Café de Nuit

"Down in the catacombs?" Mercator repeats, keeping his eyes on Perrine. It is probably significant, and probably sinister, that Dior has answered all the questions himself. "A grim business...why were you there? Monsieur Dior, if you could please provide a basin, a small quantity of wine or strong spirits, and lint for a dressing, I will re-dress the wound."

1 Days, 23 Hours, 11 Minutes
Dior's Stand, The Midnight Market, Just past Midnight on April 23rd, 770
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Mercator wrote:"Down in the catacombs?" Mercator repeats, keeping his eyes on Perrine. It is probably significant, and probably sinister, that Dior has answered all the questions himself. "A grim business...why were you there? Monsieur Dior, if you could please provide a basin, a small quantity of wine or strong spirits, and lint for a dressing, I will re-dress the wound."

“The catacombs are convenient, Dr. Melanchthon.” M. Dior said with a shrug. The golden-haired man paused then, as though considering. “I shall get what you need in just one moment.”

Dior went to the exit-flap of the tent, pausing briefly beside the robed, avian-helmeted guard. He hooked a finger on the thing's collar and pulled it's head down, murmuring something in an unknown tongue. The guard made no response, but Dior, apparently satisfied, left the tent. Perrine watched him go with a wary eye.

“Help me!” Perrine suddenly hissed, her voice tight as a coiled spring. “Please sir, get me away from here. I'll do anything. Please.”

NeoTiamat wrote:“Help me!” Perrine suddenly hissed, her voice tight as a coiled spring. “Please sir, get me away from here. I'll do anything. Please.”

Mercator glances at her calmly and makes the slightest of nods, acknowledging her whisper, but when he speaks he seems to be responding to some other question entirely. "You're in no immediate danger, mademoiselle, but I shouldn't care to see the infection proceed any further. I'm afraid you'll have to be moved to a hospital to ensure a full recovery."

Dior wrote:“The catacombs are convenient, Dr. Melanchthon.”

"Convenient?" Nicolas mouths at Mercator with a quirked eyebrow as Dior takes his leave.

With a sidelong glance at Katja, Nicolas returns his attention to the girls arm for a moment, he's not a doctor but he's seen enough on stage to be at least partially convincing in making a diagnosis. "I concur, doctor, the wound needs treating immediately but the fever and infection will require longer term care in more conducive conditions if complications are to be avoided. Here use this, Brandy I believe." He says handing over his silver flask containing whatever was left from today's drinking binge.

"Now mademoiselle, whilst the good Doctor looks after you, perhaps you can tell us how you came by such a nasty wound?" He asks gently kneeling beside the bed, feeling the temperature of a her forehead and looking carefully in her eyes.

Diplomacy 16 (damn dice roller)

Inky wrote:"I fear I must," the Huldra agreed with Nerit. "You must understand, it is very tricky. HE is already beyond most of us. To simply destroy him would be very hard. If he is a friend and you wish him to live, it is even harder. If I can divine upon the mortal anchor for these spirits, I can create a ritual drawing upon his own nature. But I must have a connection to him to try." She did have the decency to look rather abashed at all of this. "And it must be a connection to him. A random death will not get beyond the spirits within him, but he will be drawn to someone he knows."

Something flashed across Rex's face for the barest instant. Something between a grin and a grimace. Like he'd eaten something he knew he shouldn't, gotten caught, and didn't care. His composure snapped back into place immediately. It could've easily been someone's imagination.

"Interesting," he said softly. "So you need to kill someone he knows to get in contact with him. That makes this much less interesting for me."

The quiet man retreated back into the shadows at the corners of Inkeri's shop.

"That is exceptionally comforting." Tomas notes, but he is a dumb bodyguard type and not worth paying attention to. He tips his cap, willing the rune of warding etched in the steel and silver brim to mature.

And, with eyes able to see the invisible, Tomas takes another careful look around, hoping to catch whatever might have set the cat off. Can't be too careful in a pit like this.

"I will buy your garlic, Honoured Alchemist," Lia says. "Forty gold coins, as you requested. But... I believe it would be wise to pay more attention to the disquiet of your guardian. He... she?... has senses that surpass those of most people, and is of course acting out of loyalty to you." Lia reaches into a pocket and extracts a piece of cured meat with something at the end that looks distressingly like a dried eyeball. The Mage snaps the meat in two and, unless the merchant asks her not to, tosses the pieces to the red-furred creatures.

Mlle. Halvari wrote:"It does not have to be fatal? But the person must remain very close to death while I perform the divination, so it may likely be so,"

"It is settled, then." Celeste had spent the past few seconds with her Soul-Searching Face on, but had evidently come to some conclusion. "Stay your generous offer, M. Mauganson, nobly as it is intended--for I have taken the destiny of our dear M. Boucher entirely in hand. If the danger should not be unstintingly mortal, it is my bound and solemn duty to brave it--for the sake of Council and Country, to say nothing of the Person concerned!"

She stepped forward, looking into the bit of distance that personifications of nations did, in paintings--when they were telling their citizens to go West, for example, or to establish a representative parliamentary system. "Let it not be said that the women of House Viardot are weak of constitution, when the situation demands!"

She looked at Inky a bit bashfully. "Ah...might we prepare some manner of chaise lounge, for our purpose?"

1 Days, 23 Hours, 8 Minutes
Kasim al-Darwish's Pavilion, The Midnight Market, Just past Midnight on April 23rd, 770
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Tomas wrote:And, with eyes able to see the invisible, Tomas takes another careful look around, hoping to catch whatever might have set the cat off. Can't be too careful in a pit like this.

Tomas surveyed the normal street scene, or at any rate what passed for a normal street scene here in the Midnight Market. An old woman with a pronounced hunch-back and a black shawl was haggling amiably with a tall, elegant elf in dark clothing, the subject of their transaction being a blood-stained sack, which wriggled occasionally. A processional of short, black-robed figures came down the street, five or six in total, their features shrouded, none taller than three feet, all of them bearing prominently displayed crossbows. A wall-eyed man dressed in peasant's clothes was sitting on a bench opposite al-Darwish's shop, whittling something vaguely squid-like from a block of wood, a sandy-colored cat curled in a ball beneath his bench. A trio of crows perched from a nearby lamppost, their darkling shapes semi-translucent in the moonlight.

There was no one invisible, not that Tomas could determine.

Lia wrote:"I will buy your garlic, Honoured Alchemist," Lia says. "Forty gold coins, as you requested. But... I believe it would be wise to pay more attention to the disquiet of your guardian. He... she?... has senses that surpass those of most people, and is of course acting out of loyalty to you." Lia reaches into a pocket and extracts a piece of cured meat with something at the end that looks distressingly like a dried eyeball. The Mage snaps the meat in two and, unless the merchant asks her not to, tosses the pieces to the red-furred creatures.

The things awoke instantly at the smell of meat, snapping them up in an instant. The more one looked at them, the less they resembled hyenas, though the basic shape remained. They had outsized talons, not wholly unlike al-Darwish's, and strange, rectangular pupils in their orange eyes.

“This one knows their talents, Honored Scholar.” Kasim al-Darwish said with a slightly less warm smile than before. “This one is no fool, and Irem and Harika are most precious. This one had but no wish to concern the Honored Scholar, for greater powers than this one's pets protect the Market.”

“Your garlic.” Al-Darwish said, proferring a small, glass jar up to Lia.

Things seem to be winding down here, so whenever you're ready head back to Mercator's stall.

1 Days, 23 Hours, 8 Minutes
Dior's Stand, The Midnight Market, Just past Midnight on April 23rd, 770
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Mercator wrote:"You're in no immediate danger, mademoiselle, but I shouldn't care to see the infection proceed any further. I'm afraid you'll have to be moved to a hospital to ensure a full recovery."

Nicolas wrote:"I concur, doctor, the wound needs treating immediately but the fever and infection will require longer term care in more conducive conditions if complications are to be avoided. Here use this, Brandy I believe." He says handing over his silver flask containing whatever was left from today's drinking binge.

"Now mademoiselle, whilst the good Doctor looks after you, perhaps you can tell us how you came by such a nasty wound?" He asks gently kneeling beside the bed, feeling the temperature of a her forehead and looking carefully in her eyes.

A sudden brightness burned in Perrine's dark eyes, but her face was set as she repeated what was apparently the party line. “I was running the catacombs, and I slipped and fell. Hurt myself on some rocks.”

With a barely perceptible movement of the chin, Perrine indicated the bird-helmeted guard who still stood watch at the gates. Perhaps sensing something, the creature shifted, altering the grip on the long, hooked halberd it held.

In any case, further conversation was put to an end with the return of Armand Dior. The golden-haired man held in his hands a basin and a bottle of spirits, with a roll of bandages wedged in the crook of his elbow. He knelt beside Perrine and placed the medical equipment beside her.

“What can you tell me, Dr. Melanchthon?” Dior said simply. “And how much do I owe you for your services?”

NeoTiamat wrote:“What can you tell me, Dr. Melanchthon?” Dior said simply. “And how much do I owe you for your services?”

"The young lady is in need of a fairly elaborate and intensive course of treatment to eliminate the blood poisoning," Mercator says. "Your pardon, mademoiselle, this will involve significant discomfort. If you would be so good as to hold the edges of the wound apart, monsieur," he says, nodding at Nicolas.

Working quickly, he tears a small piece of cloth from the offered roll of bandage, rolls it up, and gives it to Perrine. "Bite on this," he says, his demeanor calm and slightly distant--the air of one in control of the situation. Tearing another length, he pours a half-cup of the liquor into the basin and wets the cloth, then sets it aside. Nodding at Nicolas, he puts the basin beneath Perrine's arm and pours a cupful of the liquor into the wound, then takes up the wetted cloth and presses it hard, running his thumb down the length of the wound to strip it of any pus or other discharge. The wound begins to bleed again; he pours on more liquor and then binds the arm in the final length of bandage, leaving it loose enough to easily insert his finger beneath the bandage.

Having finished, he pours the final drops of the spirits over his hands and rubs them dry before speaking again to Monsieur Dior. "I believe that will slow the infection, monsieur, but unless you are willing to send the young lady home with me I cannot guarantee more. I am only recently arrived in the city and am not very well informed of the available hospices; I presume the Ezrans would have the means and ability to care for her. I think a week of bed rest with a regimen of bloodroot and healer's mould would be sufficient...I would expect the expenses to run to..." He looks upward in calculation, "Seven coronas? Something along those lines."

Nicolas does note Perrine's look and the movement behind him. "In that case may I suggest more circumspect behaviour in such hazardous environments in future hmm?" That was probably a general comment for everyone involved but directed at Perrine in a soothing voice.

Mercator wrote:If you would be so good as to hold the edges of the wound apart, monsieur," he says, nodding at Nicolas.

The Poet does an admirable job of stifling a grimace and almost a dry retch as he pulls apart the pus filled wound, afterall his latest masquerade is a doctors assistant and they are supposed to be used to blood and gore. He follows Mercator's lead studiously observing the doctor's actions and regularly checking on the patient's vital signs. With everything finished he gently removes the bandage from the girl's mouth, "all done mademoiselle." He says with a comforting smile.

Mercator wrote:I presume the Ezrans would have the means and ability to care for her.

"I would certainly think so Doctor, there are several excellent hospices in the city" Nicolas adds in agreement.

Tomas breathes slowly and carefully through his nose. The frustration of wasting the charge of residuum was bad enough, the aura if this mad market was just going to make him more unstable if he wasn't careful.

"Sorry for all the questions, mine herr." Tomas offers sloppily, lowering his hat over his brow again and brushing his fingers against Lia's elbow to remind her of the time. "Would it insult you to offer an extra corona for the consultation?"

Lia just nods to Tomas, and slips her arm through his. She gives the Alchemist a hard-edged smile from behind her veil, and gives him a nod in salute that is probably friendly.

A calculating shadow covered Rex's eyes when Celeste volunteered. The pharmacist tilted his head a little. Gears turned in his mind and his green eyes went distant.

"I shall observe," he said finally, his soft voice cutting through the air like a knife through butter, "I carry antitoxins for these eventualities."

1 Days, 23 Hours, 7 Minutes
Kasim al-Darwish's Pavilion, The Midnight Market, Just past Midnight on April 23rd, 770
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Tomas wrote:"Sorry for all the questions, mine herr." Tomas offers sloppily, lowering his hat over his brow again and brushing his fingers against Lia's elbow to remind her of the time. "Would it insult you to offer an extra corona for the consultation?"

“Is nothing, Noble Sir. This one is ever pleased to help, for now you know that the pavilion of Kasim al-Darwish may help you, yes?” The merchant bowed. A corona, a weight of platinum valued at a hundred gold solars, was nothing to sneeze at. He held out a clawed hand, and should the coin be forthcoming, bowed more deeply. “Know, Noble Sir, that this one is ever at your service.”

“We'll keep it in mind.” Professor Lessard said. “hoşça kal”

“Güle güle” The merchant replied as you took your leave of him.


1 Days, 23 Hours, 2 Minutes
Century Oak, The Midnight Market, Just past Midnight on April 23rd, 770
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You arrived at Mercator Melanchthon's stand not much later to find that Mercator, Nicolas, and Katja had left, and the Reniers were left watching the stall. Bertriz Renier was seated beneath the banner and was in the process of giving a rather elaborate and in-depth reading to small man with wart-covered hands and a wood-cutter's axe strapped to his back.

Bertram, meanwhile, was up a tree, resting on a long, flat branch of the Century Oak, but even this was insufficient to keep Cerise from regaling the hapless Renier about her purchases. “–– he didn't even haggle! This place is so awesome. Oooh, hello Prof. Mournswaithe, M. Eisenwald! Look what I bought!”

Rather proudly, Cerise held up a small book in a green binding, on which the words The Smiling Vivisectionist, or a Comedy of Morals was inscribed in a rather lurid typeface. A crescent was inscribed below the title, much like a smile. The book appeared to have sustained quite a bit of water-damage at one point, as the cover was discolored.

“I also got a little steel bell for Malky, and some fun crystal jewelry.” Cerise held up a length of twine on which hung several small, rose-colored beads. It was glowing. “It glows in the dark! I might ask Louis to put it into a setting. What do you think?”

“Louis?” Bertram Renier said, more by way of saying something than because he had any actual interest.

“Louis Defraine. He's a jeweler's apprentice.” Cerise said with quick grin. “We dated for a little while last year.”

1 Days, 23 Hours, 2 Minutes
Dior's Stand, The Midnight Market, Just past Midnight on April 23rd, 770
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Nathan of the FoS wrote:"The young lady is in need of a fairly elaborate and intensive course of treatment to eliminate the blood poisoning," Mercator says..."I believe that will slow the infection, monsieur, but unless you are willing to send the young lady home with me I cannot guarantee more. I am only recently arrived in the city and am not very well informed of the available hospices; I presume the Ezrans would have the means and ability to care for her. I think a week of bed rest with a regimen of bloodroot and healer's mould would be sufficient...I would expect the expenses to run to..." He looks upward in calculation, "Seven coronas? Something along those lines."

“Minister's eyes, I was hoping you'd have better news.” Dior swore, standing up and beginning to pace the length of the tent. There wasn't much room, but it he managed. After a moment, the golden-haired man stopped and looked at Perrine, sighing quietly. “And with auction tomorrow...”

“Well, nothing to be done, I suppose. Dr. Melanchthon, could I ask you to write a brief memorandum of your diagnosis and the recommended treatment? And if you are willing, an address at which you may be found by daylight as well? No need to if you'd rather not.” Dior raised a hand hurriedly, as though begging apology for a breach of some etiquette. “But Perrine's next guardian may wish to take you up on the offer of treatment.”