An RP by NekoLen and Tachigami

Loosely based around the free browser game Echo Bazaar: Fallen London.

Contents may be dark or unsettling.

I'm sorry, what I should have said was this:
Contents will be dark and certainly unsettling.

But if you're one of exciting taste, please do follow
along, ask questions, let us know what you think!

Welcome, delicious friend...

It was as dark as a shadow among shadows, not a speck of white on its body. From its stalker's position he couldn't see the way its green eyes glowed in the flickering gaslights that lined the street outside the alley, how it stared at everyone that dared cast a glance its way. One could tell that despite its rather calm outward demeanor, the creature was poised to bound away as swiftly as the shadow that seemed to be laden on its back. The black and gray cats, always the absolute hardest to catch, but what they had to say was well worth the trouble. And if Carovo just crept a few feet further... maybe he'd get something for his trouble... He'd been crouched like this for an hour now, creeping so slowly it was almost impossible to see that he was, indeed, moving. Just a few feet...

"Oi! Jump at 'im! Get it!" A high voice broke the relative silence right above Carovo, startling him and sending the cat darting out of the alley and between the feet of those walking or scuttling outside. Angrily, Carovo snapped his head up, sending red hair flying, and raised a fist to the urchin on the rooftop, snickering down at him.

"You little cretin! I'll wring your neck if you don't bug off!" When the young boy didn't move, Carovo grabbed a drain pipe and started a pointed climb. Though the rain in the Neath wasn't natural, it could be heavy from time to time and such drains were more than necessary. But by the time he'd climbed the side of the shop, the urchin was gone and Carovo was standing on the dirty roof by a chimney that coughed a dark, constant stream of smoke. Leaning against it, Carovo cursed in annoyance. And he'd been so close! Damn that child...

Again, the bearded man coughed as he leant against the small jewellery store. Maximillion blinked and readjusted himself, waiting for the moment he had been waiting for. This had to be the heist he had heard of from the local gossip, a small pudgy man with tiny eyes. The bearded man had to be the lookout, Max had watched him for the past week stalking the streets outside of the store.

A clambering and hissing met his ears, as a small furry creature dropped from the roof and landed on his hat. He cried in fright and lashed out, striking the creature and causing it to yowl in pain and disappear into the night. He glared after it, unsure of what it had been but feeling its scratch marks stinging his hands. He glanced back at the store and cursed under his breath. The bearded man had left.

Max turned tail and slunk back down the dark and musty streets, muttering darkly to himself and causing others to shrink back in fear of a madman. "Almost 'ad 'im, guv!" a cawing voice spoke from the rooftops. Max picked up a rock and threw it at the small blackbird.

"And you, my pest, were supposed to be my lookout!" he retorted as the raven flew into the air to avoid the stone. The bird squawked and fluttered down, landing on Max's shoulder and pecking affectionately at the man's long blonde hair. Max scowled and shrugged it off, annoyed that his watchful pet had ignored the creature that had assaulted him. "Edgar, what was that thing that attacked me?" he asked, glaring at a nearby homeless drunkard, who was staring too much.

"Oh my, I really dun know, guv," the bird croaked, flapping past the man and leaving him alone. Max sighed heavily, keeping his belongings close as he approached the slums of Spite, towards his little shack he lived in. He had a few Whispered Secrets from the day's outings he could exchange for Echoes to use for his modestly cheap rent, and a bottle of Greyfields 1879 he had found in the mudflats of the Stolen River. The wine was made from mushrooms and fungi that grew extremely well in the Neath, and it was disgusting. But, as Max thought to himself, it was better than nothing.

Carovo sighed and slunk down the road, keeping his head down. One would be hard-pressed to know what he was, really, how much he gallivanted with criminals and prostitutes and the homeless. But they were just so interesting---one could learn many a secret if they could mind the smell of the homeless, the allure of a certain person who could easily use one's enthrallment to pick your pocket, the threat of the criminal deciding you have something really interesting in your pocket, he just needs to search it to be sure. The concept of death in any of these situations made him laugh, though---he wouldn't die. But his more clean-cut appearance hid the fact that he had a bit of a weakness for prisoner's honey and young, professional men. Of course if that got out... He shook his head, brushing back his long hair and twisting it back.

He was home soon, an apartment above a shop that sold spices from the various colonies near Concord Square, and some high-priced ones from the Surface. The scents of various odd spices, powders, pastes, and dried flowers and teas had permeated the upstairs areas, so he didn't even have to go through the shop floor to smell it. He climbed the old stairs outside the shop, in the small alley under an overhang, and unlocked his door to be met with a yowling ball of gray and white fur that flew at him, clinging and rubbing against his legs. Carovo cursed, lifting a leg in time to step over the mangy cat and close the door. He didn't know why this thing was as giddy and clingy as a dog, instead of aloof and proud as a cat should be. And its voice was different, a bit raspy, like its tongue. Maybe because it talked a little too much from time to time, unlike its kin in the alleys, who spared their voices for those light on their feet.

Using his foot, he nudged the thing away from him though it just came back, and he did a rather foolish-looking high-step to a chair nearby and sat with a huff in front of the fireplace that shared its chimney with the one downstairs. He watched the quiet coals burn in their grate, an iron pot empty above it, but he wasn't motivated enough to go to the icebox to make anything or stoke the fire. The cat, something he called Scar, jumped up onto the back of the chair and crouched down, swishing its ragged tail, which was as ragged as the rest of it. "Hungry." It growled. "You have food. Make it."

Carovo tilted his head at the animal. "Why don't you do your job and catch a damn rat. How about a few so I can put them in the pot?" Rat stew. It wasn't elegant, but it was something commonplace. The cat just huffed and settled a little more, steadfast in its desire to remain lazy, as a cat would. It left Carovo to dwell on his next job, which he'd been putting off.

Max fumbled in his tightly zipped pocket, ignoring the small jingling of the bells he had tied around the zipper tab to inform him if a pickpocket was about. One couldn't be too careful in Spite, the hang out for thieves and gangs of street kids. He found his key and pushed it into the heavy padlock clasped on the door, opening the creaky door and entering his two-room shack. It was a small, rickety place that seemed to be decomposing around him. But it was all he could afford on his salary, a self-employed detective and a self-proclaimed "Watcher", though he had stopped calling himself that after suspicions rose around him. He was not a spy or a criminal, though one had to do drastic things to live in Fallen London.

He took off his care-worn black jacket, resting it on his trusty old armchair and taking his hat off to put on the limbless hat rack near the door. He set the dead lock and barred the old door with a length of wood, a security system that prevented undesirable people from breaking and entering. He heard a clattering on his roof and ignored it. Either it was Edgar in his nest of stolen watches and straw or some of the street urchins that lived on the rooftops.

He opened the bottle of wine, pouring the strange smelling liquid into a chipped and dusty glass set on the small table by his armchair. A few sips of this and he could forget about how hungry he was, or how close his nightmares were closing in. He sat, sinking low into the fabric and springs of the chair. His fireplace was smoking slightly, as he had run out of coal the day before. He wasn't concentrating on that, however. His gaze stayed on the marvellous painting tacked onto the wall above the fireplace. An imagining of the Surface, as painted by some artist Max had encountered while exploring Veilgarden. He sighed heavily again. To see the blue skies and green plants of the Surface with his own eyes! It was his dream, as a native of the Neath, he had never been there once.

His eyes grew heavy and soon he was asleep, dreaming of darkness and oceans and horrible Rubbery Men, with their faces full of tentacles... He snorted awake, shaking of the nightmares for now.

Carovo had been nodding for a while now. Head slowly bobbing as he drifted in and out of sleep, it suddenly fell forward and immediately plunged him into the silence of the Tomb-Colonies. Dark, dank, whatever room he was in was laden with cobwebs that hardly shuddered when a bandaged Tomb-Colonist passed, wordless and sightless, so far as Carovo could tell. It was cold. So damn cold here! What made it that way? He covered his eyes, as if it would make it go away, and jerked when something touched his arm.

A yowl sent Scar flying out of the room, and it took a moment for him to realize that he'd been the one to cry out. These dreams about the dead had only recently started, and always went down similar paths when he'd trust himself enough to get real sleep on a real bed. And it always ended with him waking in a cold sweat, shaking and looking around for the cold hands and faces that had no expressions under the old bandages. He stood, shaking himself out, and went around to the fireplace. It would take the chill from the room, at least, and he could think about the Surface. The memories were so distant even the sight of the sun was beginning to fade. How much did it light up the sky? Hiding sometimes behind those thick, puffy clouds whose rains carried from the heavens and not from the unnatural condensation that gathered at the top of the caverns... How warm was it, lying on his skin as he rested in a summer field, among yellow flowers that perfumed the air, a real smile on his face, one of happiness and not of the acquisition of temporary delights and pleasures? He was almost tempted, then, to open the jar of honey on the mantle. It would let him dream of that, the world he'd almost forgotten, but it would mean a few drops less...

He grabbed a bottle of old vintage wine instead, whose label had been worn off, and went outside to sit on the stairs halfway down and drink. It was impossible to know where to go now... To the surface...? It was impossible. What would they think of someone like him up there? And it held so many dark memories, even the sun wouldn't be able to chase the shadows there away. And he had wanted to be a poet... Where had that ambition gone? Perhaps into a bottle of wine... Into the hand of a stranger whose name he didn't even know... Stolen from so long hanging about the undesirables at Wolfstack Docks? Perhaps... He just needed... inspiration...

Wide awake now, Max found himself putting his jacket back on. Perhaps he could walk the streets a bit longer, see if he could find out anything about goings on in the neighbourhood. The better connected you were in Fallen London, the richer you became, as Whispered Secrets and Cryptic Clues were worth money down here. He made sure his door was padlocked before he left his home, zipping his pockets up tightly and moving towards Veilgardens once more. The Singing Mandrake was a popular haunt of his, especially when he couldn't sleep at night.

But was it night? One could never tell in the eternal darkness of the Neath. It could be midday on the Surface and you would never know. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, knowing that they would be shrouded in shadows from many a sleepless, nightmare-filled night. Many others showed these signs, soon to be dead or soon to be mad... A loud flapping and a small weight on his shoulder made him tilt his head.

"What do you want, pest?" he asked Edgar, the bird tended to tag along in hopes of stealing watches and getting a sip of beer. The bird squawked and preened himself, as though pretending he wasn't plotting anything. "Well, whatever it is, I want no part of it. You know I barely escaped New Newgate Prison the last time you decided to steal a Constable's watch."

He shooed the raven away once he reached the Singing Mandrake, hearing the familiar drunken singing and poetry reading made him smile and feel slightly comforted.

Where was that inspiration? Carovo glared at the spot at the bottom of the stairs and then looked at the empty bottle in his hand. It certainly wasn't there. Standing, he reared back and threw the bottle at the building beside him, where the glass shattered pleasingly. Before he went downstairs, though, he made sure the door was secure and straightened his tie a bit. His half-sleep and annoyed whirling from one room to another had thrown his clothes askew, and covered them slightly in cat hair from Scar's antics. Finally going downstairs, Carovo wandered for a bit, keeping his head down and his hands in his pockets. In one hand was a blade he could easily retract, wrapped around Echoes and a few pence. In the other hand was a watch that seemed to be broken.

Halfway through the square he hailed a hansom cab, bidding the driver to go anywhere within the next ten blocks. Perhaps he was taking a risk, but it was hardly a high one, until he heard the rowdy activity of the Singing Mandrake. Yes, a place he'd been to many times... When he paid the driver, Carovo realized he knew this man---he'd been the driver of many a jaunt down here, and apparently felt Carovo was headed this way anyway. The care made him smirk as he went around and stepped up to the door, pausing. There... Over the music and bad singing were poets here and there, reciting to one another and thinking out loud. And writers, too, contemplating the Surface some have never seen, contemplating the Unterzee and the lives of the zailors. The concept had always been a bit too rich for Carovo. Thinking of that rather slimy, black, salty underground lake that was probably as large as an ocean...

Well, in any case, he was sure to get inspired. Perhaps by that young blonde man... He didn't look quite as clean-cut as most of his preference, but it was rare to find high-class... anyone in a place like the Singing Mandrake.

Max waved off a few drunk men, the ones that mistook his elegant features and tall, thin body of that of a woman's. He had been with many different sorts, finding the pleasures of the flesh good to heal his nightmares, if only for a few days. Perhaps he could find such a person in this rowdy tavern? He sat at the end of the bar, furtherest from the door and watched the patrons closely. An old man slept loudly at the table next to him, muttering in his sleep. Max listened carefully, finding some useful Secrets he could sell later.

He ordered a beer from a passing waitress, admiring the way she wore her hair and complimenting her perfume. He wasn't picky when it came to who he chose to sleep with. He flinched slightly when Edgar flew in through the open door and landed on the table with a clacking of his claws. The waitress scowled and warned Max to keep his bird away from the bar.

He was a young one, but then, didn't everyone seem young to him? Perhaps. But this one wore his age on his sleeve, no more than twenty five, he had to be. And approached easily by men whose visions were blurred and anything with a pulse looked as good as anything. But Carovo's mind was, relatively, clear. Liquor didn't hold much of an influence on him anymore, and he could easily take bets on his ability to drink even the biggest and loudest of men or women under the table, and then some. It was his size that tricked so many, his thin stature. But tonight he was more interested in his inspiration. And his inspiration that seemed drawn to the young man sitting with a raven on the table in front of him. Carovo passed him, very gently brushing his shoulder on 'accident', and taking a seat in the corner of the room that still gave him a clear and obvious line to the blonde man. Large eyes, a gentle face, elegance in hands and features...

One could rarely call a man 'beautiful', but it seemed this fit the bill well. He couldn't be all show, though. Perhaps a fire was hidden behind that seemingly reserved appearance. Some kind of danger hiding just beneath the surface. Inspiration seeped from every move the young man made. A perfect outlet for his writing! Carovo pointedly stared, but not intensely. He softened his gaze, lowered his shoulders and ran a hand lightly over the slight roughness on his chin. His hands itched to write about the simple way the young man sat, and looked, and simply was.

Max glanced over at the man that was watching him, wondering what the red-haired man was thinking. The man had walked past and brushed him, marking Max and causing him to quickly look around the rowdy tavern. Usually one would lightly touch or tap the shoulder of a mark before robbing them or worse. Though with his watchful steely gaze, he saw nothing out of the ordinary or no one suspicious. He looked over to the man once more, a questioning gaze fired towards him.

The raven chattered and flapped a bit, pecking at a knot on the worn old wooden table top. He was preoccupied, it seemed. Max thanked the lady who brought him his beer, not caring to know of the flavour or name. Alcohol was alcohol in the end. Max shrugged the red-haired man's gaze off and downed his beer, watching his pet undo the wood and scratch the varnish.

"What are you doing, pest?" he questioned the bird, prodding it slightly. Edgar squawked and jumped backwards, pecking at the young man's finger indignantly.

"Mind ones busyness, guv," the bird replied snarkly, returning to his pecking. It seemed the bird was in no mood to talk to Max, so he stood and joined the red-haired man at his table. "May I?" he questioned first, not wanting to intrude.

Carovo's eyes widened slightly, but he was so thankful when the stranger decided to approach. He leaned back and smiled through his fingers, nodding once. "It would be an honor." He said simply, gesturing to the empty chair across from him and glancing back at the raven he'd left. It seemed curiously interested in the table, though Carovo had no idea why. Birds were odd creatures, those that existed down here, but it was hardly the first thing on his mind now. The young man had spoken, a light voice, perhaps due to the area they were in now.

Details. He needed details. What was this oddity like? He stuck out in a crowd, that was for sure, when one knew what he was specifically. But what was he like? Inspiration was a fickle thing, and what was it that had him so focused? So focused on this one, specifically, when there was that dreary-looking businessman across the room that looked to be misplaced in the smoky, noisy atmosphere? That's what he preferred, after all. But what was this one? He leaned forward. "You are a walking inspiration, sir." He said simply. "I could write a dozen novels on what I'd simply assume on my part, but nothing could compare to what comes from the inspiration himself."

One of those novels would have to be on his appearance alone, in this particular location. What might hide behind that rather feminine face.

Maximillion blinked at the man's words. Obviously a poet or writer of some sort. Max had always striked the artistic community as inspiration or a muse of some sort. He supposed his delicate features came in handy for more than a few personal things. He smiled slightly and fingered his empty glass, gesturing to the waitress for a refill. He surveyed the strange man over the rim of the cup as he took a sip of the bitter, warm liquid.

"You flatter me, sir," his smile faded slightly. "What, may I ask, is your name? I have seen you around this place before, your strikingly coloured hair is very noticeable." He was never really good at being persuasive, but he worded his comment like a compliment. There weren't many red-haired people around Fallen London, and those he did see always left a mark in his mind.

Carovo raised a brow, absently running a hand through his hair. He'd always considered it more of an auburn tone, not exactly unheard of or rare, really. Perhaps in the warm light of the Mandrake his took on a more fiery color of red. And he's seen Carovo around? How could that be? He knew his way around the place---this was one of his favorite seedy haunts, he knew many, many faces and would certainly have remembered this one. It was hard not to take a good, long look at him, after all. Still, he didn't dwell on that for more than a moment.

"People know me as Carovo. I... vary in surname when needed, but lost my real one long ago. Most of the time people remember a name like mine. Not many have one so similar." He paused. "What of you, though? I would almost expect a name as unique as your features." A handsomely beautiful muse like this only came along from time to time. One who could even begin to compare was probably impossible to find anywhere else, and now, Carovo hoped his years of charm would be able to at least slightly win him over.

If Max was completely sober, the man's charm would disgust him and annoy, but as he had already had a bottle of wine and two beers, his mind was becoming pleasantly foggy. Looking at him, you wouldn't guess that he was drunk, as he was good at keeping up appearances. Right now, as he swayed slightly on his chair, trying to seem like he was moving to the singing, he felt his cheeks burn. "Carovo...?" what a strange name. It rolled of the tongue like something exotic and Max repeated it under his breath a few times more.

"The name is Maximillion. Friends call me Max," he inclined his head in a bow. "As for last name, that is something I might keep to myself, sir." He called over the waitress and got another beer poured. He handed her the last of his money and stared over at the bird now creeping towards the sleeping man, eyeing his watch. "It's very warm in here tonight," he commented absent-mindedly, blinking hard again.

Carovo watched calmly the newly-dubbed Maximillion---or Max, which did seem easier---sway lightly, overcorrecting one too many times. Perhaps he was a little overly-acquainted with the smell of mushroom wine, but he could catch just a slight whiff coming from the young man as he exhaled, combined with the bitter beer. And that very light rosiness that was spread along his cheeks, just underneath the eyes, it couldn't be controlled by the person even if they easily controlled themselves. It was that smell of alcohol that had Carovo so bold tonight. Otherwise he'd wait and have the artists, the poets and writers, the occasional prostitute, to approach him and hope that he would... inspire them.

"Warm, is it?" He asked, and followed the young man's gaze. "I hadn't noticed. To be honest, I've been so... drained. For so long I haven't been able to write anything and it may well sound foolish or overdone, yes, but you... A muse. A muse among the ordinary." He leaned forward just a bit, leaning on the table and resting his chin on lightly curled fingers and smiling easily. Years and years of smiling, seeing his reflection, eventually he had mastered a series of very subtle twitches and mannerisms that bored into anyone's mind, was so obvious despite its slightness.

"I suppose it's nice to be appreciated," Max replied, setting the empty glass down and looking back at Carovo. The man's smile was most intriguing and it made Max want to lean in and kiss those beautiful lips. He tore his eyes away from the red-haired man, forcing himself to watch Edgar hop about the sleeping man instead. He didn't mind the company of men, anything to help his nightmares, he just didn't like to be seen as easy or a whore. He chuckled and threw the glass at the bird, making it squawk and flap indignantly. The old man woke with a snort and glared at Edgar, making the raven fly over to Max and nestle on the blonde man's head.

"I wasn't doin' nuting, guv," the bird squawked, lying like he usually did when he knew he was in trouble. Max shooed the bird off his head, hitting it and causing it to fly from the tavern. He muttered dark words under his breath, finding the table comfortable to rest on. Soon he was nearly falling asleep, under the gaze of Carovo, who he had forgotten about.

Carovo smiled, and chuckled a bit at the raven. One was hard-pressed to find many desirable flying creatures in the Neath, beyond bats, ravens, and an occasional white raven. So this one had a pest of a pet as well, did he? His mangy doormat of a cat had nary a thread of desire to catch a rat, was overly talkative, and tended to sleep on his face. He studied his nails for a moment, picking lightly at one, then glanced back around at the young man. Max's hair had splayed over the table, shining slightly in the light of the bar. Maybe he'd drank a little more than a bit, then... Carovo was so inspired now... His fingers itched to pick up a quill and waste ink and parchment and lock himself away for days, and perhaps write a little more risque than he should. But those would be for his own rereadings later, hidden away under the mattress as if they would seep into his dreams.

Or perhaps, dreams were just what he needed. If a drop of honey reached his tongue soon, he may dream of this Maximillion. He did seem a little tired now, after all. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew an old label. It had the name of the spice shop on it, in its lovely rounded script. When he stood, he pushed it across the table and under one of Max's long, elegant fingers. "Perhaps you'll find me someday soon." He muttered, and stepped away, pushing through the crowds and leaving the warm bar. Outside, drawing both hands through his hair, Carovo looked around and stepped by someone that had intentionally tried to stumble into him. Picking pockets was normally so easy around Veilgarden, too. He went to the road, hailing a hansom cab.

Max's dreams were a lot more peaceful under the influence of alcohol and a warm atmosphere. He often mumbled in his sleep, though never about anything of importance. Any one that hovered for Secrets often left disappointed, mind full of the ramblings of a man nearing insanity. He dreamt of a large field, with clouds of mist rolling over the small hills. He was only a child when he had visited this place, now he wasn't sure if it ever existed.

A loud ringing woke him, causing him to snort and glance about his surroundings. It seemed the Singing Mandrake was closing, and those that had fallen unconscious were being waken and led out. The plump waitress came over to him, lifting him roughly and guiding him out the door. He thanked her and stumbled down the streets, crumpling whatever he had held in his hand.

He had to get home, as those that slept in the gutter often were robbed. The raven cawed and led the way, concerned for his old friend. It wasn't like Max to get so drunk. Perhaps those nightmares were finally taking a toll on him. Soon he would be like all the other mad men around these parts. Max stumbled and sat, leaning against the door to his house. The world was spinning and he closed his eyes, opening them slowly when he heard a slurping noise nearby.

Heart beating fast and hard, Max struggled with his lock and flew inside his house, slamming the door shut as a Rubbery Man moved past slowly. He vomited, and then passed out on the wooden floor.

When he made it home, his stomach was protesting the lack of food from the previous day, as the clock tolled two in the morning (or afternoon?) soon after his arrival back home. But he couldn't pause to eat. He grabbed Scar and deposited him on the nearest chair as he blew past and went to his room. A brass bed. A writing desk and series of foxfire candles that gave off an eerie greenish glow. A woodburning stove he set a kettle of water on that he'd gathered this morning. At the desk he grabbed parchment, quills, a few bottles of ink and blotter, and brushed back his hair into a tight ponytail. The bottle of wine he'd had before leaving the first time still slightly perfumed his breath, an acquired taste that Carovo found rather delicious, and it helped him recall... Imagine... In a strange light, but imagine nonetheless.

Max. Maximillion. Blonde, pale, strange, large eyes. Here he wrote, remembering every detail of the man, thin, elegant, not necessarily as a woman, or Carovo wouldn't be so intent on him. He wrote without stopping, describing every minute detail to the length of his eyelashes, a bit longer than normal, sweeping over deeply toned eyes. A light-lipped smile here and there. The shine of his long hair, like gold silk on the scratched table. The dusty black jacket, a stark contrast to the rest of his body. And then his imagination took over---what would it look like if Carovo had seen a little... more...? In a quiet room above the Singing Mandrake, after a full night's sharing the establishment's bitter, strong beer or the occasional wine from a random admirer. What had been hidden under the clothes? From time to time he had to stop writing to steady his hand, as the quill simply shivered desperately and the room grew hot.

Five pages finished, and Carovo had to stop. His heart beat fast at his descriptions, far too scandalous for anyone of good nature to even glace at. It almost felt like he was there... Standing on shaking legs, he moved around to the whistling kettle---whose noise he had been able to ignore---and set it off the heat, then went into the den and grabbed the pot of honey from its shelf. Just one drop wouldn't hurt... Just to act out what he had written...

Max blinked awake, his eyes feeling glued together and his head thumping like a drum. He sat up, noticing the sick and screwed his nose up. He stood slowly, the hangover messing with his hand-eye coordination, causing him to sway dangerously. A hot bath and a cup of tea. That was what Max wanted right now, though he remembered that he was out of coal. As that thought crossed his mind, a knocking at his door made him jump slightly. He moved towards it, opening it and peering at the man that stood on the doorstep. A big burly man with pale, almost greyish-toned skin. The Coalman passed Max a sack of coal and grunted, holding out his hand.

Searching his pockets, Max frowned when he remembered using all his money at the tavern last night. He sighed heavily and told the Coalman some Secrets he could sell later. Luckily, the big man seemed impressed and let him have the sack of coal without payment. Max dragged it inside, grateful that the Coalman had delivered when he did. He went to his bath and set it on two sturdy blocks, filling the metal bath with water and lighting a fire underneath to heat it. He made sure the bottom of the bath was covered, not wanting to burn himself on the hot metal. He stripped, stopping to peer at a small crumple paper he had shoved into his pockets. It was the name of a spice shop, one that Max would never have been to. He wondered briefly where it had come from before stepping into the warm water and covering his aching body with it.

This one was not a bad dream. It was a bit different, because he'd never entered the dreams while so worked up. Though a honey-dream was a fickle thing, as many things in the Neath were. He dreamed of someone like the Maximillion he had met in the half-recalled night, but this was pale and blonde, with large eyes, a strong touch. An elegant room, this dream. Made of gold and brass and copper, chairs, chaise lounges upholstered in red and blue velvet, the scent of surface fruits and grape-based wines permeating the room. A bed of thick raven down, draped in black and hidden amongst red and black curtains, the soft warmth hugged them both close, bringing them much closer. The sweet air was intoxicating, like perfume, some so rare here. Such a delightful time, and that sharp, but pleasing, pain...

He woke quickly and was met with the spicy air of his apartment again. But he was free of his dark and intensifying desires, and as he sat up on his couch, put a hand up to his neck, right below the ear. He could still feel the bite... Shaking his head, Carovo went back to his bedroom, through another door. He needed to change clothes... needed to comb his hair, which now was far messier than it had been. A bath might be necessary, tomorrow---he'd yet to get dirty, but would soon enough. Perhaps the young man would come out of his beer-and-wine-induced fog today well enough to recall Carovo's place of residence. Maybe he'd visit. But Carovo could simply not let him see those papers. Not yet, anyway, he hardly knew anything about the man. He might, after all, be an influential member of society slumming it for a night as many liked to do. Finding some new clothes, Carovo shed his and pulled the cleaner ones on, a long-sleeved shirt and cravat, a dark blue vest that was almost black, black pants... A respectable, semi-professional look.

Max let himself bathe for nearly an hour, scrubbing the grime and dirt from his body and refilling the bath to wash his hair in. After he was done, he climbed out of the bath and blew out the fire, throwing some wood and coal onto the larger one in the fire place. He lit it, moving towards a rickety dresser and pulling out a few clothes. Some he had been given as a reward by the constables, the ragged clothes of executioned prisoners. He rarely wore them as many an evil stare from the people made him seem like a criminal himself.

After drying slowly by the fire, Max decided to sell a few possessions at the Bazaar, in an attempt to find something to eat. He had yet been desperate enough to catch and eat rats, though sometimes Edgar seemed like a delicious appetiser.

He gathered a few scraps of cloth and candles, rummaging about in his closet to find some clothes he didn't need or loose Pearls he could sell. Shoving these items into a knapsack, he shouldered it and left his house, making sure the fire was put to sleep and his door tightly locked. He walked to the Bazaar, taking a few hours to get there by foot, especially how cautiously he had to move through the crowds of potential pickpockets.

After much dealings and barginings, Max left the Bazaar with a bagful of food. Not high quality stuff, but enough to live on for a few days. As he walked the dark cobbled streets, he passed a small shop, whose name was familiar. It was the Spice Shop whose name he had in his jacket. He entered, smelling the spicy air and sneezing slightly. The shop was claustrophobic and very dark, lit only by a few Foxfire Candles. He ignored the shop keeper's steady gaze, looking about the place for clues as to why he was brought here.

After a rather bland meal of oatmeal made from a combination of surface items and Neath items, Carovo had gathered a satchel of paper and pens, charcoal pencils, and Scar. The cat protested, swiping slightly at Carovo's arms until he was pressed close to the man's chest and taken outside. He hated the outside. He wasn't the most vision-inclined, and tended to be very easily distracted, making it very easy for cat-chasers to sneak up on him as if he had a few interesting tidbits to toss out in exchange for his freedom. So once they were outside he fell very silent, and huddled close as if he could hide from the passersby in front of the shop as Carovo went around the stairs and through a side door.

Peeling Scar off him, Carovo dropped him onto the floor of the spice shop and crossed his arms. "You're so hungry, why don't you go do your job!?" He scolded the creature. The shopkeep was very used to this by now---after all, half the rent Carovo was to pay came from Scar's ability to catch the rats that tended to take shelter in the little storage room that held most of the spices and jars. The cat growled, slinking off with a low, twitching tail, and Carovo dusted his vest free of cat hair and sighed. The creature was more trouble than it was worth from time to time, he could afford a good rent if he just got rid of it. But maybe his heart was a little too soft, he couldn't just kick the thing out. Not when it was far too lazy to work more than a few hours during the day and slept too deeply to watch for territorial cats or cat-catchers.

Glancing sideways, he saw the shop keeper look at him, then to someone hidden behind one of the shelves. Stepping around, his eyes widened slightly. He hadn't expected Maximillion to be able to remember the scrap he'd left. Or at least be curious enough to come looking for the shop. "Hm. A pleasant surprise." He commented. Distantly, he heard the clatter of a broom falling as Scar chased a rat.

Max was busily studying small bottle of some red substance when he heard a strangely familiar voice. He blinked and glanced up, noticing a man with red hair watching him, holding various tools of the trade for poets and artists. He nodded slightly, moving away from this strange man and picked up a small packet, sniffed it and then sneezed. He glanced back in the man's direction, wondering why he was staring.

Max was used to stares. He seemed so out of place in this city of dark and dirty. Many mistook him for a female, and that was what annoyed him. He moved again, before catching the smile on the man's face and remembering something about last night. "Carovo..." he muttered, smiling and going towards the man. "Carovo, right? Forgive me... Last night's events are a bit foggy," he laughed and nodded towards the shop keeper. "You work here?"