"Pardon-moi, I t'ink I jus' vomitted a lil in me mouth." [Basic Grafting - Amelia]

[Guillaume LeBeau]

The month of Junctior
Last Cycle
Autumn
Paradigm Shift: The Persecution of the Orcs

And so the LeBeau was off again, roaming the streets of Nexus Prime. The last cycle had bore rather interesting events, with the 'frog-rain', and then meeting the two Jaedaxian beauty's father at the Crown of All Winds. That had been a very strange encounter, but... nonetheless interesting. Not that Guillaume would ever consider the proposal, but it did amuse him for several Candlemarks later when he left.

Dressed immaculately this Brightening in olive green, the brat prince of the House of LeBeau was strutting as he usually did, a criss-cross vest of forest green and dark brown fitting snugly on his torso, while a pair of matching pants were held in place by a brown leather belt with a shiny golden buckle. The Brightening after the 'frog-rain', he had patronized one of the local salons to trim his hair, so that it falls just slightly above his collar, sweeping the bottom of his ears.

He seemed well-groomed, a day's old stubble appearing blue-gray on his chin, boasting a smug smile as he moved, touching the rim of his matching cavalier hat whenever he passed another group of women; not before flashing a dazzling smile, rather pleased that he was making heads turn as he marched down the streets on his well-polished boots.

He haven't really thought about what he was going to do in Nexus, perhaps stay for a few more cycles, work a bit at the shipyards, or if he manage to impress any wine makers with his rudimentary knowledge on wine and the likes, could work as an apprentice sommeliers, something he found impossibly ironic because his father had tried everything he could to get him to learn the family trade to no avail. Twenty-Three of age, and all he learnt from Phillipe was how to press grapes.

A half-eaten apple was held in his hand, and he walked as if he was invincible.

After all, he was young.

And the young know they will live forever.

[Amelia Lynsdaughter]

It had been a pleasant brightening now turning into a darkening. There was still much talk of the exceptional frog rain that had befallen Nexus, but apparently this day had brought nothing so special. Same old, same old. Nexus worked hard during the brightening, and played hard after sunset. Hard and loud, in this case.

"... he did WHAT?!" The voice reached Guillaume's ears from the inside of some cheap tavern, surely beneath the standards of one accustomed to, well, any sort of standards. It was a voice filled with surprise, almost incredulous.

"That's right, he said he was going to Fairyhands' wagon in Markus Quarter." The second voice, while somewhat excited, was not roaring like the other did. It also sounded remarkably less drunken than the first. "I tried to stop him, that I did, but there was no stopping him. You should've seen him, Jorel himself had him then. He said something like 'One-eyed Horace ain't gonna be One-eyed no more' and then he was off. Methinks he'd been saving up for this."

"Fething Fairyhands..." the louder voice commented, in between pauses that probably corresponded to its owner quaffing some ale. If Guillaume stood near the entrance or even stepped into the cheap, smokey tavern, he would be able to overhear the rest of the conversation between the two average Nexian patrons. An old bartender was wiping a mug with a towel, and seemed to do so mechanismically as he looked around, as if expecting a brawl to erupt any time now.

"Horace hasn't been the same since Bloodsnow, we should've seen this coming, you know," his friend commented. "Who knows if we'll ever see him again..." "Fething Fairyhands..." the first man said, unable to add much to the conversation and clearly closer to the point of no return - for this night, anyways. "Dunno... I've heard of this other guy who actually had pretty good luck with Fairyhands, got himself new hands and all. But yeah, it's prolly just not worth it." And at this point, both voices fell silent.

[Guillaume LeBeau]

Fairyhands? Guillaume thought silently, his mind processing what he had heard with a sense of undisguised amusement -- the sublime curl in his lips as he stopped to listen some more.

What sort of psycho would name himself Fairyhands? Nexus Prime is one strange... strange City indeed.

Eyes roving over to the building where the source of sound could was from, he carefully adjusted his hat before taking a step into the tavern -- dodgey or not, any place that served drinks is his kind of place, plus, this Fairyhands seemed... interesting enough, and if he didn't have the curiosity and wanderlust, he won't be in Nexus in the first place.

"Good Sir, a drink for me an' me friends si vous plait." He invited himself into the conversation without being introduced, and the best way to do it, from experience, was to buy the round, overpaying for the drinks and quickly establishing his presence.

A man never talks unless his mouth his wet after all.

Quickly quipping with a 'Merci beaucoup' after they were served, he sat himself down and lifted the mug up as a toast to the two men.

"Guillaume LeBeau." He introduced himself, beaming with a smile, trying his best not to behave like a smart arse, which is something that he had to consciously try not to do, considering his noble arrogance comes out every now and then; more a nuisance than anything else really, but Eras of schooling and being sheltered from the colorful and worshipful world outside does that to you.

"So... dis Fairyhands... not de sort of man you can have a laugh w'it, nyeh?"

[Amelia Lynsdaughter]

A round of stifled laughter welcomed Guillaume into the tavern, his impeccable style contrasting deeply with the general mood of the establishment and its patrons. Nevertheless, the bartender looked at him once, served them the drinks - if one could call them that - accepted the money and went back to wiping an empty mug.

The two customers were a little surprised at the man offering them a round. Well, only the more sober one was. The other one, who was perhaps a few patterns older, hardly noticed. This is not entirely correct. He noticed the drink and set himself to its immediate consumption, but not the one who had kindly paid for it. The younger patron was a dock worker, most likely, he had those thick arms suggesting that he lifted weights for a living.

"You're new around here, aren't you?" he shrugged, realizing the implicit nature of the deal. "Doctor Fairyhands, everyone knows that name. Mind you, that's the only thing most people know about him. Why do you want to know? Nothing good can come from that kind of guy... they're on the government's black list and all that, but no-one does anything about them... makes you wonder why..."

"Hey, who's this guy?" the other man murmured in his alcoholic stupor. "It's alright," the younger man said. "He's like one of them healer guys, but not quite a healer. People go to him, and he gives'em new hands, eyes, everything. I've heard he fixes male bits on eunuchs, don't know if that's true. Sometimes, when they find a dead man in the woods with strange wounds on the body, they say it's one of Fairyhands' beasts gone wild - some say it's Fairyhands himself. Don't know if that's true, either." The man shrugged a little.

"He's got this wagon out there in Markus' Quarter, outside the walls... the place is changing all the time, I've heard you can't miss it, though. The perfume gives it away..." And with that, he took a hearty sip of the foul drink that the patrons here found to be an acquired taste.

[Guillaume LeBeau]

"Spooky." Guillaume offered after the man's introduction. He mulled his thoughts over the ale as he considered his options, curiosity once more taking over him, over this Fairyhands fella, and growing exponentially. Then again, his curiosity had gotten him into all sorts of trouble from past experiences.

Then again, when was the last time he heard a good rumor, an inkling of something adventurous? Aeternia, it's been friggin cycles since he had had some good thrills after scaling Kinsey's Estate and catching his toy boy and him in the dirty.

All sorts of rumors and gossips he ever had been exposed to - the "Who's sleeping w'it who", the "Whoever was a whatever before" and "Dirty sordid childhood details" seem pretty and extremely dull compared to this one.

Taking another mouthful of the frothy liquid and cringing, he wiped his lips with his sleeves, as he idly studied the rest of the patrons in the tavern.

"Ja, I'm a traveller." He replied with a discerning smile.

"Sounds like one Aeternia of a man, if he can really fix de... you know... schlong back." He murmured with a grim smile, though his mind was more or less made up.

"Well, mon ami, any one who can add an extra touch t'your manhood ought t'be de Regent, I reckon. In fact, I'm goin' t'go to look fer dis Fairyhands.. not dat I need anythin' from him, mind you. I've got plenty... just curious is all." His voice turned slightly defensive when he realized his statement was open to various intepretation that belittled his manhood.

Dropping a few crowns on the counter, Guillaume murmured chirpily for the barkeep to serve the next round to the two, before turning back to look at the more sober of the two.

"Mon ami, i would make him lay off de sauce for awhile if I were you."

And then, its straight into the Markus' Quarter.

[Amelia Lynsdaughter]

The sober man - the only one in the duo who was capable of turning his head to meet Guillaume's gaze - looked at him as though he had just confessed to being a worshipper of Jorel. It was bad enough that desperate men resorted to devils like Fairyhands, but a perfectly healthy one? Really, the guy was asking for trouble. And as the old wisdom goes, ask and thou shalt receive.

The patron decided that what the flamboyant stranger wanted to do with his life was none of his business, and even discussing the matter probably smelled of heresy anyway. He waved his hand dismissively and muttered something along the lines of "You haven't heard anything here," though he looked like he would accept the next round without too many moral dilemmas.

It was a respectable walk. Markus' Quarter did not lie within the city walls of Nexus. Those who were too poor to afford any kind of housing in Nexus typically took residence here, though it was also frequented by those who did not plan on staying for long, such as caravans and merchants from elsewhere in Arium. It was impossible to miss this quarter, for it extended in every direction with one's first step out of the Eastern Gates of Nexus.

One interesting thing to notice was that given the late time of brightening, and the fact that the gates were closed at dusk, there was a very real possibility that the LeBeau would have to spend the darkening out of the walls. Which may or may not be the wisest thing to do, especially now that Markus' Quarter had expanded considerably. The Paxian refugees had settled down on the outskirts of this already miserable area of the city, managing to look even more miserable. To walk here, where the Blueshirts rarely patrolled, was dangerous, especially if one happened to be a noble and dressed in such a way as to suggest wealth.

The place was littered with tents and ramshackle buildings made from mud and some invariably stolen wood. Crime ran rampant here, making the poor even poorer. The atmosphere was dark and gloomy, which also explained why the guards were eager to shut the Eastern gates as early as possible.

Finding Fairyhands here was not going to be so easy. Already heads were peeking out of windows inside buildings that should not deserve that name. Crude campfires lit up portions of the scenery, more and more finger pointing at the young man being revealed in the dim light. People here wore little more than rags, and looked harsh and hardened. They did not smell good, either.

In truth, there was exactly one wagon Guillaume could see in the distance. It was white, and remarkably well-kept compared to what lay around it. Of course, getting there meant a few minutes' walk through the worst section of the city.

[Guillaume LeBeau]

Now, now, Bianca herself would have fainted if she ever laid eyes on this scene, and would have been livid if she knew that her only son had just fallen into the pits of perdition.

Despite being lavished in opulence and protected from the harsh reality outside, the LeBeau's confidence demeanor eventually slipped -- three steps after he had taken within the Markus Quarter, to be exact.

While he didn't offer any sympathy, there was something raw and solitary in the way he looked, all composure stripped away, and with all the eyes on him as he moved, Guillaume LeBeau never felt so small in his life.

Moving toward a young woman who looked like she could be a pretty little thing if the dirt and grime were washed from her face, the LeBeau fished out his pouch that held the remainder of his crowns after spending the entire Brightening gallivanting on the streets of the City.

There won't be much, maybe forty, fifty crowns, but it might mean the world to them.

"Here, take dem, and get de lil' one somethin' t'eat." He gestured to the child beside her -- the one with no bravery in his eyes, only sadness... and distrust. He still stood in the fringe of the Quarter, not really wanting to move through the throng of people looking at him like that.

He didn't know why he did it, and perhaps the moment he fished out his pouch, he felt the pang of regret, especially since he was going to be strapped for the rest of his journey, but something touched him, something profound, deep and powerful.

And Guillaume LeBeau, who had never had to lift a finger in his life to work, found himself momentarily distracted... by a wagon. The purity of its hue struck him as odd at first, before his mind started to spin the wheels of possibility.

"Do you know... who lives dere?" He tilted his head and pointed in the direction of the wagon, still not moving into the heart of the Quarter.

No point testing the depth of the water with two legs, especially if it's going to be for naught.

[Amelia Lynsdaughter]

The young woman accepted the money with a large amount of suspicion on her face; people giving out money for nothing was virtually unheard of around here, and the man didn't look like he belonged to the Chariteer's guild. In the end, however, her state of need won out, and she pocketed the Crowns before Guillaume changed his mind.

All was revealed when the man spoke to her and asked her about the wagon, and her hazel eyes filled with fright and she wrapped an arm around the child's shoulder. "It's... it's dangerous there. I never go around that wagon when it comes here. The masked demon is inside, and his halfling waits outside. It happens maybe once a cycle, they... they come and wait. The halfling has an evil light in his eyes, but his master, he's the terrible one. He buys... he buys our dead."

The girl looked up at Guillaume, wondering what kind of business he may have with such demons. "He buys them to cut them up... he keeps what can be salvaged and throws out the rest, we... find them in the mornings. There are some here who will sell their own bodies for money... the masked demon will buy your foot for fifty Crowns if it's healthy... and then he gives it to someone else who's missing a foot. There are rumors... that he raises beasts like you've never seen..."

Then, the hard-eyed child spoke without warning. "I took a peek inside the wagon once..." he murmured, much to the woman's shock. "You... you shouldn't have! It's too dangerous!" The child looked at Guillaume with older eyes than a child should possess.

"It was cold, all iron, so red. And there was a half man on a stick in there that talked funny." The woman hugged the child, presumably her younger brother, though Guillaume couldn't be sure. "Don't... don't you ever do that again, stupid..."

[Guillaume LeBeau]

The more he heard, the more he was intrigued. Having never truly been exposed to any danger except the prospect of accidentally falling down the stairs of his own house every Brightening when he awakes, the Guillaume relished in the anticipation and adrenaline that swam in his blood, listening intently to the exchange between the woman and the child.

"Mon brave, listen to her, she's right, you know." The Lebeau gestured toward the woman, not knowing how they were related and not wishing to offend and thus using very general terms to address them.

"Now..." He whispered toward the woman, still looking at his surroundings with the rest of the stricken all around him.

His face turned into a mask of seriousness, eyes instantly warm with empathy, making them large and puppy-like, knowing that somewhere out there, more than ninty percent of the women would fall for an act like that.

"I need a favor, M'belle. See, I have a friend in dere, an' I need t'get him out of dere before its too late." He held her hand up with his own fingers boldly, gently and softly, expression beseeching as he made himself seem all the more vulnerable and in need of assistance, by hunching his shoulders slightly.

"If you would be so kind as t'escort me near t'de wagon, I'm a foreigner t'dis place, an' I have no wish to offend dese people."

His eyes watched the wagon, fear, expectation, hope and the adrenaline of the hunt balled into a mantic root in his abdomen as he gaze the woman one last, perfunctory look, waiting for her to make her decision.

[Amelia Lynsdaughter]

The woman stared at Guillaume for a long moment, clearly not thrilled by the prospect of going anywhere near the wagon. In the end, however, she begrudgingly stood up and motioned for the man to follow her. The kid tagged along against her wishes, but on the other hand there was danger in being alone here, too. Both were clad in clothes that had been stitched together from other sources, which was a kind way to say 'rags'.

It took no amount of intelligence to figure out that Guillaume stuck out like a sore thumb. Weathered heads turned from rather pathetic campfires towards the nobleman from Daltina. "Don't stop. Never stop. This place is dangerous even for those who live here, let alone you. Name's Tanja, by the way. This is Fyodor, my little brother." The child looked up at Guillaume, extending his right arm gingerly to touch the man's cloak. Clearly he had never seen such fine fabric before.

The girl never stopped, either. She never looked at anyone in the eyes, but every now and then she would whisper something softly so that only Guillaume could hear. "Many turn to the masked demon for help, but what help you get out of him depends on how much you're willing to pay. Careful, the man standing by the door of that hovel - don't get caught looking at him. He's Sergei the Stitchman. Wanted a leg, wanted it cheap..."

If Guillaume looked in that direction he would see a middle-aged man with a mug in his hand and a right leg that was obviously longer than the left. So much so that the right knee was half-bent and the left one was perfectly straight. "... and he got seconds," was Tanja's final remark on him.

After a few minutes of such travelling through some of the worst corners of the world Guillaume was likely to see in the near future, they finally got near the white wagon. The two horses tethered to it starkly contrasted with each other, one being white as snow, the other black as pitch. Tanja seemed unwilling to go any further. "This is as far as I'm going for you. I... I hope you can save your friend, though. Good luck." And with that, she took the child by the hand and left Guillaume to his own devices.

The space around the wagon was eerily empty, as though nobody in their right mind would dare disturb its occupants. There was, however, a soft melody being played by a short figure sitting against one of the wheels. A pan flute playing a cryptic sonata.

[Guillaume LeBeau]

"Guillaume LeBeau." He offered with a quick smile, not the least bothered that the younger boy was touching his cloak. He was used to be being adored and idolized and this came as no real surprise to him. What failed to register in his mind was that compared to the rest of them, he was so much luckier.

He nodded and listened, but the truth was that he was completely absorbed in trying to get through alive and trying to make sure that his companions and him are going to make it through safely. Sideways glance given to the man with the odd leg as the tales and exaggerations he heard of this so called... Fairy-hands slowly formed from a fuzzy image

"I am in your debt m'belle... an' so is mon ami..." Guillaume murmured, adding the last part of his sentence as an after-thought as he flashed a smile. He had moved very quietly behind her throughout the crossing to the wagon, his eyes trying not to stray to the other occupants in the Quarter. He wondered how they got by... from the looks of it... barely.

"I wish you both well." He muttered finally, instantly regretting saying it. It wasn't meant to be condescending, but very well could be interpreted that way. Those well-wishes, given to people like them were merely like.. dust. Easy to see it in the air, hard to hold on to.

He gave a brief, perfunctory look to the short figure sitting in front of the wagon, paying little attention to the tune or the player. The anticipation swelling within him was enough to jerk him into motion.

Without further hesitation, also knowing that Tanja and Fyodor would be looking at him; giving him the incentive to not appear un-stylish or worse, a coward, the LeBeau deftly leapt up the wagon and peered through he veil, at the same time calling out laughingly, even though inside he was practically sweating bullets.

"Er... I t'ink I dropped somethin' here, I'm jus' lookin' 'round for it... dun mind me hein?"

[Amelia Lynsdaughter]

Tanja and Fyodor were gone really fast, the former holding the latter by the hand and practically dragging him along, most likely heading back to the pitiful corner of the Markus' Quarter where Guillaume had found them in the first place. Fairyhands was both hated and feared, and much to the chagrin of many, also needed by these people. His services found more customers than most would believe possible, and people who barely owned anything beside their bodies knew that bodies could be a source of Crowns.

Back to our hero, approaching the wagon like a stealthy feline. Of course he was spotted right away by the old halfling, but said halfling did not seem to mind his presence. He kept on playing his pan flute, the melody quite unlike those you heard in taverns and ballrooms around the Empire. At the same time deliberate and random, the notes followed one another without a real scheme. This music did not conform to any conventions, and yet did not sound like cacophony.

The halfling himself was in that grey area between middle-aged and elderly, and wore a formal suit, except it was old and patched up. His top hat bore the scars of time, too, and the top had come open and stuck out of the structure. Like all self-respecting halflings, he had no shoes, and his flute was a bleached white. He rested with his back against the front wheel of the wagon, and his notes did not seem to bother the horses much.

Guillaume was naturally more interested in the rear, and made his flamboyant entrance into the sanctuary of Fairyhands without interruption. Only, when he peered through the veil, he found himself staring at a mask.

It was a grotesque mask at that, reminiscient of those that actors of old would use in their performances. The left side of the face was a comedy mask, with the mouth curving upward in a smile, but the right side was a tragedy mask, grimacing as the line of the mouth bent downward. Quite elaborate, the mask appeared to be golden, and practically nothing could be said of the face underneath. The wearer's head was concealed by a hood, whereas the rest of the body was wrapped in long, flowing dark robes.

What was most unnerving, though, was the absolute lack of movement on the figure's part. If not for the rhythmical signs of breathing, Guillaume may well have thought him dead. He merely stared at the intruder from behind the mask, his pose almost unnatural and something one might expect of a large monkey or an ape. Arms parallel to the crouching body with the knuckles of the hands - beautiful gloved hands - touching the wagon's floor. And Guillaume just knew that, whatever hid behind that mask, it was not blinking. He just knew.

The rest of the interior was difficult to see through the veil with Fairyhands in between, if this was indeed the Doctor. But there was someone else inside, lying on a small metal table that had been nailed to the interior of the vehicle. Someone with an eyepatch. For now, though, Guillaume had to face this silent creature who did nothing but keep staring at him like a statue.

[Guillaume LeBeau]

"Er... bon soir mon creepy." The LeBeau intoned as he found himself shuddering at the sight of the mask -- its... inverted symmetry and proportions -- hauntingly beautiful without any flaws seem to draw out a sense of fear from the usually lion-hearted LeBeau. Everything from its posture, to the mask, to the impeccable stillness of the figure just brought a strange chill that started from the base of his neck to the end of his tail bone.

He had almost regretted being cheeky with the scary thing, but then, those who knew the LeBeau would know that the more nervous he got, the more jokes he cracked. It was a family secret, sort of thing.

And then the staring game ensued, and the un-flickering gaze of what... presumably was Fairyhands was beginning to creep-the-feth out of the LeBeau.

He reckoned he should say something, even though all the million voices in his brain was telling him to just take off and run.

"Nice place you've got. Très cozy..."

He took one measured step forward, not wanting to appear too hostile as he took a gaze at the man with the eye patch lying on the table -- presumably One-Eyed Horace.

"Oi... Horace?" He asked... albeit a little too softly. It seemed blasphemous to make to make too much a noise in such a confined space. He took one more step forward until he reached where the man was lying, touching the man's shoulder.

"Anyone home?"

Another push on the man's shoulder, this time harder.

"Let's be wakin' up now ey, before one do yourself a mischief?" The last part of the sentence was uttered as he gave M'sieu Fairyhands a look, a good enough indication to show that he didn't trust him.

"So... you be de... guy who can fix a... schlong back ey? Pretty amazin' may I say..." Nervous laughter, as he turned his head back to Horace, trying to strike up conversation, keeping it light, simple and friendly... and generally bloodless.

One can only hope.

[Amelia Lynsdaughter]

As Guillaume advanced deeper into the sanctum that was the wagon, the masked figure rose to its full height, that of an average human, the arms still falling limply by his sides. It looked as if he pursued economy in his movements to the extent of simply forgetting that the unneccessary parts even existed.

Fairyhands remained absolutely silent, merely turning to face the LeBeau as he moved around in this unknown, confined space as if he were familiar with it, which he was not. If he expected the Doctor to yell at him or kick him out, though, Guillaume would be disappointed. No real reaction came from the robed figure. The interior of the wagon was crumped with shelves and small closet that had been nailed to the 'walls'. Some had see-through glass panels and revealed a glimpse of their contents, usually bottles, box and jars, or strange implements, most of which featured blades or needles, not to mention the ever popular leeches.

The surgical table rested on one side of the wagon, leaving barely enough room for an averagely built human to squeeze through and reach the far end of the vehicle, where a small wooden door led to the driver's seat. This wagon was obviously custom-built and one of its kind. A stool lay in the far corner, with something pretty large on it that was currently obstructed from view due to a thick off-white blanket covering it.

As it turned out, the one-eyed man was not asleep. Perfectly awake, in fact. He muttered a few obscenities at Guillaume as the man poked his shoulder, and would have swung his arms at the Daltinan, had it not been for the fact that he was bound. Five leather straps kept his body firmly in place, tying the man down. Horace could barely see the intruder from his posititon, but seemed to be less than pleased by his operation being interrupted, though by the look of things he had not been touched yet. "Get this fether outta here!" he roared.

Suddenly, the curtain was drawn once more, and the old halfling peered through, alerted by the noise. Fairyhands turned his head slowly towards Guillaume to indicate the source of the trouble. "Get in line, lad, we are fully booked for tonight," the halfling spoke, "and all business goes through me anyway. Name's Galdo Brimbanger." He tipped his broken top hat, though there was no real respect behind the act, nor was there any in the wicked grin plastered on his face.