Ghostly Acquisitions
The Nameless convince Caleb Hollow to possess Eckherd “Deckerd”, long-lost “noble”, as a means to facilitate the sale of Deckherd Hall to one Studebaker Spud. Lugos commits a massacre as a housewarming gift.
Hot Goss
Dearest gentle reader,
Let our governesses harrumph and our clergy shake their heads in shame, but our liberal era has truly and gloriously embraced the aphorist’s dictum that “all’s fair in love and war”. Indeed, if the events of yesterday’s city council meeting are to be taken as instruction, we must now sacrifice brevity for clarity: While at war, all’s fair in love! So we must perceive it, for the quorum of Lord Pendryn, Lady Bowmore, and Lord Clelland have unanimously chosen to welcome Eckerd Deckherd, the heretofore-unknown natural son of the dearly-departed Llewelyn Deckherd, to his full rank and title, as well as bequeathing him the holdings left by the once-extinct Deckherd family!
Perhaps my more sensitive readers may find all-consuming scandal in the late Llewelyn Deckherd’s indiscretions. Rest assured, however, that the Deckherd name now rests in APPROPRIATE hands. Eckerd Deckherd was born and raised without knowledge of his illustrious parentage, and by his own two hands established himself as a respected member of the mortuary profession in the picturesque Barrowcleft borough of Duskwall. As the noble mushroom grows from offal and excrement, so too did our young Deckherd bastard (a statement of fact, and no slander) grow into the fullness of manhood amidst the muck of the farmer and the stench of the dearly-departed.
And yet, as destiny would have it, our young mushroom would find himself plucked from darkness and placed in the highest gardens of the land. The discovery of a piece of long-forgotten correspondence between his noble parent and his erstwhile caretakers excited the curiosity of the young man, indicating as it did that he was of no common stock. Curiosity turned to certainty when a bold ghost-hunter brought to him the most unimaginable piece of fortune: Llewelyn Deckherd’s OWN GHOST, intact and well enough to provide positive testimony-
“Okay, wait wait wait . . . Chuck, c’mon.”
Chuck Morgenstern stopped his writing and threw his cup of soup across the room. This was the major problem with working with Nat Marseilles: she walked extremely quietly and was bad at letting people know she was in the room.
“NAT! C’mon, don’t, don’t SNEAK UP on me like that-“
“Chuck, that was ABSOLUTELY not Llewelyn Deckherd’s ghost-“
“-I’ve got a PROCESS here! I’m in character! You can’t, like-“
“She died at the Lockport invasion. There’s no way in hell her ghost made it long enough to be intact for a trial thirty years later.”
“I KNOW, NAT! Come on, I’m writing my scandal sheet here! Let me LIVE!”
Nat lit a cigarette to give Chuck time to furiously adjust his pince-nez. This was the major problem with working with Chuck Morgenstern: his failed amateur theatrical career never quite left him.
“I looked around a bit. A Reconciled ghost by the name of Caleb Hollow went on a bender in Eckerd’s body the day after the trial. Turns out, Hollow’s got a reputation as a charlatan for hire. Gallon of Brannigan’s says our Nameless hired him to pretend to be Llewellyn Deckherd for a day, and that this little vampire stint was payment.”
Chuck harrumphed at this, and gave a single begrudging nod. Nat continued, feigning unawareness of his mood:
“As of about six hours ago, Deckherd Hall was sold by its rightful heir to Queensbury Industries. Queensbury Industries turned around and sold it to a man by the name of Studebaker Spud. Spud is now the legal proprietor of the most notorious criminal meetup point in all of Six Towers. And get THIS: CEO of Queensbury Industries? Two-Time Grine. Wanna bet that this guy paid our Nameless to arrange the sale?”
“OKAY, Nat! I’ll update my readers! Now, if you’ll let me WORK??”
“What READERS, Chuck? You don’t have READERS.”
*“ALL OF THE TON WANTS TO KNOW WHAT LADY SNEAKYBUTTS HAS TO SAY, Nat! She’s a radical and dangerous voice! She, y’know, she says the stuff that nobody else has the guts to say!” *
Nat raised her hands in mock surrender and began to back out of the room.
“Arright, arright! You have fun, buddy. Give them nobles hell.”
Chuck sniffed his acknowledgement and turned back to his page. His mouth began to move as he reread what he had been writing . . .
“You’re gonna tell ‘em about how Eckherd stabbed that wrestler guy to prove he was hoity-toity, right?”
“FUCK! Yes! Get OUT, Nat . . .”
“I’m going, I’m going!”
Chuck returned to his paper . . .
“AND about how Lord Clelland shat himself? And how Eckherd beat him in a duel with a magnet sword?”
“AAAAAAAAA NAT LEAVE ME ALONE!”
“Oh, and don’t forget to mention that Eckherd was in on the con but now thinks he’s actually a noble because he got zorched by ghost juice WOAH OKAY!”
Snarling, Chuck spun out of his chair and made a mad dash for Nat, who just managed to close the door in his face.
No Refunds
At Deckherd Hall
Studebaker Spud rocks back and forth, clenching and unclenching his fists in the middle of Comber Way. As he watches, the Bluecoats are working to take the evicerated bodies off of the outer façade. The corpses are still clutching their signs, “I DON’T FORGET” carved in with knifestrokes.
“Summbitch, now . . .” he remarks to the open air, “Ol’ Studebaker Stud’s got hisself a right pickle, don’t he? Got some kinda sicopath spider-ghost runnin’ ‘round. Huh!”
He begins to walk down the street, still talking to himself. Passerby give him some looks, but there aren’t many passerby (this is Six Towers, after all) and the looks aren’t particularly pointed (this is Duskwall, after all).
“And after I shell out the cashola, get m’self set up all nice and legal with it. Ain’t realized about no sicopath spider-ghosts up in them rafters. What kinda luxury livin’ prospects is that? Ain’t no modern ‘ppurtancences gonna make up for no sicopath spider-ghost, an’ THAT’S the damn truth.”
A figure falls into step behind him, a wide-brimmed hat obscuring their features. Their clothes are baggy and billowing. Nothing can be seen of them nearly at all.
“Don’t worry about the automaton, Mr. Spud,” says a razor-fine voice from beneath the hat, “Just focus on restoring Deckherd Hall. We’ll handle the unwanted intruders.”
Studebaker Spud half-jumps out of his skin.
“Gahddamnit, ‘bout shat m’self there, now . . . Well, all right, y’all so keen t’ tangle with a sicopath spider-ghost robit, that’s your lookout an’ you’re welcome to it. So, handle it! What’re ya-“
“We only came to let you know that your debts have been handled. You’re free and clear, Studebaker Spud.”
Studebaker Spud lets out a whoop and spins around to face the figure, but finds only their back as they’ve begun to walk away.
“Just remember who did you this favor, Mr. Spud. We’ll be in touch. The Consortium will be busy soon, and we’ll need you to be the face of our work.”