The Velvet Curtain (Part 2 of ?)
The Velvet Curtain
Act 1: Swords of a Soldier
Chapter 2
Oops Wharf was, for all intents and purposes, a hellhole. The town was old and run-down, its low-rise establishments all peeling paint, rusting hinges, and perennially covered with grime. Tumbleweeds would have littered the streets had winds wandered this way, and the dusty road would have shone a blinding wheat-yellow had the sun bothered to shine without a shroud of clouds filtering light to gray. It turned out neither was happening in that god-forsaken territory anytime soon, and so the town, even with its relative proximity to the sea, remained dark, dank, and dirty. The only time it ever gleaned a touch of color was sunset.
Whenever the sun abandoned the town for the night, it burned a fiery red, and for a few precious minutes the world caught fire.
Shawn paused on the side of the road, violet eyes misted over as she watched Oops Wharf come alive, if only in appearances. Even a few passers-by and riders with their horses paused to watch the sun sink in the west, the only point of interest in the relatively dreary town.
And then, much too quickly, dusk turned to night, and Oops Wharf became even darker than before. It was an appropriate look for the underworld.
Set in an unmarked area on the Caballa map, most people did not even know of its existence unless they had at one point in their lives found themselves escaping from the long arm of the law… Or searching for someone who did.
Shawn had no doubt that every person she had encountered since she came into town a couple of days ago had, at one point or another, murdered another person, sold drugs and weapons, or sold themselves. Inns and saloons were full of drunks and gamblers, and shoot-outs on the streets were normal occurrences. Every man bore the mark of guilt, and the few females in attendance were whores.
She glanced at a prone man across the road, his face pale with death and his chest caked with coagulated blood. Soon, when the nearby saloon opened for business, someone would haul the corpse away not out of respect for the dead, but to clear the entrance for customers.
Shawn allowed herself to feel a tinge of pity, before washing it away with cold apathy. The cloak of self-righteousness ill-fitted the likes of her; she had, after all, probably sinned more than half the town’s population put together. Demons kept a very special place in hell for the likes of her.
It did not take long for her to reach her destination. Gingerly she fingered the glossy ivory card the Dragon had dropped upon her lap with a smirk and a provocatively breathy, “Crow’s at sunset, suite 215.”
Not one for procrastination, she marched up the dilapidated three-story inn and almost gasped when the contrasting posh interiors met her gaze. Despite the haggard appearance of rotting wood and peeling paint of its exteriors, the inn’s lobby was decorated with gleaming hardwood floors, antique lamps and coffee tables, and plush velvet couches edged in lacquered mahogany. A well-dressed receptionist sat primly behind a counter, and what she could only presume to be the manager stood in front of the front desk, the white of immaculate suite glowing in the lamplights.
Nothing is ever what it seems, she mused bitterly, ignoring the approaching innkeeper in favor of the carpeted stairs. She found suite 215 fairly easily, and before raising her hand to knock, muttered, “…nothing, not even him.”
The door swung open before her fist touched the wood, and too quickly the exotic scent of sandalwood and opium overwhelmed her senses. Yet, it was nothing compared to sight of Lian casually leaning against the door frame with his usual mysterious smirks and smoldering indigo eyes. Under the dim glow of antique gas lamps, the lithe line of his torso all glowing moonlight skin and artlessly draped jewels. A simple turquoise sheath draped low on his hips, and would probably fall off had his left hand not rested on one jutting hipbone.
“You’re wearing a skirt,” was the first thing that came out of Shawn’s mouth.
The smug Dragon’s smirk only widened. “Ah, but I make it look good.”
Lian lifted the hand on his hip and waved it nonchalantly, and Shawn was almost relieved when the cloth didn’t fall off.
“Whatever.” She shoved past the aristocrat and made herself comfortable on a velvet-upholstered arm chair, casting an appraising eye on the suite. The room was spacious, and decorated as whimsical and exotic as its occupant. Swaths of indigo-and-lilac batik swaths draped a large bed with bronze silk sheets, as well as several chairs and couches. Intricate, colorful knick-knacks covered every available surface, including lamps, incense and scented oil holders, perfume bottles, vials upon vials of various potions, and leather-bound books labeled with foreign scripts.
“Finished with your inspection of my humble abode?” Lian inquired politely as he lowered himself upon a loveseat and curled his legs on the cushions, one elbow casually propped on a pillow as he lounged back comfortably. His eyes, hawk-like and endlessly dark, watched her face with disconcerting raptness.
“Humble?” She scoffed. “Obviously you are a wealthy aristocrat, perhaps even royalty if your arrogance is anything to go by. A light dragon,” she ascertained, casting a glance at the vials and the spell books. “A high-level priest.” She smiled as Lian raised an eyebrow. “Which bring to mind this mystery…” Elbows resting on her knees, Shawn leaned forward, violet gaze sharp on her enigmatic companion. “…What the fuck are you doing in this hellhole?”
“The same reason politicians, business tycoons, and other aristocrats visit this place.” He smirked at Shawn’s puzzled frown. “Well, Fox, for someone so perceptive, I’m quite surprised you missed it.”
“I’ve been in town for three days, and I’ve never seen anything besides the usual scumbags and criminals on the run…” Her eyebrows furrowed. “Except for you, that is.’
“And you never would have even noticed me had I not approached you first.”
Shawn wanted to contest, but she knew he spoke the truth. All this time, she had only seen the grimy surface of this town, but none of the underneath. Nothing was every what it seemed. What else had she missed?
“I wouldn’t hold that against you, though. After all, this is Caballa’s biggest and possibly dirtiest secret.” Lian shrugged, reaching for an sapphire-encrusted ivory pipe. “Have you heard of The Velvet Curtain?”
Shawn nodded. “That dingy run-down saloon where I first met you. What of it?”
“Upstairs, in a room behind an [i]actual[/i] velvet curtain, is where the core of this town lies. It is the reason why the town persists despite the lack of civilians, a local economy, general disorder. Have you not wondered? Oops Wharf has been dead for years; there are no honest people here, only outlaws and whores.”
“They come because it is lawless,” she supplied with a derisive snort.
“Precisely. There is no law here, only those enforced behind the velvet curtain. It is where the shadow kings of Megalopolis converge.”
“I’m familiar enough with the Caballa Underworld, but for what purpose do they dabble here other than to pass the time?”
“Tempering with Fate, of course.” An eerie glow glinted in his eyes, and Shawn’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“High stakes gambling? They can do that in Megalopolis with more posh surroundings; why seek this godforsaken place on the fringes of the island to-”
Lian laughed, and it was hollow and condescending. “You do not understand. Do you think this is about galders? What do you take us for?”
“…Filthy blue-bloods with too much time and wealth to burn?”
“Again, you fail to look past the surface.” Lian rolled his eyes, finally getting around to lighting his pipe on a nearby gas lamp. Pale lips gave the tip a soft blow before they closed around the top, inhaling a sample into his lungs before releasing a cloud of opium smoke into the already misty air. He chuckled huskily at Shawn’s derisive growl. “Care to try a smoke?”
Fuck no. I discuss business sober.”
Lian shrugged, as if to say, ‘your loss’, and continued. “Speaking of which, do you want to know what I had won in my poker match last night? A treaty, my little fox, that will allow my country to ship opiates into Azteca unhindered.”
“…W-what?!”
“In poker, you need chips in order to play. Political favors count as ‘chips’.”
Shawn snorted. “And pray tell, what exactly did you ‘bring to the table’?”
“Thirty-seven Leporidae slaves. They do say bunnies make good pets… Ah, I see that I have shocked you.”
“Slavery?!” She gasped. “You… Bunnies! They’re…”
“I claim sanctuary behind cultural differences. You Westerners are so sensitive about such things,” he dismissed with a wave of his elegant white hand.
The fox took off her hat and raked a hand through her disheveled brown hair, dislodging the ponytail. “Just… fuck Okay, whatever. I don’t really give a damn what you spoiled blue-bloods do to pass your time. I’m only here for him.”
“…You wish to play against Jack? I would have thought a hunter such as yourself would have no need for the services of another hitman.”
“I don’t.” She nonchalantly nudged aside her coat and stroked the row of kunai lining her thigh. “I can take care of my own…business.”
“Indeed,” Lian whispered, eyes momentarily drawn to the skin-tight leather clinging to a well-shaped thigh. The fox had potential, he thought with a smirk. “But other than gambling, that is what the underground elite come here for: A chance to play against Jack.”
“Elaborate, Dragon,” Shawn hissed, getting increasingly agitated at his deliberate evasiveness.
“Not only is he the luckiest bastard in this side of town, but supposedly anyone who wins against him may request for his service.” He peered at her curiously. “...And I’m quite sure that since you’re both in the same business, you’d know all about it.”
Eyes carefully averted, she fingered her hat in agitation. “Yes. I know all about him.”
“His reputation precedes him,” Lian continued, gaze still analyzing Shawn’s every reaction. “100% guaranteed hit, every time. Only one other assassin could match him in this regard, his old partner, and no one even knows where he… or she… is.”
Shawn’s lips curled into a sneer. “Saa, who knows?”
And Lian once again donned that mysterious smirk, eyes seeming to see more than what she willed him to know. The desire to shoot that expression off his face intensified.
“Whatever, Dragon, I need to play against him. You promised me aid; now make good on your word.”
Lian sighed exasperatedly. “You cannot ‘just’ play Jack.”
“Why not?!”
“It is a privilege you must earn.”
“I just need to get close enough for a clear shot.”
“…Which you will only gain when you earn a seat at The Deck’s table,” Lian explained as if speaking to a simpleton. “Listen very carefully. There are four suits in a deck of cards: spades, clubs, diamonds, hearts. Behind the velvet curtain, there is a VIP room with a table for four reserved for the top players of the room. Four of the saloon’s patrons occupy those chairs at all times, varying depending on their total accumulated winnings. One of them would be your Jack of Hearts, who has been occupying his seat since he first came to town. In order to sit across him, you will need to beat one of the three other decks in a game of cards to claim their chair. Now tell me, little fox, how good are you at poker?”
“This is ludicrous. Can’t I just blast one of their heads and kick them out of the chair?”
“In a room full of armed triad leaders, politicians, and criminals?” Lian paused thoughtfully, as if seriously considering the suggestion. “Well…”
TBC
Act 1: Swords of a Soldier
Chapter 2
Oops Wharf was, for all intents and purposes, a hellhole. The town was old and run-down, its low-rise establishments all peeling paint, rusting hinges, and perennially covered with grime. Tumbleweeds would have littered the streets had winds wandered this way, and the dusty road would have shone a blinding wheat-yellow had the sun bothered to shine without a shroud of clouds filtering light to gray. It turned out neither was happening in that god-forsaken territory anytime soon, and so the town, even with its relative proximity to the sea, remained dark, dank, and dirty. The only time it ever gleaned a touch of color was sunset.
Whenever the sun abandoned the town for the night, it burned a fiery red, and for a few precious minutes the world caught fire.
Shawn paused on the side of the road, violet eyes misted over as she watched Oops Wharf come alive, if only in appearances. Even a few passers-by and riders with their horses paused to watch the sun sink in the west, the only point of interest in the relatively dreary town.
And then, much too quickly, dusk turned to night, and Oops Wharf became even darker than before. It was an appropriate look for the underworld.
Set in an unmarked area on the Caballa map, most people did not even know of its existence unless they had at one point in their lives found themselves escaping from the long arm of the law… Or searching for someone who did.
Shawn had no doubt that every person she had encountered since she came into town a couple of days ago had, at one point or another, murdered another person, sold drugs and weapons, or sold themselves. Inns and saloons were full of drunks and gamblers, and shoot-outs on the streets were normal occurrences. Every man bore the mark of guilt, and the few females in attendance were whores.
She glanced at a prone man across the road, his face pale with death and his chest caked with coagulated blood. Soon, when the nearby saloon opened for business, someone would haul the corpse away not out of respect for the dead, but to clear the entrance for customers.
Shawn allowed herself to feel a tinge of pity, before washing it away with cold apathy. The cloak of self-righteousness ill-fitted the likes of her; she had, after all, probably sinned more than half the town’s population put together. Demons kept a very special place in hell for the likes of her.
It did not take long for her to reach her destination. Gingerly she fingered the glossy ivory card the Dragon had dropped upon her lap with a smirk and a provocatively breathy, “Crow’s at sunset, suite 215.”
Not one for procrastination, she marched up the dilapidated three-story inn and almost gasped when the contrasting posh interiors met her gaze. Despite the haggard appearance of rotting wood and peeling paint of its exteriors, the inn’s lobby was decorated with gleaming hardwood floors, antique lamps and coffee tables, and plush velvet couches edged in lacquered mahogany. A well-dressed receptionist sat primly behind a counter, and what she could only presume to be the manager stood in front of the front desk, the white of immaculate suite glowing in the lamplights.
Nothing is ever what it seems, she mused bitterly, ignoring the approaching innkeeper in favor of the carpeted stairs. She found suite 215 fairly easily, and before raising her hand to knock, muttered, “…nothing, not even him.”
The door swung open before her fist touched the wood, and too quickly the exotic scent of sandalwood and opium overwhelmed her senses. Yet, it was nothing compared to sight of Lian casually leaning against the door frame with his usual mysterious smirks and smoldering indigo eyes. Under the dim glow of antique gas lamps, the lithe line of his torso all glowing moonlight skin and artlessly draped jewels. A simple turquoise sheath draped low on his hips, and would probably fall off had his left hand not rested on one jutting hipbone.
“You’re wearing a skirt,” was the first thing that came out of Shawn’s mouth.
The smug Dragon’s smirk only widened. “Ah, but I make it look good.”
Lian lifted the hand on his hip and waved it nonchalantly, and Shawn was almost relieved when the cloth didn’t fall off.
“Whatever.” She shoved past the aristocrat and made herself comfortable on a velvet-upholstered arm chair, casting an appraising eye on the suite. The room was spacious, and decorated as whimsical and exotic as its occupant. Swaths of indigo-and-lilac batik swaths draped a large bed with bronze silk sheets, as well as several chairs and couches. Intricate, colorful knick-knacks covered every available surface, including lamps, incense and scented oil holders, perfume bottles, vials upon vials of various potions, and leather-bound books labeled with foreign scripts.
“Finished with your inspection of my humble abode?” Lian inquired politely as he lowered himself upon a loveseat and curled his legs on the cushions, one elbow casually propped on a pillow as he lounged back comfortably. His eyes, hawk-like and endlessly dark, watched her face with disconcerting raptness.
“Humble?” She scoffed. “Obviously you are a wealthy aristocrat, perhaps even royalty if your arrogance is anything to go by. A light dragon,” she ascertained, casting a glance at the vials and the spell books. “A high-level priest.” She smiled as Lian raised an eyebrow. “Which bring to mind this mystery…” Elbows resting on her knees, Shawn leaned forward, violet gaze sharp on her enigmatic companion. “…What the fuck are you doing in this hellhole?”
“The same reason politicians, business tycoons, and other aristocrats visit this place.” He smirked at Shawn’s puzzled frown. “Well, Fox, for someone so perceptive, I’m quite surprised you missed it.”
“I’ve been in town for three days, and I’ve never seen anything besides the usual scumbags and criminals on the run…” Her eyebrows furrowed. “Except for you, that is.’
“And you never would have even noticed me had I not approached you first.”
Shawn wanted to contest, but she knew he spoke the truth. All this time, she had only seen the grimy surface of this town, but none of the underneath. Nothing was every what it seemed. What else had she missed?
“I wouldn’t hold that against you, though. After all, this is Caballa’s biggest and possibly dirtiest secret.” Lian shrugged, reaching for an sapphire-encrusted ivory pipe. “Have you heard of The Velvet Curtain?”
Shawn nodded. “That dingy run-down saloon where I first met you. What of it?”
“Upstairs, in a room behind an [i]actual[/i] velvet curtain, is where the core of this town lies. It is the reason why the town persists despite the lack of civilians, a local economy, general disorder. Have you not wondered? Oops Wharf has been dead for years; there are no honest people here, only outlaws and whores.”
“They come because it is lawless,” she supplied with a derisive snort.
“Precisely. There is no law here, only those enforced behind the velvet curtain. It is where the shadow kings of Megalopolis converge.”
“I’m familiar enough with the Caballa Underworld, but for what purpose do they dabble here other than to pass the time?”
“Tempering with Fate, of course.” An eerie glow glinted in his eyes, and Shawn’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“High stakes gambling? They can do that in Megalopolis with more posh surroundings; why seek this godforsaken place on the fringes of the island to-”
Lian laughed, and it was hollow and condescending. “You do not understand. Do you think this is about galders? What do you take us for?”
“…Filthy blue-bloods with too much time and wealth to burn?”
“Again, you fail to look past the surface.” Lian rolled his eyes, finally getting around to lighting his pipe on a nearby gas lamp. Pale lips gave the tip a soft blow before they closed around the top, inhaling a sample into his lungs before releasing a cloud of opium smoke into the already misty air. He chuckled huskily at Shawn’s derisive growl. “Care to try a smoke?”
Fuck no. I discuss business sober.”
Lian shrugged, as if to say, ‘your loss’, and continued. “Speaking of which, do you want to know what I had won in my poker match last night? A treaty, my little fox, that will allow my country to ship opiates into Azteca unhindered.”
“…W-what?!”
“In poker, you need chips in order to play. Political favors count as ‘chips’.”
Shawn snorted. “And pray tell, what exactly did you ‘bring to the table’?”
“Thirty-seven Leporidae slaves. They do say bunnies make good pets… Ah, I see that I have shocked you.”
“Slavery?!” She gasped. “You… Bunnies! They’re…”
“I claim sanctuary behind cultural differences. You Westerners are so sensitive about such things,” he dismissed with a wave of his elegant white hand.
The fox took off her hat and raked a hand through her disheveled brown hair, dislodging the ponytail. “Just… fuck Okay, whatever. I don’t really give a damn what you spoiled blue-bloods do to pass your time. I’m only here for him.”
“…You wish to play against Jack? I would have thought a hunter such as yourself would have no need for the services of another hitman.”
“I don’t.” She nonchalantly nudged aside her coat and stroked the row of kunai lining her thigh. “I can take care of my own…business.”
“Indeed,” Lian whispered, eyes momentarily drawn to the skin-tight leather clinging to a well-shaped thigh. The fox had potential, he thought with a smirk. “But other than gambling, that is what the underground elite come here for: A chance to play against Jack.”
“Elaborate, Dragon,” Shawn hissed, getting increasingly agitated at his deliberate evasiveness.
“Not only is he the luckiest bastard in this side of town, but supposedly anyone who wins against him may request for his service.” He peered at her curiously. “...And I’m quite sure that since you’re both in the same business, you’d know all about it.”
Eyes carefully averted, she fingered her hat in agitation. “Yes. I know all about him.”
“His reputation precedes him,” Lian continued, gaze still analyzing Shawn’s every reaction. “100% guaranteed hit, every time. Only one other assassin could match him in this regard, his old partner, and no one even knows where he… or she… is.”
Shawn’s lips curled into a sneer. “Saa, who knows?”
And Lian once again donned that mysterious smirk, eyes seeming to see more than what she willed him to know. The desire to shoot that expression off his face intensified.
“Whatever, Dragon, I need to play against him. You promised me aid; now make good on your word.”
Lian sighed exasperatedly. “You cannot ‘just’ play Jack.”
“Why not?!”
“It is a privilege you must earn.”
“I just need to get close enough for a clear shot.”
“…Which you will only gain when you earn a seat at The Deck’s table,” Lian explained as if speaking to a simpleton. “Listen very carefully. There are four suits in a deck of cards: spades, clubs, diamonds, hearts. Behind the velvet curtain, there is a VIP room with a table for four reserved for the top players of the room. Four of the saloon’s patrons occupy those chairs at all times, varying depending on their total accumulated winnings. One of them would be your Jack of Hearts, who has been occupying his seat since he first came to town. In order to sit across him, you will need to beat one of the three other decks in a game of cards to claim their chair. Now tell me, little fox, how good are you at poker?”
“This is ludicrous. Can’t I just blast one of their heads and kick them out of the chair?”
“In a room full of armed triad leaders, politicians, and criminals?” Lian paused thoughtfully, as if seriously considering the suggestion. “Well…”
TBC