A moment later, there is a soft sound, little more than a breath, and Tempest and Moonbeard feel a slight sting in their necks. As the darts laced with elephant tranquilizer take effect and the world goes dark, they may notice a familiar triad of elves coming out from behind the chimneys and approaching them...
*************
Waif leads Neeron up a narrow flight of stairs and stops at another door. The sounds of a violin can be heard playing faintly from the other side, a sad gypsy tune. Waif knocks and the music stops. A tall, slender man answers the door. He is dressed in patched black slacks and a white button-down shirt, his slightly-tousled blond hair reaching nearly to his shoulders. The paleness of his skin, the androgynous beauty of his face, the distinctive shape to his warm brown eyes indicated elven heritage somewhere in his background. His eyebrows shot up in pleasant surprise as he recognized one of the visitors. "Waif!" he said in a melodious voice. "We haven't seen you in some time. Please, come in!"
He moves aside to allow the androgyne and the demon to enter. The apartment atop the bar was not a terribly spacious one, but what it lacked in footage it made up for with a disorganized sort of coziness. The main room in which they found themselves boasted a threadbare but comfortable couch, stacks upon stacks of books, and a stone fireplace. The violin that had been playing resided in a place of honour on the mantle.
"You'll be wanting to stay for supper, I expect?" said the man.
Waif looked up at him through wide eyes and chewed the tip of a finger. "If Maggie wouldn't mind..."
"I'm sure she wouldn't. I believe she's making shepherd's pie, so there should be plenty."
With a delighted squeak, Waif ran down a hallway and disappeared toward what could only be the kitchen.
The man smiled down at Neeron and held out a long-fingered hand. "Welcome. My name is Jospeh Fiddler. And you are?"
*************
Jasna had been too busy staring at Moonbeard's handiwork in horror to move, and so had completely missed the men's exit. "Fools, fools!" she cursed them, when she could finally find words. "Idiot!" she cursed herself for bringing them. Quickly she ran down the walkway, stumbling half of the way in a most un-catlike manner. At the door, she took a moment to calm herself, knowing that like all doors in the Sphinx's palace, it tended to be random if you weren't firm with it. After a moment of concentration, she tore it open to the hallway through which they'd originally come.
Regis, who'd been leaning against it waiting for their return, nearly fell over. Jasna caught the halfling and nearly lifted him off the floor in her panic. "Regis! Tell her it wasn't me! When she wakes up, tell her it wasn't me!"
"What?" said the halfling?
Shoving him aside, the Cheshire Cat darted down the hallway, out of the building, and made her way back to her flat. A steady stream of curses ran from her mouth as she threw a few essentials into a duffle bag and made her way back down to the streets. The terrible thing about living in the Crossroads was that when you needed to leave town--and she very badly needed to leave town--you couldn't. The good thing about living in the Crossroads was that when you needed to hide--and she very badly needed to hide--there was no end of dark, remote places in which to do so.
Legends did not die. But when they came back from being frozen and pounded into a fine powder, the could certainly be murderous. The Sphinx was a legend if ever there was one, and a powerful one, with many powerful friends--or at least powerful people who owed her favours.
What Jasna needed, she concluded, as she hurried through the back alleys of the Crossroads, was a drink. A very stiff drink.
*************
When they wake up, Moonbeard and Tempest find themselves bound tightly back to back, hanging from their ankles. They had been strip-searched prior to this, and their clothing lies in a pile in the hallway outside of the dark stone room in which they find themselves.
The elf called Elrohir stands before them. "Arafinwë Súrion," he said by way of greeting. "We were able to forgive your trespassing once, especially since you were traveling with Jasna. She is a most useful ally to have, and a good friend to those who treat her well. But she is not here, now, and we owe you nothing. We shall have to think of what to do with you." He retreated to a doorway and pulled it open. "The rope is enchanted, of course, and so will not break, and the knots only come loose with a password. The motorcycle you brought with you onto our roof is a most fascinating contraption. It has been dismantled so that we may understand how to craft more of our own. Such technology is rare, here."
And with that he was gone.
*************
Waif leads Neeron up a narrow flight of stairs and stops at another door. The sounds of a violin can be heard playing faintly from the other side, a sad gypsy tune. Waif knocks and the music stops. A tall, slender man answers the door. He is dressed in patched black slacks and a white button-down shirt, his slightly-tousled blond hair reaching nearly to his shoulders. The paleness of his skin, the androgynous beauty of his face, the distinctive shape to his warm brown eyes indicated elven heritage somewhere in his background. His eyebrows shot up in pleasant surprise as he recognized one of the visitors. "Waif!" he said in a melodious voice. "We haven't seen you in some time. Please, come in!"
He moves aside to allow the androgyne and the demon to enter. The apartment atop the bar was not a terribly spacious one, but what it lacked in footage it made up for with a disorganized sort of coziness. The main room in which they found themselves boasted a threadbare but comfortable couch, stacks upon stacks of books, and a stone fireplace. The violin that had been playing resided in a place of honour on the mantle.
"You'll be wanting to stay for supper, I expect?" said the man.
Waif looked up at him through wide eyes and chewed the tip of a finger. "If Maggie wouldn't mind..."
"I'm sure she wouldn't. I believe she's making shepherd's pie, so there should be plenty."
With a delighted squeak, Waif ran down a hallway and disappeared toward what could only be the kitchen.
The man smiled down at Neeron and held out a long-fingered hand. "Welcome. My name is Jospeh Fiddler. And you are?"
*************
Jasna had been too busy staring at Moonbeard's handiwork in horror to move, and so had completely missed the men's exit. "Fools, fools!" she cursed them, when she could finally find words. "Idiot!" she cursed herself for bringing them. Quickly she ran down the walkway, stumbling half of the way in a most un-catlike manner. At the door, she took a moment to calm herself, knowing that like all doors in the Sphinx's palace, it tended to be random if you weren't firm with it. After a moment of concentration, she tore it open to the hallway through which they'd originally come.
Regis, who'd been leaning against it waiting for their return, nearly fell over. Jasna caught the halfling and nearly lifted him off the floor in her panic. "Regis! Tell her it wasn't me! When she wakes up, tell her it wasn't me!"
"What?" said the halfling?
Shoving him aside, the Cheshire Cat darted down the hallway, out of the building, and made her way back to her flat. A steady stream of curses ran from her mouth as she threw a few essentials into a duffle bag and made her way back down to the streets. The terrible thing about living in the Crossroads was that when you needed to leave town--and she very badly needed to leave town--you couldn't. The good thing about living in the Crossroads was that when you needed to hide--and she very badly needed to hide--there was no end of dark, remote places in which to do so.
Legends did not die. But when they came back from being frozen and pounded into a fine powder, the could certainly be murderous. The Sphinx was a legend if ever there was one, and a powerful one, with many powerful friends--or at least powerful people who owed her favours.
What Jasna needed, she concluded, as she hurried through the back alleys of the Crossroads, was a drink. A very stiff drink.
*************
When they wake up, Moonbeard and Tempest find themselves bound tightly back to back, hanging from their ankles. They had been strip-searched prior to this, and their clothing lies in a pile in the hallway outside of the dark stone room in which they find themselves.
The elf called Elrohir stands before them. "Arafinwë Súrion," he said by way of greeting. "We were able to forgive your trespassing once, especially since you were traveling with Jasna. She is a most useful ally to have, and a good friend to those who treat her well. But she is not here, now, and we owe you nothing. We shall have to think of what to do with you." He retreated to a doorway and pulled it open. "The rope is enchanted, of course, and so will not break, and the knots only come loose with a password. The motorcycle you brought with you onto our roof is a most fascinating contraption. It has been dismantled so that we may understand how to craft more of our own. Such technology is rare, here."
And with that he was gone.