Northbridge Docks (Chyril 22nd, TT)

[Marcus Eramo]

Eramo took a small boat as transport to the Northbridge Docks. He wanted to become more familiar with the waterways of the great city and be able to navigate visually using local landmarks. Looking down at the waves he frowned. The Scillus was to blame for the epidemic of sickness sweeping the city as the rumours went, and that did not help ease the passage. He made a mental note to inspect how the locals dealt with the vapours of the river, as no amount of coin this side of the Seven Isles would be worth contracting the blight known as Blacklung. Considering the odds, he wondered if smugglers might find it safer to deal with the multi-colored militia on the streets than brave these waters.
Great Risk, Greater reward.. Another parable of his fathers.

With a half-smirk, Marcus squinted in the noon day sun hoping to get his bearings. Looking to his right, Eramo could see the Ductusi Towers off in the distance, whose familiar presence was nothing more than a backdrop as he had used them to circumvent the city all his life.

As a Southbridge hoodlum, he was somewhat familiar with the oppulence of Northbridge. Where do you think all the money was? Like asking a thief to take a breath. Finding wealth was second nature, stealing it was the third.
His first stop would be one of the few "connections" he had in Northbridge. It was one Marcus had not used for quite a while; a local merchant in the import-export business he did a few snatch and grab jobs for when it was too hot for him back home. It was the job of these types of men to have their finger on the pulse of the trade of the city, but it was their nature he was after.
Greed was the most predictable of motivations, but in it's stability lay it's strength. Like dropping a loaf a bread into a leper colony. The only skill lay in tracking the shortest and most efficient path to the meal.

Eramo removed the smile from his face and neutralised his thoughts and posture with a turn of the head. His body language became something stark and harder to read. He wore his mental armour easier than the cloak draped across his shoulders.

Blinking his eyes, he looked north scanning the horizon line.






Continuing from Topic: Madam Panicci's MT https://tazlure.nl/board/viewtopic.php?t=13790

[Maeve]

In truth there was nothing that would ever prevent the Blacklung from appearing for how does one stop breathing or stop needing water? Perhaps the scholars of one of the college's, or even the Nashorn Institute would one day find the true cause of the vapors to be in the mighty Industry that polluted the environment of the Mouth, but as of yet such insights were far beyond them. Instead the local fishermen showed a surprising lack of care of such dangers, swimming in the water, eating the fish, washing their clothes, drinking its water. They were not the healthiest of people but they were happier than the workers of Southbridge who worked hard for meager pay and under similar unhealthy conditions.

In deep thought, his eyes scanning the horizon that revealed nothing more than the normal skyline of the Mouth, an imposing if somewhat dark sight to be sure, Marcus arrived at the docks of Northbridge where many ships were unloaded and there was at thriving activity.

[Marcus Eramo]

In a timespan that felt like months, Eramo exited the vessel and felt the chalky texture of stone firm beneath his feet. For some unexplainable reason, he could not shake the feeling of pent up frustration even as he followed through several breathing techniques to calm his mind. Memory of the whore still lingered, but the excess of her allowances brought him no further comfort.

Scanning the Dockside, Marcus decided to get a feel for the place and began to hunt down close to the ships, walking with an air that suggested his time was currency.

He headed in the direction of the Import-Export business but kept his eyes open for anything indicative of smugglers, their culture and perhaps alittle coffee.

The weight of the payment hungered for by his employers drove a pang of unease through the young man's stomach. What was he doing up in Northbridge, when a quick gutting back home might have been enough to quell the bellyache of his familia for a short time.
Grimacing, anger and willpower tore through those emotions driven by a life of petty crime and low billings.

"More.." Was the only word that dared to be conjured.

Eramo continued his warpath through the docks more passionate than ever.

[Morg]

The single word spoken by Marcus, or at least its audible manifestation, was swallowed up by the general hubbub of the docks - men hollering to each other, and the clatter of great cranes hoisting crates of goods from the decks of ships to the wharves and back. Tradetide at Northbridge meant that the area was abuzz with activity.

For a city as corrupt as the Mouth, it was strangely difficult to spot the signs of smuggling, and the reason for this lay in the corruption itself. The trade laws of World's Mouth were infamous in their liberality, so much so that almost anything could be traded legally. Pure smuggling was thus perhaps less common than in many other cities.

There were exceptions though. Hard drugs, slaves, government property, and of course stolen goods. Traffic in all these things was prohibited by law, and there were those who made a living out of it. Dante's gang were the most well known of those traffickers, large enough even to challenge Simalde's operations in that arena.

Overt signs of smuggling were tough to spot - and with good cause, for no smuggler worth his salt could afford to be lax with secrecy. The entry point into such organisations, their inevitable weak spot, was the people, and there were plenty of suspicious-looking types shuffling around who might have been able to provide a key.

Set back from the quays were the solid brick-built headquarters of the various merchant companies. One bore the black banner of House Constanza, another the purple of House Indigo, and yet another was decked out in Lo Russo red. Northbridge Shipping was represented, and the largest of all was the menacing grey bulk of the Aveas Exports Company building.

[Marcus Eramo]

Marcus eyed the crowd of people moving past him and focused on a group of suspicious men that were not doing much of anything other than stand around. He noticed one man sitting alone several crates over and walked towards him. Gaining idle eye contact and an awareness of presence, Eramo flashed a simple hand gesture to the man that could have been mistaken for a stretch of the fingers. It was deliberate, but yet subtle enough to glance off the awareness of those not privy to the language of thieves. It meant MONEY and INFORMATION; Or at least he hoped it did. He knew some general signs, but between dodging nooses and tightening them he didn't have the burns for small talk.
Walking beside the man as if looking for a spot to take a piss, Eramo made an offhand glance toward the man's fingers and once at the eyes to see if he found a brother or just a drunk working off a day old hang-over. Either way, this wouldn't be a total loss.. he found the perfect spot to relieve himself in privacy.

[Morg]

The man who Marcus approached, sitting alone on a wooden box behind a wall of such boxes and glancing forlornly around him, did not react to the gesture. After several flickers, instead, he raised himself from his seat and shuffled off. It became apparent that his right leg had been truncated at the knee, and strapped to the stump under his breeches was little more than a crude length of wood. The unkempt-looking fellow's lolloping gait produced a rhythmic tapping as the artificial limb struck the cobbles of the wharf. Tock, tock, tock.

From its rank odour and slight yellow tinge it was evident that the wall of crates had been used by several dock workers for the same purpose Marcus was now employing it for. Indeed, another man was approaching from the vicinity in a leisurely fashion. He was bald, and his arms, protruding from his shabby tunic, were more than a little flabby as well as muscular. He came to stand about a pace away from Marcus, facing the wall, and unbuttoned the top of his breeches, grunting in satisfaction as the urine began to flow.

That could have been all, except that a few words were audible, muttered above the rustling sound of the steaming stream of liquid striking wood. "So what've you got?"

[Marcus Eramo]

With a flash of amusement, the young man prayed his stream of urine would not give out quite yet. In a firm voice he responded.
"Got some mineral here, looking for Dante's Gang. You provide the contact and I provide three Lance just for the trouble, and more weight if your source is legit."

Pausing, he squeezed out the last few drops against the dirty crate, turning his shoulder slightly to make certain no sailor was about to get clever on him.
Ah, Northbridge.. a vein of gold cut into a wall of rotting wood, moldy water and an overused copper deposit just south of here. It felt good to at least get out of Southbridge for the day. As much as the place was home, it was starting to wear on him.
At the same time, there was something overtly dangerous about courting a rival gang and using those profits to fund your own, but that would only be a temporary arrangement at best. It was the experience he was after as much as the connections, so a little risk was just part of the hand you were dealt. The golden rule of this game lay in the fact that you didn't have to play by the rules at all. In fact stacking the deck was expected if not respected and this stage Eramo felt more like a card being shuffled himself then a dealer rigging the hole card.
That.. was something that was going to change. He would make damn sure to have assurances lying in wait up his proverbial sleeve before the month was out. Proverbial because he already had something tucked up his actual sleeve, something sharp but very friendly.
A glimpse of rage crossed his face, but he blinked it away awaiting the response of the stranger as if calm detatchment was bred in him.

The afternoon was still young, and Marcus would carve out his methology as the situation presented it's self. He doubted memory of his face had travelled this far north. To most folk here.. Southies were not something worth remembering. Never the less, Eramo drew his new red cloak close to his person and made sure to remove the more colorful colloquialisms from his speech.

[Morg]

Archived without skilling due to character death.