[ AW ] Boucherie des Étoiles

Maelys Roux

The air clung damp to Maelys’ coat, as it did most chilly spring evenings, where the trees wept dew onto the cobblestones, and the scent of fresh bread, lakewater, and smoked meat drifted from open tavern doors and late-night vendor stalls. It was beautiful, of course. Almost distractingly so.

But beauty and darkness were always the best cover for corruption.

She padded along the edge of the central promenade, just another shadow among many, her pace somewhat hurried, but no more than anyone else crossing the busy thoroughfare. No armor tonight—lightened for movement, not for show. Even a simple guard insignia would be enough to recognize her, and she needed not to draw attention. Her golden eyes followed the twitch of a tail disappearing behind the alley beside Boucherie des Étoiles.

There he was again: tonight's quarry.

Tomme le Rouge. Small-time pilferer and piss-poor runner. Ran coins mostly, sometimes snatched a relic or two from the shrines in the outer districts. Not bold enough to anger the Crone, not clever enough to stay off the Guard’s roster. Maelys had collared him twice already this year alone—and both times, he’d wept like a saint’s widow and promised to go straight.

He hadn’t. Rats like Tomme never did.

But tonight wasn’t about his usual tricks. Maelys didn’t buy that he was acting alone, and truthfully, she didn’t give a damn about the stolen relics—most were cheap blessings sold to tourists and self-righteous pilgrims. No, what had her fur prickling was where the goods were going. Who had enough fur enough to pull to keep Tomme from flipping? Because a twitchy guy like him should’ve cracked by now.

But he hadn’t. Which meant someone bigger—someone meaner—was holding his leash.

And that was worth her time.

He didn’t know she was tailing him yet. Which was good. He definitely would recognize her, but she’d played this game before. Guards rarely patrolled these parts closely, and the cloak she had drawn over her face was one in a sea of dozens. The trick was patience—and knowing when to strike.

If the gods still watched, she hoped they found this worth witnessing.

Because Maelys was about to learn exactly what Tomme le Rouge had sold. And to whom.

Her paws moved silently over the ancient stones, stepping around puddles of starlight and gutter-wash. Around her, the city hummed. Lovers tangled beneath arbors. Priests chanted midnight services, their songs carried a mournful quality of late, but who could blame them with all that was happening? The stars, high above, burned cold and unblinking. Tonight the Rivals were brightest—an omen of conflict, of secret war. Maelys didn’t believe in coincidence.

She eased to a halt at the mouth of the alley, one ear angled forward, the other keeping half an eye on the street behind her.

Tomme was speaking to someone. Voice low, like he knew the shadows had ears.

Good instinct. Shame he hadn’t learned it sooner.

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Exalted Bacchae

There were many things that the woman was and subtle was not one of them. So, when she was approached with the prospect of being able to help with a stealth mission, she knew it would be outside of her normal skillset. However, she was up for the challenge. After all, she was a new soldier, eager to prove herself and show that she was versatile and able to step in anywhere that was needed.

To conceal herself, she'd donned a large cloak to cover her stark white form. Covering her star-given whiteness in a dark blue shield to hide her from prying eyes. When she was without the cloak, she was an easily recognizable figure from the guard. With it, she was just another large wolf that could blend into the background. A shadow in the back alleys of the capital.

She knew her orders. Provide flanking to stop their quarry from escaping. They could stop the small fish... but why not wait for the shark to show up so they had a feast? So to speak.

So, she waited in a bordering alleyway, hidden in the shadows and waiting. Her ears were craned forward, trying to listen to what was said. Underneath her cloak, she rolled her muscles, preparing for a confrontation. Her lieutenant was a smaller, more endurance-based wolf, while she provided an ample amount of muscle. She had no doubt of their success tonight.

She just had to be ready for the signal to act.

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OOC

Art & Coding (c) Plymouth

Maelys Roux

Maelys didn’t know Exalted well—just that she was large, strong, and loyal, the kind of soldier who took her oaths to the Polaris seriously. The fact that Maelys couldn’t see her from where she stood was a comfort, not a concern. The woman was massive, white as saintbone, and still managing to vanish into this crowd. Good. She was blending better than Maelys expected, despite her conspicuousness.

Tomme’s voice rose just enough to catch a few words.

“Je l’ai. Comme vous avez demandé. Je me suis assuré que personne ne m’a suivi—j’ai vérifié deux fois.” (I got it. Just like you asked. I made sure no one followed me—I double-checked.)

The cloaked figure shifted, unmoved. “Tu parles trop, Tomme. Donne” (You talk too much, Tomme. Give.) The voice was masculine and gruff. Grizzled either by age or perhaps by smoking.

A small object changed hands, hidden in the motion. Whatever it was, it gleamed once before vanishing into the folds of the stranger’s robe.

“Est-ce que… est-ce que ça suffit ? J’en ai déjà fait trois. Ça doit compter, non ? Vous aviez dit que peut-être—” (Is… is that enough? I've already done three. That must count, right? You said maybe—)

“J’ai dit qu’on y réfléchirait, ” (I said we would think about it) the figure interrupted. “Mais la loyauté ne se mesure pas en livraisons. Elle se mesure au silence. ” (But loyalty isn't measured by deliveries. It's measured by silence.)

“Oui… oui, bien sûr. Je suis loyal. Toujours. Vous pouvez lui dire. Dites à l’Arbiter que—” (Yes… yes, of course. I am loyal. Always. You can tell him. Tell the Arbiter that—)

The figure moved sharply, threatening, causing Tomme to flinch and cower. “Ne prononce pas ce nom.” (Don't say that name.)

Tomme went still. Swallowed. Maelys didn’t let herself breathe too sharply, though something in her body tensed. L’Arbiter. The name meant nothing to her. It wasn’t one of the usual street syndicates, nor any of the black-market saint cults the Guard had tagged over the past year. She turned it over silently. Was it a name or a designation? Perhaps even an organization, rather than an individual, but she doubted it.

She’d worn the Guard’s crest long enough to know how new players entered the game—quietly at first, like rot seeping beneath the floorboards. By the time a name surfaced in official briefings, it was old news to Ildhrune's seedy underbelly. The Guard was always a few steps behind. That was the nature of it: crime moved like water, finding cracks long before the guard could seal them.

But if Tomme le Rouge—coward, scavenger, bottom-feeder—was speaking that name now, and with that kind of tremor in his throat?

Then someone had already dug in deep.

The figure’s voice dropped lower, colder. “Il y a un changement. Tu feras la prochaine livraison près des bains. Les vieux, dans le quartier des chandeliers. Tu sais, ceux avec les mosaïques de lion.” (There's a change. You'll make the next delivery near the baths. The old ones, in the candlestick district. You know, the ones with the lion mosaics.)

“Oui. Je vois.” (Yes. I see.)

“Même heure. Pas de questions.” (Same time. No questions.)

Tomme nodded quickly, eager to escape. “Compris. Je ne vous décevrai pas. ” (Understood. I won't disappoint you.)

“Ce n’est pas moi que tu devrais craindre. C’est elle. L’Arbiter voit tout. ” (It's not me you should fear. It's her. The Arbiter sees everything.)

Maelys had heard enough.

She flicked her tail twice—low, deliberate. Not the signal to strike, but to fall back.

The game had shifted.

If they moved in now, the next drop would vanish into smoke, relocated before the ink could dry on the arrest report. And that cloaked handler? He wouldn’t say a word—not under oath, not under pressure, not under pain. She’d wager a month’s salary he’d vanish into a cell without so much as a name spoken.

No. If they wanted to find this Arbiter, they had to play it smart. Let the rat lead them to the den.

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