"I'm tellin' ya, stalagmites are on the ceiling because they might fall on you. Stalactites are on the floor because they sit tight."

"Nuh uh, stalagmites are on the floor because it takes a lot of might to grow up out of the ground. Stalactites are on the ceiling because they have to cling tight so that they don't fall off."

The leader of this particular band of kobolds had heard this same argument countless times when moving through caves and caverns, and as such, had decided to educate himself on the topic. They were making good progress, and they needed to wrap up this scripted argument before they got to the location where their eavesdroppers would be waiting.

"The second answer is correct. Stalactites and stalagmites are both a form of speleothems, a broad category of geological formations made from the formation of mineral deposits over time. It also includes flowstone, columns, drapery, and straws. Well, they get more specific than that, but those are the generalizations."

Their band, not a true troupe, had recently converted to service to the Crossroad Wayfinders, as had seemingly everyone and his brother. There was not enough work to go around, and so they had lucked out by being cast for their current Roles. Sneaking through the subterranean cave network beneath Theocracy of Ulsfarh was child's play for kobolds. Smuggling goods and information without being caught was another matter, but for the Nameless like them, it was a job they would see through.

As they approached their destination, more entities, living creatures with souls, entered the range of his perception as they made their debut upon the grand stage of their little scene. It is almost impossible to sneak past kobolds undetected, as they are completely aware of everyone who is part of whatever scene is playing out at any given moment. However, their Roles demand a certain degree of separation between character knowledge and personal knowledge, and so, they must ignore the fact that enemy agents lurk in wait for an ambush.

The real question was found in how this should be played out. Should it be a musical number, or perhaps something involving flyting? Maybe it should be an epic battle with larger-than-life explosions. The Script offered no insights nor inspiration at this moment, but he could improvise.

Carefully, and without appearing that they were on to the wily ways of their soon-to-be attackers, he guided his band just out of range of the ambush.

"Whew, I am getting older," he said while panting to catch his breath. "This cave just keeps going up and up. Let's take a moment to catch our breath here."

This little tactic allowed everyone to bunch up, for their passage through the caves often forced them to travel in single file. However, the others did not need to be told what to do, and they each took relaxed positions in such a way that would allow them to recover but also be prepared for the inevitable attack.

Then, one of their number engaged in the crucial dialogue.

"Boss, this package sure is heavy. What is even in this thing and where are we even taking it again?"

In the darkness of the cave, distant ears strained to hear this juicy information.

"Less complaining and more working, you lazy git," the leader of the band replied as he whacked the big one carrying 'the package' over the head. "We need to get that to The Icy Beaver by midnight or this whole deal will be a bust."

The Icy Beaver is a tavern in the capitol owned indirectly by one [Noble] or another. The deal itself is just a ruse, one to sow confusion and dissent amongst their ranks as they each question one another's loyalty in these troubling times. The package itself had some sort of "magical artifact" and "incriminating documents" within it, all of which would give a reasonable appearance of treachery in cooperation with the Crossroad Wayfinders, but none if it is founded in truth.

With everyone rested, and more importantly, in formation, the band continued only a short ways and into the open cavern before them. Predictably, the ambushers began to strike, but that was when the boss kobold made his move.

[Unskippable Cutscene].

"Boldly you dare strike against agents of the Crossroad Empire," the boss started as the ambushers found their sneaky assault halted before it began, the lot of them forced subconsciously to move into a formation on the far side of the cavern. "You curs despoil this land with your very presence, and we shall purge you from the realm. To me, my brethren, and let the bloody sacraments of battle find us favored." With his final line, he drew a magical sword from his sheath, one that was on fire, as all good magical swords should be for the sake of drama.

With the [Unskippable Cutscene] over, the battle began. Proudly, the boss watched as his fellow kobolds stuck to their training. Plenty of one-liners were issued in challenge or dismay, such as "I'll use your guts as garters." or "Damn, one day before retirement.", and even the odd "You'll never take me alive." They made sure to only attack the lead assassin in ones and twos, and never to deal deadly blows. It was the Role of the boss to fight his counterpart, and the Role of the lessers to die or fall injured in trying to foolishly oppose prominent individuals.

"You dare challenge me?" the boss kobold shouted to the opposing leader, his voice filled with appropriate levels of scorn and contempt. "Very well, I shall teach you a lesson."

Unperturbed that his opponent was more than twice his height, the kobold leader fought back valiantly, but the outcome was predictable. They were supposed to lose, and 'the package' was supposed to be intercepted. And so, as wounds mounted, his band routed. Being one of the last remaining, the boss made sure to get in the final word.

"You haven't seen the last of me, villain! You will pay for your misdeeds committed this day."

With a flourish of his sword and twirls of his cape, he leapt away back the way his band came from, deeper into the darkness of the cave. The assailants did not pursue, as securing the package was their priority. Safely away, the leader addressed his band.

"Good work everyone. Let's linger for a while until they leave, and then collect our dead. We gotta get their bodies back to the eggs in time so that we can revive them cheaply."

The fallen were scripted to die, and so, their revival would indeed not cost the flight much in the way of eggs to bring them back to life. Such was the strange and mysterious lifestyle of kobolds, for this battle was just another day at the office for them.

The first rays of afternoon's sun shone into the dingy office in the corner of a rundown building, the landlord too cheap to use his absurd rent money to fix the place up. Haggard steps were each announced by squeaking floorboards as scaly feet brought a weary body over to a desk. A disorganized mess of papers, empty bottles, and final notices of late payment littered its surface.

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A hand reached around groggily for one of the bottles, one that still had some lingering remnants of whisky (apple juice). Pouring it into the glass, the kobold stared at his reflection for a moment. Tired eyes, once full of life and vigor, now only showed burnt embers of that erstwhile and naïve enthusiasm. Five o'clock molting lined his chin, the edges of it stained with soot from a dozen too many cigarettes (bubble blowers).

With a heavy sigh, he downed another shot as soon as it found itself poured into the bottle. As if mirroring his mood, the patter of rain against the window and darkening skies announced another day of the futile attempts of nature to wash away the filth of this city.

As he drank, the pounding in his head started up again, each blow dainty but unyielding as they continued to irritate him.

"Hello," came a small voice. "Mr. Gambino, are you here?"

It took a moment for him to realize that the pounding was at the door to his office, not in his head. He quickly tried to hide some bottles and organize his desk, as the first case in weeks had finally walked to his door.

"Come in," his voice came, more raspy than he would have liked, but it at least came across confidently.

The door opened, and in walked a broad whose beauty struck him like a runaway wagon. Her scales were of resplendent yellows mixed with areas of white and black. She wore a form-fitting dress of satin, a fascinator hat, and gloves that went halfway up her arms, all of it black.

Gambino rose to meet her, but did not move otherwise from his chair.

"Please, have a seat," he offered while pointing to the chair on the opposite side of the desk.

Gracefully, she accepted his offer, and with it, he knew that a whole hill of trouble had just walked into his office.

"Now, what brings a broad like you into an office like mine, Miss…?" Gambino asked after sitting down again.

"Bambina," she answered his unasked question as her sultry voice flowed forth like honey. "I have need of the services of a discrete PI, and I have been referred to you."

"Then you came to the right place, toots. Tell me what's on your mind, and I will see if my services can satisfy you."

"My father recently passed, and I have inherited his estate and his business. I have reviewed his financial records, his business contracts, and performed rudimentary inspections of his holdings. It seems that my father had been embroiled in a scheme, one where he was to be the patsy."

The dame opened her purse and withdrew from it some documents that could not have naturally fit inside of it, which spoke to enchanted storage bags that cost a pretty copper. She arranged them on the desk and continued her narrative as she pointed out relevant items of interest.

"Weapons, potions, and other such supplies were listed as being shipped on dates like as seen here," she continued as she pointed to one document. "However, the weights of the wagons do not match what cargo of such a nature should entail," she continued as she pointed to other documents. "My father was only responsible for shipping, not for supplying the goods themselves, and so, the contents of what was actually shipped in the crates is suspect. My good family's name has been besmirched, and my father's legacy left in questionable straits as past business partners now doubt his integrity." She took a moment to dab at her eyes with a tissue as she endeavored to not cry openly. "I seek to employ you to get to the bottom of this, to clear my family of such scandal, and to discover who is truly behind embezzling or falsifying these shipping manifests."

A peal of thunder followed her decree, and the poor dame jumped a little in her seat, her bold posturing clearly a front for how in over her head she was with all this. But, like a sucker getting scammed at thimblerig, he couldn't help but be drawn into her story and the prospect of pay.

"This is quite the conundrum, toots. I can get to the bottom of this, but my services don't come cheap. One gold a day, plus extra for hazard pay, as such cowardly vermin will undoubtedly lash out at me when I bring their misdeeds to light."

The dame took a small pouch from her purse, one that jingled with that satisfying sound of gold coins. She tossed it onto the table before me.

"That should get you started, I should think," she exclaimed with little room for gainsaying her as her gaze hardened. "If not, I can find someone else."

Unperturbed, Gambino lifted the pouch, and the rare semblance of a smile alighted on his face as he felt the heft in his hand.

"This will do, Miss Bambina. I know just where to start my investigation. I work alone, but it will be safe enough for you to tag along, provided you don't mind meeting unsavory individuals. Rats like these dwell in the sewers, and we will need to find the right leverage to flush them out."

"Then let us be off," she said while rising from her chair. "Time to earn your pay, I should think."

With her decree made, Gambino rose from his chair. Opening his desk drawer, he withdrew twin hand crossbows and holstered them. He retrieved his trench coat and fedora from the coat rack, and then ushered her towards the door, where they quickly departed.

Then the door opened back up, and Gambino hurried over to the window to open it. Outside, one kobold held a watering can, and another held a large metal sheet and a hammer.

"Good work on the effects, guys. We are moving on to the next scene. Meet us there, yeah?"

The Nameless kobolds gave words of acknowledgement as they started to pack up their things in preparation to depart. Satisfied, Gambino closed the window and returned to the hallway where Bambina awaited him. Together, they likewise made their way to the next scene as their investigation continued.

Days blurred together in a never-ending hell. Imprisoned within her own body, only free to be partially herself during times of violence, she languished at the edge of despair, her determination and rage being the only forces that prevented her from giving up. Lucidity and awareness of her surroundings waxed and waned, the episodes of such clarity becoming less abundant over time.

The Thief, the Warden, the Imposter, the Absolute Bitch, and other monikers as the situation dictates, drew ever closer to their target. Physically, their body remained in close proximity, easily within striking distance. But socially, engineering the correct setting to not only strike but to also get away clean proved surprisingly challenging. He has many lovers, several at a time when the mood suits him, and aligning their own schedule to strike in tandem with the others would require finesse.

One confederate pursues the one who is a stickler for schedules. Another endeavors to find a way to get close to the one that only begrudgingly allows anyone other than the primary target to be close to her. They know of the other confederates and how to communicate in order to coordinate their efforts, but she does not know them. The Usurper makes sure to suppress her awareness whenever they meet.

While she generally disagrees with wet work, or at least the targets, she finds her body's current target to be unacceptable. He is kind to her, and beyond that, she feels some sort of connection to him, one that transcends time, space, life, and reality as she knows it. And so she feigned casual acceptance with the Parasite. She pooled her resolve, ready to unleash her conviction and to assert her will when the blade is in motion, to take that Invasive Whore by surprise.

In all likelihood, he would kill them. Then she would find freedom from control and peace in the afterlife. It was one thing to find herself controlled, but to kill those she cared about… No! NO! NO! NO! Her rage stirred, that righteous fury that yearned for sweet retribution against the Other and the forces that bound them together by use of profane rituals.

And just as swiftly, a smothering censure of blasphemous power and veiled disdain quashed her rising temper. The Not-Self flexed her might, and so she withdrew deeper into the core of her fading self.

"Are you alright," came the concerned and sweet voice of the tall one of red and blue. "You are spacing out again."

The name of the woman escaped her, which only angered her more. She was also a friend, a kind soul, one who cared for her, even if that version of "her" was merely the Imposter. To be so robbed of awareness and memory was maddening. That one would need to be protected as well, just in case. And so, she all but faded as she conserved her strength, waiting for the day she would make her move to thwart the Captor.

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