Thread: The Macabre Masquerade (NakedTea and How Brittle the Bones)

Up above the night is solemn and somber, under a still, dark-blue sky faintly smudged with gray smoke from the city's chimneytops and lit by the tiny pinpricks of light that are the stars, the crescent moon, shining down in echoes far away glory. What few sounds stir are the sounds of the dark, of frogs croaking in the lazy, deep-running river, of birds cawing sleepily in the ocean of clouds above, in some happy neighborhoods the sounds of peace, in others, the sounds of the low and miserable going about their midnight dealings. Once in a great while a train will come by singing it's songs of steam and gears, breaking the stillness with a flash of light and movement as it tears it's way across the tracks. But for the most part, uptop the night is quiet, sleeping. While down below the party rolls on. Bottles clink as they're pulled from the shelves, sweet fermented nectar within, glasses clink as they're brought together in toast, good spirits and good spirits making friends of all, and the cash register clinks as it's filled to the brim with coin and scrip. Oh yes, the good times were rolling and business was booming, every man a king and every king in good company. An underground grotto filled with the sound of merriment, safe harbor for both the most wanted of criminals and the common man who simply needs a good stiff drink, a grand celebration of wine, women and song... The Gilded Lily is all these and more, the crown jewel of the American Midwest's rumrunning trade. The tunnels used to belong to the city, part of some fool councilman's futile dream of an underground railroad that would run throughout the entire city. They barely got halfway before the budget ran out of course, but no sooner were the tunnels abandoned then they found new purpose. Smugglers, thieves, the mob... For any criminal, regardless of rank or expertise, free movement without interference from the law was at a premium. Some clever entrepreneur saw the opportunity. Now there's an underground railroad all right, connecting countless basements, warehouses, seemingly innocent establishments, an endless stream of smuggled goods flowing through it. And amidst the twisting, labyrinthian network of caverns lies the Gilded Lily. A marbled hall nested among dirt and mud, lit by crystal chandeliers, ostentatious grandeur in the most unlikely of places. No-one knows the owner or what deals he's made with the police to keep the joint safe, but everyone knows one thing. You don't fuck around here. Anyone who tries, be they criminal, commoner or cop, will find themselves in dire straights and the law not lifting a finger to help them. The Gilded Lily is safe. Everyone knows that. As it turns out, everyone was wrong. It's a normal enough night. Some 'friends of the family' kicking back and having themselves a party, drinks flowing freely, the house band having to play as hard as they can just to be heard over the laughter and good cheer. A chick named Esme doing the singing, new here, the last singer having flown the nest last weekend. A normal day. A good day. That all ends as the door is kicked off it's hinges, shouting drowning out all else as the boys in blue pile in, laying down the law with their truncheons. People scream. People panic. As one frenzied, dumb stampede they rush at the door, only to be beaten back, the poor fools at the front caught between the flailing batons of the police and the shoving, trampling herd pushing them forward. Somehow a fire starts, a dropped cigarette or a broken light, something, flames sprouting forth to lap at the alcohol spilled across the crowd. Someone gets the bright idea to pull a gun, a single shot provoking more, lead flying through the air thick and fast within instants, turning it all into a bloodbath. Confusion rules the mob. But a few minds stand out in their sharpness, staying cool, collected. Up on the stage, the violinist, youthful and innocuous. The bouncer lurking behind the bar, broad-shouldered, one-eyed and built like an Olympian. One of the many late-night patrons, ragged and sharp-angled. All of them stand out because they don't join in the stampede. No, they have the common sense to remember the back way out, leading up to the grocers located directly above. The violinist vaults over the bar and the bouncer is already halfway up the ladder in the blink of an eye, but the last one pauses, turning back and going for the cashbox. The duo tears through the store, bursting out onto the street, pulling open the doors of an old model-t and diving in. The engine roars to life like a snarling beast let out of it's cage, belching gasoline fumes, but they don't take off. Not yet. They're waiting on one last passenger first....