It's starting to feel like maybe The Crow was wrong. Maybe it CAN rain all the time.
And when it rains, it pours.
Less than twenty-four hours after the visit to the Pure house, John is approached by a rather pale woman draped in heavy, rain proof layers fabric. Beneath the cloth, she doesn't seem to move right - perhaps covering some deformity. Even her face is partly shadowed, but her voice is lovely, if firm. "Your presence is requested by Price Tillo."
John is getting used to being approached by the unhomed -- in Chicago, it's a sad fact that a significant percentage of those suffer from mental or physical ailments, so he is not at first surprised, mistaking her for one of them. When he hears that name from her mouth, though, his demeanor shifts. "One second," he says, reaching for a coat. He throws on a waist-length Northface jacket that will keep the worst of the rain from soaking through his weathered 'White Sox' thermal, and pulls his phone out of his pocket to send a quick text. Then he sets off to follow the woman, asking as they go, "What's the dress code? Should I change?"
The figure goes quiet while the wolf moves to grab his coat. "We are going to the Oubliette. Where Prince Tillo holds court, it lies beneath the West Side, in the Labyrinth. I will show you the way." She promises with her dulcet tones. When it seems he is ready, she turns to lead the way. It is a fair hike, and it is fairly gross.
John follows along gamely enough. If he mourns his expensive boots, he does so privately, in his own mind. Once they have been going for some time, he focuses a moment and tries to shift his senses. He wants to try to sort through the scents of the Undercity to see if he can find the familiar smells of the Pure that made their lairs at the Du Gimak.
Down among the tunnels, the ruling scents are old stone, decay, mildew, old, old waste. These are old tunnels, long cut off from the main of the city.
However.
Sharpened senses catch whiff of several different scents. Some of which were at the house the Pure used. In fact, ALL of the four scent he picked up there are here in the tunnels.
When they reach the door to the Oubliette, the woman pushes it open and beckons John to step inside.
John takes note of that, probably unable to keep it off his face if the woman has an eye for reading people. He's troubled, for a moment, maybe even expecting trouble. "Thanks," he says softly, as he steps past her and into the Oubliette. It's different from the first time he was here; werewolves are pack creatures. John is no coward, but he keenly feels how very alone he is, and how outnumbered he might be.
Within the chamber, the shadows reign. Very little lighting has been provided, but it is obvious that only the Prince on his throne is within the room. When John enters, the gaunt figure lifts his head from whatever thoughts he had been having and beckons the wolf closer. The scythe rests against the throne, as usual. Nothing seeming out of place.
"Little birds have told me a great many things."
John approaces to just within a conversational distance, walking slowly. "Prince Protz," he greets, dipping his head slightly. "Prince Tillo," he corrects himself, remembering what his guide called the Nosferatu. "I guess they have. And you asked me here for..." He takes a deep breath, shaking his head just slightly as he considers which word to use. "Clarification?"
"Indeed." That one word spoken with an almost leonine manner. "Do you know how difficult it is to keep knowledge of the Wound quiet? And to keep the things that spill across between worlds from making it above ground?" As he speaks, he rises to his near seven foot height, one hand moving with graceful, almost absent gesture.
"And here it is, you and three others, returning to the site of the crime that reduced my available resources by one."
"Crime?" John feels the menace roll off of Tillo when the prince stands, but he does not back away. "Prince, if we have overstepped in discussing the Wound so openly, then surely we -- reasonable beings, both -- can make that clear and agree on a different approach." His lip curls slightly, though, despite his best efforts when he says, "But when I killed Bhu'uhur meli, that was not a murder, that was a skirmish in a war that extends beyond time. She was not a resource, and she was a liability to anyone who thought of her that way."
He takes a deep breath, centering himself, and then adds, "The Pure cannot be a resource, not in the way that an alliance with stable, reliable Uratha who are bound by the Accord could be."
"She was not a liability /to me/. Rather, she and her pack have been working in agreement for some time. I keep their presence quiet, and they kill the things that we of the Undercity cannot conquer alone."
"They do not receive protection through the Accord, and so I extended mine to them."
"Thus, you have cost me a resource that is critical to the care of the city."
"How do you plan to make reparations?"
"That is the extent of your agreement with them," John asks, the words coming slowly. The wheels are turning in his head, so he's using a trick he sometimes uses in court -- ask clarifying questions, while you process information. Take your time, catch up.
"You protect them, and they help you to destroy the worst of what pours out of the Wound?" He pauses, and adds, "Has something specific slipped through because she is dead?"
"The details of my agreement is of no matter to you." The query dismissed with a mild flip of his hand. "There is always something slipping through, pup." He sneers before catching himself and schooling his expression - clearly not used to being challenged.
"It is only a matter of time before the others become exhausted and something more than what you are already chasing escapes the Undercity."
John's breath catches when he realizes he has provoked Tillo's pique, and he has to remind himself to let it out. "If I don't know the bargain, Prince," he counters, "Then I can't assess what I owe you." He pauses, steels himself, and adds, "If I owe. I think one could be forgiven for being uncertain whether you had a genuine grievance, or only leverage, and a want."
"But even if it were the latter," he adds, "We might still be able to find our way to an agreement, here."
"I already have something in mind." Because of course he does.
"I want you to take her place on my team."
John takes that in stride. It's the line of thought he was buying himself time to explore. He gives it a moment, a couple of steadying breaths, before he responds. "I'm not opposed to that. I may even find some enthusiasm for the idea, but I need information. Assurances, maybe."
His chest rises and falls as he prepares himself to negotiate. "I won't work with them. If my pack and I support you, it has to also mean that they lose your protection. We have to finish what I started with Bhu'uhur Meli."
"Employees rarely get to choose their co-workers. Think on it and contact within the next twenty-four hours. I will know if you speak of this with others." He says, dismissing. "If you decline, you will be in my debt for the value of that ~Anshega's~ service to me in keeping the Wound managed. It is not a small price. She and the Pure have proven quiet ferocious and very diligent in their employ to me."
"What we can do for you, they can't do, or won't," John counters, shaking his head. "That you're meeting with me, and not her, proves that."
John takes a half-step backward, sensing the meeting may be at an end. "I and mine will be no less diligent, no less ferocious, and it could be that our alliance might prove useful along other lines in a way that allying yourself with the Pure..." He pauses, then shakes his head. "Simply isn't."
"She's dead. Meeting with her would do me little good. Can a corpse destroy the things that escape the Wound?"
"Prove it. Prove it without costing me standing. Without giving the Uratha the credit for the work. And without reducing my resources further UNTIL such a time as you have proven that you can step into the shoes they fill."
John shakes his head. "If we cross paths," he says, his voice dropping to just above a whisper, "I'll kill them, or they me." He doesn't want to be arguing with Tillo, not at all, but he needs to be clear. "And I understand that they're under your protection, for now, and what that might mean. It *may* even be that the Accord finds you were right to kill me."
He doesn't like saying those words. He takes a moment to calm the swirl of emotion -- fear, definance, anger -- that threatens the steadiness of his voice. "But with clear communication -- clear direction, from you to me -- I will prove to you that you are better served by an alliance with me and mine, and I'll tell no one outside my pack until an agreement between you and me is sealed."
There's a low, throaty sort of growl of sound from Tillo. And then a laugh. "Dead men can't pay debts." He returns to his repose upon the throne, settling into a thoughtful posture while the woman at the door opens it - ready to lead the wolf once more.
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