• Closed • The Phantom of the Oberan

[Natalia Gregorios]

Zida 60, Arc 721

"How can you make excuses for him? He's a menace – don't you see that? He's going to lead you into all sorts of trouble if you let him."

Sighing softly, Natalia leaned back against the back of the theatre seat, legs crossed, watching Ladrian pace back and forth in front of her, possibly wearing a hole in the carpet. Her expression was placid and contemplative, almost calculating. Oddly enough, they were back to discussing the same subject – Oberan.

Within The Lamont, it was always Oberan.

"Of course, he is. You’ve given him no reason not to be.” Her tone was conversational, but it was evident that she was trying to employ whatever persuasion skills she had to get through to the man, but trying to persuade or negotiate with someone who didn't like the subject matter was tricky business. Ladrian was trying to look out for her - she understood that. She just needed one opportunity to show him that her way might work better than what had already failed.

Nothing had changed at The Lamont, although Ladrian had pulled strings and gotten Natalia and Oberan assigned different work times, trying to keep her from being influenced by someone he considered dangerous. Once she figured that out, the mortalborn decided it was time to do something about the situation.

Ladrian, playing the part of an exasperated father figure, had tried every approach he could think of to persuade the young woman that her perceived kindness was lost on someone the likes of Oberan. A vein in his forehead pulsed visibly, to the point Natalia wondered if she needed to take cover. "So we should give him anything he wants? While he's working off a debt? That's like rewarding him for bad behavior! Have you seen what he did with the costume loft?"

First, yes, she had. Resisting the smile that dared to peek through, she recalled coming in and finding that, after being given directions to 'get the costumes off the floor,' Oberan had taken every single one of them and hung them from the nooks and crannies around the loft ceiling that couldn't easily be gotten to. In her opinion, it was genius - they couldn't berate him for doing exactly what they had asked.

Admittedly, she had to concede the point to the older man, but only as far as apparent behavior went. Much more profound things governed all conduct. Case in point – Ladrian. He was irrational because he felt protective of her, although he had yet to verbalize said feeling. Natalia was confident similar deeper things were going on with Oberan, but there hadn't been an opportunity for her to investigate what those might be.

That was going to change. Being proactive about said change was step number one.

"I admit he's been a handful, but I think letting him do something he likes might help. The more you and the others pile on awful jobs, the more he will torment you and the patrons, and he's already got you all worn down. I'm just trying to help."

Rising from her chair, she faced the man and offered a compromise. "There's an unexpected dark theater tonight due to the illness running rampant through the company. There will only be a handful of people around. You've scheduled him to come in…."

Immediately, Ladrian interrupted. "How did you know…." Raising her hand to stop him, Natalia calmly explained. “Bostwick is horrible at keeping secrets. Three freshly-baked cookies and he would have told me anything. May I continue?"

One quick nod from Ladrian, and she was back on her way. "Anyway, you've scheduled Oberan to come in. Let me work in the loft with him. No one else wants to work with him - let me."

The expected response was immediate. "Why would I do that? He'll just do to you what he's done to everyone else." Ladrian was a kind man, but the protective streak he had was getting a bit old. He'd see that any opportunities Natalia had to talk to Oberan were snuffed out. To be honest, she was surprised the older man hadn't already dismissed her from further work at the theatre to keep them separated.

"Because you've run out of other options," she explained with a soft voice. "Oddly enough, I'm the only one that hasn't worked with him, so logic dictates that the next course of action is trying that and seeing what happens." Natalia knew she was risking a lot, but she had her reasons.

"If we don't get the loft in order, I will owe The Lamont two more cycles of volunteer work."

Surprised, the man shook his head but considered what she was saying. "Why?"

Shrugging, Natalia smiled. "I want to help. If I can convince him to help me put the loft to rights, that's one less thing that the company needs to do."

Of course, Natalia had an agenda beyond what she told Ladrian. Helping them helped her. She and Oberan needed to be in the same place, without anyone around. It was the only way she would get anywhere with him. Besides, her business with Oberan was not for public consumption. Ladrian believed one thing, and she allowed that misconception to linger because it suited her purposes.

Exasperated, Ladrain sunk into one of the theatre seats. " You might be as crazy as he is, you know that?"

Smiling, the young mortalborn gave a simple reply. "Maybe, but you are dying to prove me wrong. I'd like to find out whose theory proves to be true."

***

The stage was empty, except for Natalia, who sat waiting on the edge of the lit apron. Sensing she would only get one shot, she quietly contemplated her game plan, curiously considering how Oberan would try to screw it all up.

At her side, a small bag of freshly baked sand cookies.

A chess game was waiting to be played, and her opponent was the best she had ever seen. It was time to get unconventional.

Template Credit: Oberan

[Oberan]

A frown creased Oberan’s forehead, brows drawn together and crinkling at the nose. Cupping one elbow with the opposite hand, he stroked his beard.

He stood in the shadows, and had for a few minutes now, watching with pursed lips. Eyes scanning, absorbing all they could see. Going glassy every so often when his conscious slipped a little too far into thought. Remaining alert regardless, he always snapped out of it quick when something caught his attention. Quick motions, bright colors. A sudden noise.

Mostly just people passing by. A cart rattling over the cobbles a few streets away. A child having slipped and fallen, screaming their lungs out while a parent attempted to shush them, wiping tears and snot away. Small groups of urchins running about, up to no good.

More of them these days, but less at the same time. The latter in quantity, the former in proportion. Lisirra’s plague had killed many, especially in the Perimeter. Many children had lost parents, older siblings or other family. Whole orphanages had succumbed to disease. Not many still had caretakers left.

And then Sintra appeared. She and her dastardly experiments to restore lingering ghosts to life…

Somewhere, a bell chimed. Bronze echoes rippling across the city.

Oberan’s eyes refocused. Flitted back and forth. Back to the matter at hand. The cause for his pause and ponder.

The ivy-covered front of the grand building before him. Large windows, large double doors. Usually those’d be shining with the light of numerous lanterns at this time in the evening. The doors would be wide open, a porter posted there with straight face and hands behind their back. A steady stream of patrons with garish outfits and heavy purses meandering through. Chatting about so many things and nothing at all. Jabbering about the tonight’s performance of some Venoran duke’s most respected play.

Tonight there was none of that.

Not just to his own surprise, many of the passersby expressed their bewilderment too. Casting curious glances. Some even stopping in their tracks for a moment. It was that unusual. Even when no performances were scheduled, the building still saw its share of traffic.

Except for tonight.

The –alleged—beating heart of Etzos’ cultural scene lied still and silent, pumping no lifeblood round and round. Its neighborhood all the poorer for it –or so its usual visitors would claim.

The Lamont, crown jewel of the Etzori theatre and other performing arts, was dead tonight. In its place was a desaturated, lifeless pile of brickwork, glass, and semi-successful architectural grandeur. In other words, a mutilated corpse.

Cause of death couldn’t be determined just yet. Strangled by the ivy creeping up to the front balcony, perhaps? Had it choked in a bit too much pomp and snobbery? Maybe the Venoran duke had had the theatre group assassinated for their modernist interpretations of his finest masterpieces.

Who could say?

What Oberan knew for certain is that the whole thing was beyond suspicious. It reeked of a trap, an ambush. He wouldn’t put it past the Lamont, he’d antagonized them quite a bit this past season. Maybe not to the point that they would try to have him assassinated, but he couldn’t be certain.

Cautious and unseen, he climbed the steps to the double doors, and tested them. It budged, giving in to the slight pressure. Oberan eased up, letting the door fall back shut, frowning. Not locked, but dark and empty nonetheless.

He stroked his beard, and put some pressure on the doors again. Not a lot, just a bit. Holding his breath as he did, focusing, searching. Feeling for resistance that might betray the presence of tripwires or other traps meant to be sprung by carelessly swinging the doors open.

None.

And yet, he didn’t trust it one bit.

It was unlikely that the Lamont would go to such lengths for… for what, actually? Get back at him? Didn’t seem their style. Although, perhaps someone had decided to try and give Oberan a taste of his own medicine.

Either way, if not a trap, something else might be waiting for him inside. Something he’d prefer to circumvent. Or, more likely, he was imagining things and getting himself worked up. He didn’t mind the latter at all.

Oberan stepped away from the front, gaze on the first floor windows, following the snaking ivy up the balcony. Easy access, but also an ingress he’d used before. They might be expecting that. He circled around to the back instead. The little alleys didn’t see as much foot traffic, and even in the Circle there weren’t many street lanterns here to light up the area. Compared to the main thoroughfares, the alleys were black as pitch.

He was on the wall in no time flat, fingertips and feet finding cracks and ridges to hold on to, clambering up with little effort. Soon enough he hauled himself up on a windowsill near the rooftop, balancing precariously on the tiny ledge.

Producing an L-shaped pick from thin air, he inserted the instrument through a gap between window and wall, then turned it sideways. For a moment he fidgeted, manipulating the tool with the smallest motions until it tripped the latch.

The pick vanished back out of existence as Oberan pushed the window open, and slipped into the costume loft.

It was spotless, apart from a large red stain on the floorboards in one spot, and snapped or dented boards a few meters away —they still needed to schedule a carpenter to come in and replace them. On the floor there stood no racks, lied no costumes or props, no mess whatsoever. There seemed to be nothing at all stored here, until you looked up. With the exception of a long ladder leaning against one of the corners of the room, and some pieces of furniture the member of the Lamont had managed to extract from the rafters, everything else dangled from the ceiling or the high beams supporting the roof.

Despite it having been two days, Oberan still was proud of it. They shouldn’t have insisted on him cleaning up their mess. Especially since they were the ones who'd let the situation get so out of hand in the first place. How had they ever managed to find the right costumes within those mountains of discarded outfits?

The door to the upper floor hallways wasn’t locked, and Oberan quietly snuck through. There seemed to be no need for stealth, as he encountered not a single soul traversing the otherwise bustling floors. No technical crews, no actors, no stage hands. Not even meddlesome Ladrian micromanaging ever single little thing he could.

Down the stairs to the stage then, where he could see light. At least one place within this whole damn building that was lit. From what Oberan could tell at a glance, everything in front of the stage was steeped in darkness.

The backstage was a different matter. While only a few lanterns were currently in use within the tunnel-like hallways, several of the backrooms were actually lit and occupied. In each, one or two members of the theatre staff toiled. One clerk scratching away furiously at a series of documents, frown permanently etched into their forehead. Seamstresses fixing up some costumes that'd gotten torn during a performance, chatting. A few stagehands building set pieces from large wooden panels, with another in charge of painting them.

None of it very interesting. Oberan withdrew, returning to the stage and the auditorium adjacent to it, the heart of the Lamont, in more ways than one.

A set of steps brought him into the wings --abandoned and just about as messy as the costume loft had been-- then onto the quiet, empty stage. The curtain had been pulled up, removing the separation between stage and seats. As noted before, while the stage was bathed in light, neither the auditorium before it, nor the entrance halls or those leading up to the various balconies were illuminated.

The lack of people combined with the few spots of light looking out over a sea of darkness beyond created a thick sort of silence. One that one could lose himself in. One that gave rise to time passing in an instant as profound thoughts wove themselves into a barely coherent tapestry. Almost the same as watching a cloudless night sky. Almost.

He examined the room for a few moments then, pondering what was going on, and spotted her. The girl, sitting on the edge of the stage, watching the dark auditorium.

I wonder…

Oberan slid across the stage like a phantom, his feet feeling for and avoiding squeaky boards. Quieter than silence. Clothing, nor body, nor breath or motion produced a sound. Left the ambience of the room completely intact. Moving while minding the source of the light too, lest his shadow give him away.

Closer.

Closer.

Gaze finding a rather pink pouch sitting next to the girl, previously hidden by the angle of his approach. On closer inspection it was a mere pink cloth tied with a sky-blue ribbon. Eye-catching. Interesting. Fascinating. Out in the open. A trap for sure.

A snare for a too-curious cat.

Curious for sure, but an ordinary cat Oberan was not. He was clever and skilled enough to steal the bait right out of a snare and without getting caught.

Though there was something to be said for springing a trap on purpose—no, not today. He’d not grant her that satisfaction.

Closer.

Closer still…

Standing over her, the girl none the wiser. He could steal every single hair on her head and she’d only find out once she glanced in the mirror. Fortunately for her, he had no interest in her locks, his attention still on the tempting pouch.

He waited, just a moment, loosening up his fingers, ready for action.

And then, a deep and silent breath in through the nose—

Oh? What’s that delicious smell?

Template credit: Natalia Gregorios

[Natalia Gregorios]

Zida 60, Arc 721

The Lamont was still – lovely and quiet. Natalia knew Oberan would come. She just knew. He was getting something out of being at The Lamont, or else she was quite sure he would have blown the whole thing off. What gain? She didn't know, but it was clear that patience was the name of the game with that one.

Sitting on the stage and staring out into the darkness of the theatron, the young mortalborn waited, mulling over every piece of the plan, looking for improvements or flaws. Every piece of information Natalia knew about her mysterious acquaintance was locked inside her mind, waiting to become beneficial to her.

Carefully, Natalia had constructed a scenario that would be hard to resist and created him a game – a game only the two of them would play. By the end of the evening, hopefully, she'd know how things would go by one outcome or another.

As Oberan advanced to the stage and began his approach, 'Sophia' stayed still, oblivious to his presence. Movement began near her lap – a small bag. Crawling out, Oberan would recognize the tiny creature that had been with her the night of the attack in the costume loft. Its six heads undulated gracefully until it fully detached from the leather and escaped the accessory.

Natalia looked down, giving the dragonet a gentle smile. "Well, hello there, little one. Awake finally, I see. And probably hungry. Let's take care of that, shall we?"

Reaching into the larger bag next to her, the young mortalborn pulled out a few pieces of apple and pear and offered them to the creature, one at a time. It was an entertaining little show, really. The docile creature's different heads had conflicting ideas about what they wanted to do. A few struck out at the fruit pieces, while another pair were dazzled in the stage's lights. One of the heads simply hung there, appearing to wish for sleep again.

Carefully, she tended to each of them in turn, even managing to rouse the sleepy one from slumber. "All better now, aren't we? You must be on your best behavior tonight. Our friend will be here soon." Or already – how was she to know?

Oberan had abilities that she struggled to explain, which was part of the reason they needed to be alone. Natalia had her secrets too, and if his secrets were anything like hers, the only way they stood a chance of figuring each other out was without a mess of people around. Every moment of their shared existence had been amid other people, save one – when the Blackjacks had questioned them. The pair had been alone for a time, and he had told her his name.

She needed the world to disappear for just one moment and let them be.

The moment Oberan stood above her, cloaked by his talents, was when the young woman decided to move.

Snatching the sack of cookies from their place beside her, the mortalborn set Apollo gently on her shoulder and rose from the stage deck, slinging her shoulder bag gently over her torso - it was time to place herself on the chessboard. He hadn't shown up yet, but that didn't mean he wouldn't, and she needed to get started on the loft.

But before that, though, there was one thing she needed to make sure she had. Fifteen trills and two pokes of sharp objects into flesh later, one unopened bottle of Darrington's was produced, quickly shifted, and cradled carefully in the crook of her arm.

Moving upstage, Natalia left the performance area, swept into the wings, and began climbing the steps to the costume loft. There was a lot of work to be done, and while she had several breaks to do it, it would take every second of that time to make sure she fulfilled her promises to Ladrian so the game could continue.

Yes, the game had a purpose, but that didn't mean she couldn't have fun simultaneously. Her life was seriously lacking in fun.

***

The loft looked like it had a few days prior – empty. Or at least until one looked up and saw the entirety of The Lamont's costume inventory hanging elegantly from specific points on the ceiling. Gently placing the bag of cookies on a small table near the side of the room, Natalia allowed a smile to break free – it really was genius. There was something so beautiful about the way that man's mind worked. A treasure trove of wit and creativity that she, in an odd way, found appealing.

Sliding her bag off, Natalia opened it and reached in, carefully pulling out a wad of material. Setting it on the table, her hands gently worked into the fabric and retrieved, one by one, small drinking glasses.

Each glass, Natalia inspected thoroughly, with any traces of dust removed and deemed fit. Following the inspection came an unopened bottle of Darringtons, set within the ring of glasses. The final touch? The sinfully delicious-smelling cookies still wrapped within their colorful confines and a small assortment of bread, meats, and cheeses - it wouldn't do to work on an empty stomach.

With that taken care of, it was time to tackle the loft. She knew how the rack system worked, and Natalia could fix it even though the Lamont people currently had it in pieces. All they needed to do was put the dowels back in place. No one had cared to take the time to do that, so she was going to show the theatre people a thing or two about work ethic and taking pride in what one did. Had everyone lost their passion? It certainly seemed so, but perhaps that was a symptom of a more significant issue in the city itself - something to consider, at least.

Walking around the loft, she considered her game plan carefully. The ladder would help, but barely – Oberan had really done an excellent job making sure people would have difficulty getting the costumes down.

Natalia got to work by stowing Apollo on a chair with a few more apple pieces, turning her attention to the mess above her.

Grabbing the ladder, she pulled it over to the side of the room where she would begin, letting it sit there for a moment before moving to get the first thick wooden dowel needed to put the maze of racks back together again.

As she worked, her voice finally reached into the room, talking to thin air - an old friend of hers. Cozy and familiar. It was a relationship born out of many breaks of speaking and trusting no one in particular.

"It's just you and me, again. How have you been?"

The mortalborn's voice was soft, unlike what many had heard before. As her hands quickly reattached the dowel to the two sides of the hanging rack, Natalia carefully considered her next thought, knowing that if she were to have any chance of breaking through to him, she might have to take a few risks to get his attention.

"I'm unsure if I should tell him my name. Trouble tends to follow me, as you've seen. Obviously. I don't want him to get hurt because of me."

Moving to the pile of dowels, she picked up a few more, using the ladder to access places she couldn't quite reach. That part of the job was easy, but that would come next wasn't nearly so.

Slowly, she shifted off her long overcoat, placing it neatly next to Apollo on his chair. There was consideration given to tossing off her shoes, but no, they were fine. The fashionable corset had to go - there would be no climbing in that, thank you very much.

By the time she was done, Natalia had stripped down to the basics - leather leggings, shirt, shoes. A quick flip of the hair, and it too was managed, long dark curls stowed at the crown and out of the way.

Putting the ladder against the wall again, she swiftly climbed to the top, eyes on where she needed to go next. It would like climbing the tree back in Almund, minus Grayson's snarky commentary.

A high windowsill was situated next to a rack, just below where he had hung a dress. If she could just get there…wait! The dowels! If she brought one up the ladder, it would give her the extra height she needed. Well, if she could hook the hanger on the dress with it, that was.

Scrambling back down the steps, Natalia grabbed one of the shorter, lightweight dowels and ascended the ladder again, strategy planned.

Once at the top of the steps, she gently shifted her weight to put one foot on the windowsill. Helping her was the fact that there was a clothing rack hanging in front of the window, giving her something to hold on to as she leaned out gently.

Slowly piercing the air in front of her with the smaller dowel, Natalia tried to knock the hanger of the dress off the little ledge Oberan had perched it on, hoping to send the whole thing to the ground. Most of the costumes had heft to them, so trying to balance one while moving herself back to the ground wasn't going to work. Knowing one's weaknesses was essential; she simply didn't have the strength for that.

It took a moment of precarious athleticism and a great deal of luck, but soon enough, the heavy dress and hanger plummeted to the ground.

One down, and a whole bunch more to go.

Template Credit: Oberan