. It had been cut off from the outside for quite a while, and that had given its people a remarkable lack of intrigue and subtlety when compared to the more cosmopolitan lands that Chase was used to traversing.

There was a charming blend of innocence and straightforwardness here that made it simple. And Chase liked simple. She could deal with simple.

The ancient clock in the corner ground down the time, sawing air with strokes of its heavy pendulum. It was old and serious and dark, dark wood stained black and faded by the time it measured. It very much matched the rest of the décor, which included fearsome orcish masks captured from long-finished battles, blades that had definitely seen use if the nicks on them were anything to go by, and paintings that depicted very calm humans posing in front of slain monsters and near still bodies on stark, trampled battlefields.

On the plus side, it didn't smell like tobacco. That was a plus. Pipes weren't as much of a big deal here as they were at home, and normally she would expect a room like this would reek of the unpleasant weed.

The second good thing about her predicament was that the couch was quite comfy. Yes, it was black and gloomy and looming, but the cushions were soft, and the leather worn in the way that it yielded softly to her slight weight.

The final good thing was that her minder was far more nervous than she was.

His name was Branson, and he was a farmer's boy. Big and earnest and not exactly bright, he'd been an easy mark for the Resistance. They'd fed him stories about what the golems and the undead were “really” up to, and he'd decided to help save his country from the vast conspiracy that threatened it.

By joining another conspiracy.

That threatened his country.

But that particular irony would have been lost on Branson, and Chase was by no means ready to make a major move yet or otherwise risk her cover by pointing out the paradox. Still, she felt that Branson, son of Bran, wasn't a bad person, just one who needed to learn a few lessons about who to trust and what to believe.

Right now, he was trusting his instincts that clearly told him he'd made a bad choice by coming here, and he believed that he'd be lucky to make it back home in one piece. That much was clear on his broad, honest face, and the way he wrung his cap between his callused hands.

So Chase decided to help him out a bit. “Hey,” she whispered...

...and palmed her face as he screamed and jumped behind the love seat.

She cleared her throat. “Branson?”

“Yes'm?”

“I was going to ask, do you know if we're going to get refreshments at some point?”

“Er...” The top of the farm boy's head popped up over the edge of the (black) love seat, and two wide, white eyes found her. “I don't actually know, ma'am.”

“Miss,” Chase corrected, and pinched the bridge of her nose between two fingers. “I think I've told you this a few times now.”

“Right. Sorry Ma'am.”

“Miss— oh never mind. Look, Branson...” she slid from the couch and scrambled up onto the love seat. “The lady is expecting us. We are guests. Mister Ruddimore knows where we are. We're going to have a nice talk, and then we're going to walk out of here at the end of it and go back to our business. It's going to be fine.”

“That sounds mostly accurate,” said a throaty voice from behind her.

Chase closed her eyes, dipping her head...

...and hiding her face from Branson as her lips moved, forming words without noise.

“Silent Activation, Silver Tongue. Silent Activation, Size Up. Silent Activation, Diagnose.”

Your Silent Activation skill is now level 53!

She felt her moxie drain, felt her willingness to speak with this stranger decrease, felt the tension eat at her, just a bit more.

Then she turned with a smile, and the most cheer she could put behind her words. “Lady Marks-Runcible, I assume?”

Black-dyed lips curled back over flawless white teeth. Black, shadowed eyes narrowed as silver corneas focused wide, black pupils on Chase's own. Ivory-white skin twitched and rearranged itself into a smile and an illusion of warmth that did not touch those cold eyes, as the Lady tilted her head and raven-black locks fell into place with a feathery whisper in the silence.

She was tall and beautiful and built. Branson's gulp and sudden heavy breathing behind Chase made that clear. But Chase was more focused on the words that were rolling up the side of her view, the results of two of the three skills she'd triggered before laying eyes on the Lady.

The first was one of the Grifter's signature skills; Size Up. And it showed Chase what kind of mind she was up against.

Lady Wendolyn Marks-Runcible

Charisma – About equal

Perception – Moderately better

Willpower – Much better

Wisdom – Moderately worse

Influencing Conditions – Silver Tongue, Unflappable

The second skill was part of an Oracle's stock in trade. It was called Diagnose, and it showed what was wrong... or right, with its subject.

Lady Wendolyn Marks-Runcible

Conditions: Fast as Death, You Are What You Eat

Debuffs: Unholy Hunger

Chase swallowed, and hid a sudden wave of worry with a low curtsy.

“You assume correctly,” the lady said, and Chase heard the whisper of skirts before the noble spoke again. “Rise, do rise. And my dear boy, please come out from behind there. Everything your companion said is true.”

Except it wasn't. There was a faint hint of a falsehood in that last part, a small variation in the way she said it that made Chase's instincts fire up. They were in danger, here.

Of course, it didn't exactly take a genius to see that. The lady's diagnosis on the second prompt wasn't just foreboding, it was more like fiveboding, possibly even sixboding. Though she didn't know what her various conditions and debuffs were, they sure looked like something that didn't belong on a normal, non-monstrous human.

But Chase kept her consternation off her face. This was a test in many ways, and if she didn't rise to the occasion here, the consequences would be fairly dire. The cards had been pretty clear on that point.

Still, there was a point of hope, and that came from the results of the Size Up skill. Both Silver Tongue and Unflappable were Grifter skills. The lady had a vested interest in being able to lie and hide her true nature, that much was clear. So Chase thought she had a little leeway to maneuver in this conversation, unless things were far weirder than expected.

All of this calculation, these few seconds of mental assessment leading to a decision as to her social strategy were entirely lost on Branson. He was too busy looking sheepish and extricating himself from the back of the love seat. A bit harder than it looked, because there were a number of sharp instruments on the walls behind the love seat, and he was tall in that way that farm-bred and farm-fed humans tended to be.

That was fine. The lady's eyes were on him, so he was serving his purpose. One of them. Definitely not the one he'd intended to serve.

“Thank you for agreeing to see us on such short notice, Lady.” Chase curtsied again, briefly this time. “I'm not sure how much Mister Ruddimore told you...”

“Rather little, I'm afraid,” said the elegant monster as she slid around the side of the loveseat, and took the half of it facing away from Branson and Chase. Which threw Chase for a bit, until she saw the mirror on the mantle. Though her back was to them, the Lady was still watching.

“I believe you're here to sound me out for his interests in a rather risky endeavor,” the Lady continued. “One that could get us both into... trouble...” She almost purred that last word, her voice going husky and playful.

The effect on Branson was immediate, as he glanced at her, then did a double-take, studying her profile with his eyes wide.

Chase stifled a smirk as he slid his cap into his lap, covering up what was probably a rising interest. Farmboys were simple creatures. Easy prey for this lady.

Her good humor faded as she remembered the lady's conditions. He could literally be easy prey for her.

“Trouble, maybe,” Chase said, turning on the couch to face the back of the lady's head. “But necessary trouble. We wouldn't be here if the need weren't dire.”

“Needs or wants?” said the Lady. “Most people have trouble separating those, I find.”

“It's definitely need,” Chase said. “Mister Ruddimore is not happy with the direction this nation is taking. And I don't think he would have sent us here to discuss the matter with you if you didn't feel the same.”

The Lady's head tilted just a bit to the side. “Mister Ruddimore is... an old friend. We had many discussions about politics and the future of Cylvania during King Ragandor's reign. Mostly over dinner.” her body shifted, shoulders untensing, arms whispering as they slid out along the top of the loveseat. One red-nailed hand crept a bit towards Branson, who swallowed hard, and turned his head to look at Chase with an almost pleading expression.

“Which reminds me, you have been waiting for some time,” continued the Lady. “Would you care to join me for my evening meal?”

Branson opened his mouth but Chase beat him to the punch. “My lady, we would be honored to take some light refreshment or to discuss as you refresh, but I fear we have many duties to manage today. You are of course the most important appointment, but we are expected by several other callers of interest to Mister Ruddimore.”

We're expected, Chase thought. That means that we'll be missed if you throw us in your murder cellar or eat us at dinner.

The lady's hand paused, a few inches from Branson's forearm. Chase glanced to the mirror, saw her lips curve into a slight smile. “Ah, a pity. A tea then, perhaps. Be a dear and ring the silver bell on the western door.”

The bell pull was three feet above Chase's head, and she bit back a surge of annoyance at the slight...

...then she paused. Did she want to be underestimated here?

Lady Marks-Runcible was a Grifter, and this was a deliberate insult. Why would she do this, unless it was to get a read on Chase's tells?

So Chase rolled her eyes and thinned her lips, much as she remembered her Mother doing whenever Chase was just the tiniest bit late to her chores. So unjust, really. But it was visible annoyance, and she found her way over, paused to drag a footstool, then clambered up on it and rang the bell.

She heard Branson stifle a snort, and she didn't have to fake it as her lips pressed more firmly against her teeth. I'm trying to get us out of here alive, buddy. She thought, sourly.

“As to Baron Clarence Ruddimore,” the Lady continued, her voice showing a hint of warmth, “I always thought him rather charmingly old-fashioned. Particularly in his views on marriage, and my conjugal state... or lack thereof, after Bertie passed.”

She gestured to the wall, using the hand that wasn't inches from Branson's neck. Chase looked up to see the portrait she was indicating, a thickset, glowering man with a flowing mane of hair. Like his wife, he seemed to be rather monochrome in taste when it came to clothing. “Dear Clarence always thought I should remarry quickly. Until his match with Lovendia, he had a few thoughts on joining our own interests, so to speak.”

“I see...” said Chase, running her mind through the briefing she'd received only this morning. “Mister Ruddimore neglected to mention that he'd courted you. Or that he was a Baron, for that matter.”

“It's rather a small valley, when you get down to it,” Lady Marks-Runcible turned her head , presenting Chase with a shadowy profile, and half of that white, white smile. “I expect he rather thought you knew... which is a mindset that we're going to have to shed, now that we're open again, and more visitors are stopping by.”

“And that's a thing we can discuss, if you have the time,” Chase said, returning to her seat, smile fixed. “Your views on foreign policy, and how Cylvania is going to look to outside nations, given its current issues.”

“Nations such as your own?” The Lady raised an eyebrow.

“I fear that Laraggiungere is a bit far away to be a factor at this time,” Chase said, folding her face into its most serious business mode. “If a viable route can be secured between the two of us, then there will be trade. Once Cylvania has sorted out its policies on necromancy, anyway. I fear that as you are, most of the city-states will not find trade or aid sent your way to be... morally acceptable.”

“As we are...” the Lady murmured, shifting in her seat, and draping her arms and cleavage over the top of the love seat. Branson, moving as if his eyes were on strings attached to her bosom, shifted to take her in, face turning the slow red of a doomed and boiling lobster.

But the Lady's eyes were fixed to Chase's, and the halven let her instinctual fear show through. Fear of the monster who was just waiting for a reason to pounce, yes, but Chase didn't want the Lady knowing that. So to deflect, she went with a useful lie.

“I mean no offense of course,” she said, waving her hands. “It's just... well... there are laws against necromancy pretty much everywhere else. But here it's embraced, not only embraced, but you have... oh I'm sorry, I'm very sorry, I'm offending you. I should not have said anything.” She put her hands to her mouth and cast her eyes downward.

“Oh my dear, you haven't offended me,” the Lady said, waving one ivory hand, blood-red nails glinting in the light. “But I hear tea approaching, so let's discuss more after we've had some proper refreshment.”

A few seconds later Chase heard the squeaking of wheels outside the western door, and a furtive, black-clad hunchback skittered in with a trolley laden with steaming pots, sweets, and a bowl of what looked to be almost-raw strings of meat.

He didn't stick around to serve it, and as the Lady rose and sauntered around the love seat toward the cart, Chase nodded to Branson, and went to join her.

“Clarence always was a stickler about the undead,” Lady Marks-Runcible said, pouring three cups of black, steaming liquid that smelled at least tea-like. “He was of the opinion that the Necromancer corps was a step too far... though with the wars on, I did manage to persuade him that they were a necessary evil. We came to compromise by agreeing that they should end after the wars were won, of course.”

Chase sipped her tea cautiously. It was strong, with a murky aftertaste that oddly turned sweet after a bit. Something like burnt molasses, she thought. The lady took a sip of her own cup, and Branson came over, picking his own up with two hands, wincing at the heat, and trying desperately to drink it without burning his mouth too badly.

“When you had those discussions, did you know the Oblivion would end?” Chase asked.

“We had a suspicion that it would conveniently fall after the kingdom's politics were... settled,” the Lady said. “Either that or the crown would turn the full weight of the land's resources to fixing matters, if they were truly broken. So I would say that our original assessment turned out to be the correct one. We are encountering more nations, and open necromancy is going to be a problem. We rather caught a break with Belltollia; they're desperate enough with their own matters that they can't afford to be judgmental with ours. But they're beastkin; they have no stability and are ruled by chaos, it's just how they are. Tomorrow they could decide we're anathema, and then where would we be?”