"I need a disguise," Aubrey casually asked as she idled around the nave, watching Cedric and Thaddeus rehearse and practice a section of their arrangement at the choir, which served as the band's rehearsal spot.
Cedric and Thaddeus paused and halted their jam session. Liza ceased polishing her violin. The trio eyed her quizzically.
"Why do you need a disguise?" Cedric probed.
"Need to infiltrate the Blackwell Industries. Visit the factories. Can't waltz inside plain as day and normal," Aubrey explained, leaning against a column. "I don't want to be recognized by anyone there who could be associated with my murderers."
"Infiltrate...? Visit their factories...?" Liza's brows furrowed. "Isn't that dangerous and risky...?"
"Very." Aubrey didn't sugarcoat her intentions. "But I need answers. Need clues. Need hints. I'll play detective."
"Why visit and infiltrate their factories?" Cedric quizzed. "You could pose as a maid and enter their mansion instead. Safer."
"Because... my gut instinct screams the factories." Aubrey clenched a fist and smacked an open palm. "I just know it. Feel it in my bones. Their mansion and their estates are probably heavily guarded and protected. Too secure. At least with the factories, I could sneak in and blend."
"Fair points," Cedric acquiesced. "What sort of disguise did you have in mind?"
"Mostly just to alter my face. Make me unrecognizable." Aubrey ruminated.
Thaddeus' mechanized brain whirled. Aubrey could almost visualize the gears and pistons spinning inside his dome.
"What's up...?" Aubrey's gaze shifted toward his direction.
"Perhaps... an illusion glamour...?" Thaddeus suggested. "There is an artifact that could serve your purposes."
"Illusion glamour...? Artifact...?"
"Indeed. You could seek for a traveling merchant named Fentworth. He is known to peddle unusual trinkets and peculiar baubles. Mayhaps his shop has your requirement."
"Sounds promising. Fentworth's the guy's name?" Aubrey committed and memorized the moniker. "Where can I locate him?"
"Nearby the easternmost edge of Gallows Row. Near the borders with the Ironworks' outskirts. Follow the scent of exotic spices and aroma. There, you'll spy his storefront. 'Tis a tent," Thaddeus articulated.
Aubrey ingrained the description and layout.
"Great. Appreciate the tip. Thanks." She turned to Cedric. "I'll need some coins from our treasure vault to purchase the glamour. Hope you guys don't mind."
"I do mind," Cedric asserted. "You are not permitted to withdraw from the church's treasury."
Aubrey blinked. "Wait, what? Why not?! Aren't I supposed to be the chosen one? I got Hellion's Cry from there. Remember?!"
"Correct. Hellion's Cry belongs to you. However... the rest of the treasury's contents are communal properties and assets," Cedric clarified. "They are meant to fund the maintenance and upkeep of the church's functions and necessities. You're free to draw shillings and funds only if the expenditures will benefit Unhallowed Harmony."
Aubrey approached Cedric dramatically, resting against him and draping her arms around his shoulders while drawing circles against his literal rock-hard pecks with her finger.
She assumed an adorable and pitiful demeanor.
"Come on, Ceddy. Pleaaaaaaaase. I promise I'll payback triple fold. Quadruple. Quintuple. Please?" Aubrey adopted a pleading and begging tone, batting her long eyelashes.
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Aubrey landed face-first on the cobbled pavement after Cedric threw her out bodily.
"OWWWWWW!! Sonofvabitch!" Aubrey cursed and rubbed her bruised cheek. "Asshole. JERKWAD. Bastard. WANK STAIN. FUCKWEED!"
She seethed and nursed her injured visage.
Cedric closed the church's heavy oak doors without remorse.
Aubrey simmered and stewed. Fine. Whatever. Fuck the cash. She'll figure something else. She had enough coinage from their concert profits. If not... she'll improvise.
Aubrey grumbled and dusted herself clean. Time to seek Fentworth.
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As Aubrey navigated the grimy and dirty streets of Gallows Row, she made her way eastward, following the winding and twisting alleys, passages, and thoroughfares. She approached the fringes and borders of the Ironworks outskirts.
The sights and smells changed as she transitioned from the grimy and dirty to a smoky and filthy district. Aubrey could detect the faint tang of iron and steel permeating the atmosphere. Accompanying the scent was a cacophony of clanging and clanking from the factories.
Suddenly, a delicious and exotic aroma tickled her nostrils. The fragrance smelled of rich spices and savory delicacies, reminding her of the flavors and aromas she had enjoyed back in her old life.
Aubrey tracked the fragrance, winding and maneuvering her way through the Ironworks' outskirts, navigating the dense and crowded streets. She stumbled across a tent—Fentworth's storefront, no doubt.
Aubrey entered, the tantalizing aromas enveloping her like a warm and inviting hug. The tent's interior was cozy and cramped, with shelves and counters displaying a variety of unusual trinkets, artifacts, and knick-knacks.
Behind a cluttered countertop sat an older man wearing a flat cap, spectacles, a coat, and a scarf, no doubt a preventative measure against the Ironworks' soot and filth. His weathered face sported a salt-and-pepper beard.
"Good evening. Welcome," the older gentleman greeted.
"Yo. Sup," Aubrey tipped her cap. "Looking for Fentworth."
"You've found him. How may I help you today?" Fentworth inquired.
Aubrey appraised the goods and wares. Lots of interesting merchandise and junk. Odd contraptions. Ancient-looking tools. Foreign books and tomes. Curved daggers and ornaments. Exotic spices and seasonings. Various oddities and baubles.
"Looking for a glamour. Illusion. Mask. Hide my face. Alter my looks. Got any?" Aubrey described the requirements.
Fentworth stroked his salt-and-pepper beard.
"Hmm. Yes. Yes. Follow me. Back here. I've a few candidates that fit your wishlist."
Fentworth exited from behind the countertop and led Aubrey deeper into the tent. Behind a heavy curtain was a storage area containing even more bizarre and peculiar items.
After a bit of searching, Fentworth rummaged through his inventory and produced a wooden box. Opening the container, Aubrey discerned a weathered mahogany mask that looked more like a carved sculpture than an actual article used to cover the face.
"This, my dear customer, is called the Facsimile Mask. It has the ability to disguise and transform you into someone else, allowing you to hide your true appearance and masquerade as a completely different person."
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Fentworth demonstrated and placed the mask on his face. Instantly, his features morphed and transformed, the wood and materials flowing like molten clay. Aubrey watched as the Facsimile Mask's surface contorted and shaped itself to resemble her face—on Fentworth's body.
Nightmare fuel. Aubrey shuddered.
"Cool. Creepy, but cool."
Fentworth seemed to pull the face off his visage, returning the wooden sculpture back to its original condition.
"Any caveats or trade-offs?" Aubrey inquired. "No downsides. Drawbacks. Price to pay?"
"It depends... on how long and frequently you intend to wear it, and how much of your appearance you intend to alter. For short durations, it's safe. However, prolonged usage or continuous wear can cause a deterioration of your mental fortitude and willpower. Eventually, the Facsimile Mask will erode the boundaries between the real and the fake, causing your thoughts and personality to become confused, indecisive, and unsure.
Additionally, if the mask disguises too much of your physical features, it can cause your body to become unstable and uncertain of its shape and form, resulting in headaches and nausea. Lastly, if you attempt to conceal everything about yourself, including your voice and mannerisms, the Facsimile Mask can convince you that you're an entirely different person, causing you to lose track of your original identity and forget who you really are."
"Wait, so this mask can change everything about me? Even my voice and my body?"
Fentworth nodded. "Yes. It's quite powerful. But the longer and the more you use it, the higher the risk of losing yourself and forgetting who you really are. Ultimately, it's up to you whether or not the benefits outweigh the consequences. I recommend only altering your face and hair, and only using it for a few hours at a time. That way you minimize the risks. Beyond that... well, you'd best tread lightly."
Aubrey scrutinized the mask and pondered Fentworth's explanation.
"Cost?"
"Thirty pound sterling," Fentworth stated.
Aubrey blinked. She rummaged through her pockets, pulled out her coin pouch, and peeked inside: One sovereign, twenty-five shillings, and several pence.
A sovereign was valued at one pound sterling, or twenty shillings.
Fuck. Nowhere close to enough. Can't even barter my way out of this one.
Her shoulders sagged. "I'll uh, come back later with the funds. Can I reserve it?"
"Certainly."
Aubrey sulked and exited the tent. Damn. Costs an arm and a leg. She wasn't even certain that the Facsimile Mask was a necessity or essential. Perhaps she could conduct espionage and reconnaissance without it.
Then again... better safe than sorry.
Maybe she could scrounge and scavenge enough coins and funds. Aubrey racked her brain and recalled the concert profits and proceeds. How much did they earn last gig? Forty shillings? Fifty-ish shillings? Maybe sixty shillings?
Yeah, no. Those are not sums that could allow her to purchase the Facsimile Mask anytime soon.
Dammit.
Should she steal the mask? Aubrey dismissed the impulse and notion. Nah. Too risky. Fentworth probably installed security measures and contraptions. Best leave the Facsimile Mask alone. Aubrey could earn sufficient funds overtime.
Hopefully.
Before Aubrey returned to the church, a poster plastered against a board full of announcements and advertisements caught her eye. She read the poster and its contents.
UNDERGROUND TUNNEL RUMBLE
COME ONE. COME ALL.
GATEKEEPERS: Big Sam and The Fatman
ENTRY FEE: 10 Shillings (to participate)
1ST PLACE PRIZE: 50 Sovereigns + Entry Fee Returned
2ND PLACE: 25 Sovereigns
3RD PLACE: 10 Sovereigns
EVERYONE ELSE: GETS NOTHING
RULES:
1. No weapons.
2. No items.
3. No armor or padding.
4. No cheating or foul play.
5. All disputes will be settled by the two Gatekeepers.
6. All decisions are final.
7. Participation is voluntary. No refunds or returns.
8. Good luck and may the best fighter win!
Sign-Ups Start NOW. Tournament Begins Tomorrow Night at Midnight.
Registration Location:
Dirty Mug Tavern - Gallows Row.
Sponsors:
- The Mordenstradt Guilds of Fighters (Official sponsor)
- The Gallows Row Underground League (Governing Body of Underground Tournaments)
- The Ironworks Outfitters Association (Vendors and Sponsors)
- The Montague Estates (Paid Advertising)
"What. The. Hell." Aubrey's jaw dropped and her eyes bulged.
Fifty sovereigns as the Grand Prize? That could finance her purchase of the Facsimile Mask and spare! Plus, return the Entry Fee!
All she had to do was beat out dozens of competitors—wait, no. They won't let women participate. Shit.
Aubrey heaved a sigh. Bummer.
The prize pool is the juiciest. No way could she miss it. She paced and wracked her mind for alternatives. Then, a lightbulb flashed and went off. An epiphany blossomed in her brain.
Shorty! The fighter from the fighting pit at the tavern where she met Liza for the first time. Shorty could compete. Shorty could earn Aubrey the winnings. Easy-peasy.
Time to recruit and enlist a fighter.
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"Shortyyyyyyyyy!!!" Aubrey entered the tavern with the sand pit arena and located Shorty engaged in a drinking game. The short and stocky fighter chugged a tankard brimming with a frothy beverage.
Aubrey couldn't help but notice his protruding beer belly. Guess Shorty indulged and gorged himself.
"Yo. Shorty." Aubrey approached and initiated conversation.
"Yessssssss??? You're the gal... gal... who sang and c-cheered for meeee," Shorty slurred, a foamy mess coating his face. "My lucky sooongstress. Come for anotherrrr performance??? My treat. Just buy my drinksss."
Shorty hiccuped and belched. Yikes. Drunk off his ass. Not the ideal candidate.
"No performance. Another proposition. Listen. Got a tournament opportunity. Underground. Prize pool's juicy. Two Hundred Sovereigns."
"Ssoooovrenssssss???" Shorty's bleary-eyed gaze attempted focus. "Who's hostingss???"
"Ironworks. Underground. Guild of Fighters." Aubrey described the sponsors.
Shorty pondered. He hiccuped and belched yet again. Gross.
"Enterrrrrtnnnmnt fee," Shorty sloshed. "How mushhh?"
"Ten Shillings. Participants fight and square off. I'll pay for your entrance fee. We can split the earnings. 90-10."
"90-10. Whhhhy thats so skeeeevie. 80-20," Shorty countered.
"80-20 sounds good. Deal." Aubrey could work with those terms. Time to seal the agreement and contract.
Shorty swayed and offered a palm. Aubrey accepted the handshake.
"Deallll."
"Great. Now, come on. You have to register today." Aubrey beckoned and hauled the drunken Shorty toward the tavern's exit.
"Registerrr? Today???? Okay. Lead the wayyy lady."
The pair braved the dank and grungy streets of Gallows Row and maneuvered the winding and twisting alleyways toward the Dirty Mug tavern. Aubrey pushed and shoved a stumbling Shorty along, ensuring the fighter maintained forward momentum.
Soon, the duo arrived.
Aubrey dragged Shorty toward the tavern's registration table situated outdoors, near the sign-up board. A bespectacled and scholarly individual manned the desk, sporting a clipboard and a pen.
"Sign-ups. Register. Here." Aubrey requested.
"Entry Fee?" Glasses asked.
"Ten Shillings." Aubrey dumped a pouchful of shillings atop the registration table. Glasses counted and organized the payment.
"Participant's name?"
"Shorty," Aubrey answered.
"Shorty." Glasses scribbled the response on his parchment. "Final participant. Registration closes now. Here's your receipt. Give this copy to the Gatekeepers."
Glasses provided Aubrey two copies: One for the receipt and a duplicate.
"Thanks," Aubrey thanked Glasses and hauled Shorty towards a wooden bench. The drunken fighter plopped and slumped ungracefully. "You stay here. Rest. Sober up."
Shorty mumbled incoherent responses. Aubrey rolled her eyes and shook her head. Fine. Whatever. Close enough. Hopefully, Shorty will recover and regain sobriety before the fights tomorrow.
Aubrey departed the vicinity and ventured back toward the church.
Mission accomplished.
Tomorrow's fight night. Shorty had better not flake. Otherwise... Aubrey will murder the fighter. She'll bury him six feet under.
Mark her words.