[NoR] - [15] – [IK03] – Stumbling Lamely

You descend the stairs roughly, stumbling on the last few stones as a consequence of your continuing headache. You shake the fog out of your vision, trying to get a feel for where you need to go. The Pontiff hadn’t been overly specific, but if there is anywhere a shady deal is going to happen, it is near Bane Alley. The location is a mystery to some, and debatable to a few, but you know the general direction and that’s what matters.

You take the left down a narrow garden path anointed with occasional arches of steel wrapped thick in very vibrant ivy, heading towards a service road off to the side of the church. The fake ground is built well along the floor level, and is probably at least ten feet of actual soil. The trees growing around the building arc about your arm’s stretch above the path, forming a loose natural tunnel. You close your eyes and take the familiar trail, trying to visualize the events to come. Your imagination runs wild and visions of surgeons and vampires seem to affect you much more than you think they should. You open your eyes, rubbing them absent mindedly as you lift your head just in time to see Justicar Myra of the Azorius Senate strolling up to the church, no doubt for the daily inquiries. As she whips her cloak open to cross her arms toward you in generic disapproval, you see a rather large silver blade slung at her hip. She is pointedly ignoring you, as expected. She appears fixed on an interesting window design immediately beside you, but certainly not you yourself.

You smirk as your thoughts turn to humiliation. She amuses you. Greatly. Part of you is relieved that she is here to grant you the entertainment of your bickering. You look up to her, making note that her full plate armor is exceptionally shiny, and it certainly looks unused. Either it has been freshly cleaned or it is brand new, and there are only a few reasons for either. A promotion could require new dress, or even an assignment of high visibility. Either way, she is obviously uncomfortable in it, regardless of the way it happens to be forged to conform to her physical structure beautifully. Her legs have a warrior’s shapeliness in the strapped greaves. Your eyes linger for a beat, tracing the lusciously lustrous outline of her hips.

A strange twinge of emotion hits you for a moment, just cause for another shake of the head. In your absentmindedness you find yourself colliding roughly into the Justicar’s shoulder, both of you having ignored each other so hard you failed to see yourselves, almost intentionally. You decide to initiate this particular encounter.

“I see I’m not the only one blinded by your brilliant new plating, law mage. I was on my way, if you don’t mind.”

She simply stands there, still as a monument, a scowl evident behind her helm. When finally she speaks to you, it is as she might to a distant cousin she has been forced to babysit.

“It’s alright, coin thief. My brilliance may yet be noticed by the end of this night. Stay out of the Law’s way, Inquisitor.”

You smile, nod, turn and step to walk away, only to stop and remember that you had forgotten to quip back at her. Not wanting to seem as out of sorts as you feel, you pause, shake your head, and turn to face her again. She seems a little less rigid, her posture less offended and more familiar. Her stern visage appeared to have softened a bit. She nearly looked curious at your lack of reaction. You indulge your little game once more.

“I don’t seek to break the law. Besides, I wouldn’t want to…to…”

You draw blanks. Nothing comes to mind. The pain in your temples flares slightly as you fail to connect the wordplay. You fumble your words, unsure of how to finish. In the end, you give up.

“…Regardless. I’m not out to break any laws tonight. Until anon, Justicar.”

You see her curiosity turn to something else, but what exactly it is you’re not quite sure since you’ve stepped past her and down the path towards the labyrinth of buildings. You possibly hear the sound of her turning around, however to keep on your course and continue the path, stepping out of the back gate and into the street. You pay no mind to the citizenry in your way, maneuvering through them with ease as always you have. Your goal is the forbidden Dimir ghetto of Bane Alley. It is a respectable journey, several days by foot, but the bars are hopefully worth the trip.

As you begin to put distance between the Azorius wench and yourself, you start to daydream, slipping into a kind of autopilot as you seek your way through the city. You disregard the opinions of others as you weave through the crowds, your rush personally justified. Hosts of patrons swell the streets, some stepping aside for you out of respect for your guild. The variety of storefronts blend together as you rush past, not bothering to note them as you hurry along. Your thoughts turn inward, and you visualize the statue from your visions before. It appears significantly more vivid this time, and the mental picture of the crisp porcelain mask inspires a faint memory of a cool caress along your hand. The brilliant red horns meet above the mask in a headpiece that spreads out from its crown, draping a tattered cloth from each of the striped extensions to either side.

You step aside for an incoming vendor, the large beast he leads carting an inventory of cutlery. The darkened sky implies that you were lost in thought for much longer than it seemed. Your fantasy fades into nothingness as you lose your train of thought, now concerned with the nature of the procedure you are hoping to undergo. Will it hurt much? Will the agent lie and remove more? In the end, it doesn’t matter. If the Dimir remove your memory of the lack of memory, it will be as if nothing had been missing and, if nothing else, you’ll get your money’s worth. At best you’ll remember what you lost. In a macabre way, it is fair. Regardless, you can live with the outcome.

The crowd begins to shift from the nicer folks of the inner city to the more questionable patrons about the fringes. Long hours pass with nothing to show but the result of your travel as you trek through the brick and mortar. You try to remember the festival where you lost your memories, only to come up with nothing. It does not surprise you, but it still irritates you. More than anything else, it would seem you feel the reason for this quest is to prevent the irritation of not knowing what you don’t know. Such interminable irritation.

A Gruul shaman catches your eye as she screams indecipherably at her associate, gesturing madly and threatening to explode, possibly literally. Whatever the other one has done, he will certainly regret it. You chuckle as you picture Myra and the Pontiff bickering over your exploits. Your smirk softens as you realize they won’t have been having those conversations recently due to your injuries. A much different scenario begins to take shape in your head. Perhaps they were concerned? Perhaps they discussed you while you were gone. Who knew? The thought of Myra discussing you makes you proud on a strange level, as if being worthy of her ire were somehow a personal goal. Yet knowing that there would be no ire changed the whole outlook of the scenario. Suddenly a routine quibbling turned into genuine conversation, and when associates talk…

Nonsense. The Pontiff is more uptight about his secrets than you pretend to be. Shrugging any potential worry off your shoulders, you finally turn down a nameless alleyway and find a row of establishments that has not witnessed natural daylight in literal ages. Your blazing sun bared across your chest served as a sign of wealth, but in this place of shadow, you feel distinctly shuttered. Not afraid, simply expectant. You were being watched the second you saw the alley and you knew it. Curiosities become great and terrible things as the windows appear to breeze past, the stock getting increasingly more impressive as you go further in. A loud thumping echoes through the street as a bar further down is in full swing for the night. You begin to see folks passed out along the thoroughfares and doorways, and as the drums and low strings grow louder the sounds of the crowd do as well.

A sign hanging in front of the bar displays a head with no top to his skull, carved to display a chess board underneath in place of his brain. The establishment was called ‘Head Games’.

Of course.

The revue that has chosen to claim the bar for the night had started outside, trashing windows and leaving a repulsive mess around the porch. The door is blocked by a large ogre who is dressed, quite literally, to kill. You note the respectable radius the rest of the folk are granting the entrance. Ignoring the entirety of your common sense you head straight for the ogre, all the while maintaining your regal Orzhov composure. You are supposed to be in this bar tonight and no thrill-seeking brute was going to come between you and a half and half. The guard turns to you, sizing you up as you approach. You feel confident, as always.

“Stop yourself, buddy. Are you here for a drink?”

You keep your eyes fixed to his, making sure not to stop your steady contact.

“Yes. Let me in.”

The ogre laughs loudly, hiding behind his hand for a minute before looking at you with what you hope is disbelief. As you maintain your composure, he seems to react to you with greater tension.

“Do you know what’s going down inside, little man?”

His broad gestures do not impress you. The scars all about his arms intrigue you, but you feel as though the reason is tied up in the parts of your memory you lack. You look to the door behind him, and note the guttural belting of a performer in the bar. Two voices alternate, clearly attempting to outdo the other. The terrible lyrical stylings hurt you deeply, but you contained your frown. A Rakdos party. This is the kind of thing that got you out here initially. Is it a good idea to try and find your lost memories of a revue…in a revue?

“You’re having a little festival. That’s grand. Let me get a drink.”

Again with the disbelief. You are obviously both amusing him and offending him deeply. His lifestyle imposes a series of whimsical and malleable rules, and it seems you’re going to be subject to them. He brings himself down to your level, hunching over and trying, in vain, to deter you through presence alone.

“The only way you’re going in there is if you challenge the current Master of Ceremonies. You think you’re up to a little lyrical combat, meatbag?”

You try your best to be as insincere about looking offended as possible.

“Will I still get my drink?”