just stayed angry and on edge, and that was a uniquely dangerous position for both of them to be in. Cross wasn’t sure if he even wanted to trust her with the task of checking for enemy sentries.
Luckily for him, she was able to perform her duties just fine, and while Cross stood freezing in the dark alcove of a half-ruined structure his spirit moved away in a swirl of dissonant steam and wound her way up the sides of the towers like a spectral snake.
Her vaporous essence moved around every living thing that she detected, and she made contact just long enough to verify any given creature’s existence and type. Any being that she touched would, at best, feel a slight chill at her passing.
She returned to him just a few seconds later, charged with adrenaline and excitement, and she imparted to him the fact that a trio of armed men stood high in the tower and watched for unwanted guests. He was able to keep them in sight when he stepped out into the street and approached the tower that housed the Grey Angel.
A dank moat filled with metal refuse and filthy rainwater surrounded that tower, and the only way to access the building was to use a rickety bridge made from tin plates strung together with chains. Cross watched the windowless face of the tower as he slowly made his way across. The bridge was incredibly unstable, and he held his breath the entire time. The darkness beneath him wasn’t as deep as it looked, but that wouldn’t matter with all of the shrapnel and razor-edged debris that waited at the bottom.
Cross flashed some currency so the grey-clad bouncer on the other side of the steel-plated door would let him through. The door was three-inches thick, and the metal hall beyond was covered in scratches and acid burns.
These guys seriously need to consider redecorating.
It had been some time since Cross had visited the Grey Angel. He’d been a frequent customer a few years back, when he and Graves came to visit lovely ladies like Isis, Miranda, Cassiope and Julei. But as time wore on and he started to see the weariness of the profession suck those girl’s souls away, Cross grew less and less inclined to promote a business that slowly killed its workers. Getting laid, he’d decided, wasn’t worth the damage done to his conscience.
One could never guess the posh nature of the Grey Angel from its gritty industrial shell. As soon as Cross exited the outer hall and entered the main chamber he was assaulted with the smell of rosemary and cinnamon, vanilla and hyacinth, and a variety of exotic eastern perfumes. The air was filled with powder and sweat. The acrid taste of tobacco and hashish was strong enough that Cross got a buzz just walking into the place.
The main chamber of the Grey Angel was an enormous circular dance room filled with a dozen small tables and one massive central staging area that, so far as Cross knew, had never actually been used. Scantily clad women of all shapes, sizes, hair color and age wandered through the room, and they rubbed up close against the equally varied patrons of the Grey Angel, an establishment that catered to soldiers, ruffians, mercenaries and street merchants, men of means but not necessarily with a great deal of panache or class.
Armed sentries and a pair of gargoyle bouncers ensured that the Grey Angel’s patrons behaved, and it was common knowledge that anyone who acted violently towards one of the girls would suffer serious consequences. The fact that the Grey Angel was reputedly controlled by a former soldier with ties to the powerful smuggling ring called The Shard lent some credence to those rumors, as did the level of security on display.
Hard music pounded through the air, heavy tribal drums and liquid beats, guttural chants and garbled and distorted vocals. Cross smelled wine and musk. The air was so thick it slid down his throat like tainted honey. His eyes stung and his head throbbed.
A barred chamber at the back of the main room held a cashier aided by a
Luckily for him, she was able to perform her duties just fine, and while Cross stood freezing in the dark alcove of a half-ruined structure his spirit moved away in a swirl of dissonant steam and wound her way up the sides of the towers like a spectral snake.
Her vaporous essence moved around every living thing that she detected, and she made contact just long enough to verify any given creature’s existence and type. Any being that she touched would, at best, feel a slight chill at her passing.
She returned to him just a few seconds later, charged with adrenaline and excitement, and she imparted to him the fact that a trio of armed men stood high in the tower and watched for unwanted guests. He was able to keep them in sight when he stepped out into the street and approached the tower that housed the Grey Angel.
A dank moat filled with metal refuse and filthy rainwater surrounded that tower, and the only way to access the building was to use a rickety bridge made from tin plates strung together with chains. Cross watched the windowless face of the tower as he slowly made his way across. The bridge was incredibly unstable, and he held his breath the entire time. The darkness beneath him wasn’t as deep as it looked, but that wouldn’t matter with all of the shrapnel and razor-edged debris that waited at the bottom.
Cross flashed some currency so the grey-clad bouncer on the other side of the steel-plated door would let him through. The door was three-inches thick, and the metal hall beyond was covered in scratches and acid burns.
These guys seriously need to consider redecorating.
It had been some time since Cross had visited the Grey Angel. He’d been a frequent customer a few years back, when he and Graves came to visit lovely ladies like Isis, Miranda, Cassiope and Julei. But as time wore on and he started to see the weariness of the profession suck those girl’s souls away, Cross grew less and less inclined to promote a business that slowly killed its workers. Getting laid, he’d decided, wasn’t worth the damage done to his conscience.
One could never guess the posh nature of the Grey Angel from its gritty industrial shell. As soon as Cross exited the outer hall and entered the main chamber he was assaulted with the smell of rosemary and cinnamon, vanilla and hyacinth, and a variety of exotic eastern perfumes. The air was filled with powder and sweat. The acrid taste of tobacco and hashish was strong enough that Cross got a buzz just walking into the place.
The main chamber of the Grey Angel was an enormous circular dance room filled with a dozen small tables and one massive central staging area that, so far as Cross knew, had never actually been used. Scantily clad women of all shapes, sizes, hair color and age wandered through the room, and they rubbed up close against the equally varied patrons of the Grey Angel, an establishment that catered to soldiers, ruffians, mercenaries and street merchants, men of means but not necessarily with a great deal of panache or class.
Armed sentries and a pair of gargoyle bouncers ensured that the Grey Angel’s patrons behaved, and it was common knowledge that anyone who acted violently towards one of the girls would suffer serious consequences. The fact that the Grey Angel was reputedly controlled by a former soldier with ties to the powerful smuggling ring called The Shard lent some credence to those rumors, as did the level of security on display.
Hard music pounded through the air, heavy tribal drums and liquid beats, guttural chants and garbled and distorted vocals. Cross smelled wine and musk. The air was so thick it slid down his throat like tainted honey. His eyes stung and his head throbbed.
A barred chamber at the back of the main room held a cashier aided by a
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