"UNFINISHED MEN CAN BE UNPREDICTABLE. THEY MAY SEE ME AS KIN, OR THEY MAY NOT."

(The Dour Fence is not the Stuttering Fence, there are just only so many adjective+noun combinations I can make for criminals in New Newgate)

Unfolding the stained note, Herman sees that it has a cell's address scrawled on it: Level 8, East Wing, cell 218 219 somewhere around there I don't b____y know

Croup considered the question - he wasn’t keen on the privileged and felt uncomfortable around any form of unfinished business

”Well, if I could suggest perhaps the odd bunch - my guess is they get very overlooked and underrated, a little like me, they maybe keen to speak if they feel we respect their…….. differences” 

(that's alright, Herman isn't the brightest anyway)

The pugilist walks up to the group and hands the note over to whoever wants to read it, "Do we want to go see what this is about? The yard feels a little... overwhelming"

"LOOKS LIKE WE'VE BEEN LOCKED IN HERE... I'VE NEVER PLAYED WITH A BALL BEFORE."

Ezra wanders over and secures a ball, tossing it back and forth between his hands.

"ARE THERE ANY GOOD GAMES YOU KNOW HOW TO PLAY WITH A BALL?"

“Where did you get this?” Damian asks as Herman hands him the note. At first the warlock was simply curious about the pugilist showing them a piece of paper, but soon enough he realized this was not a simple message from his ally. “This can be a trap, but we don’t really have much else, so I say we follow the lead, but not today.” He points ant the yard’s entrance. “The way to the cells is closed so we will probably have to wait until work-time by tomorrow to get a chance of checking this.”

Which would bring them back to the other prisoners around. Ezra’s loud words still, almost literally, echoed in his ears. The unfinished clay man where a dangerous bet and they already had their quote of those with the Boys. One more fight and if the gaolers didn’t start paying attention to them the other inmates certainly would. Labeling them as dangerous, maybe attacking them. It would at the very least make it harder to find help, especially for the blade smuggler, if there was even one.

“I will take the big guy’s warning in consideration.” Damien said pointing at Ezra. “Either we think of a game to play with the ball, or we try speaking with someone. I would put my money in either the Tomb Colonists or the well-dressed guys.” If I had some, he thinks before turning his eyes to Herman. “No offense, but this time without fighting.”

Damien points at Ezra, so he seems a good enough cell block mate to pass the ball to. 

Ezra heaves a *gentle* chest pass at Damien.

(So, what's the plan? Besides chucking a ball around.)

Silent as a shadow, Damien waited for an answer, a protest to the idea of speaking with the colonists. Their kind was famous, or rather, infamous, for their love for battles to the death. If the wrong words started a fight with the Boys, imagine what it could start with colonists. Murder, the voice of his mind echoed, before he could think anything else. It was Ezra’s pass that brought the warlock back to reality, making he look around the yard. The odd bunch Croup mentioned was observant and that made the rogue’s suggestion, of approaching them, more convincing by the moment.

“If they are not who we are searching for then they are a sure to know where to find our help.” Not to mention that they seemed way less aggressive than any other group around.  “Ezra, you are a genius.” He said tossing the ball away from everyone in their circle, making it land close to the odd bunch. “Help me, Croup.”

Damian advanced towards the ball, retrieving it in front of the peculiar group. He wished that not only Croup, but Ezra was with them. The presence of them both would speak of tolerance, respect for differences. Sadly, the big guy was too intimidating, something that the

“Good day, gentleman.” At least he assumed it was day since they had eater a few hours earlier. “Did you happen to see the fight?”

"WHY AM I A GENIUS?", Ezra calls after Damien.

"WHY DOES HE SAY I AM A GENIUS?", he asks, turning to the others.

Ezra wonders if he was playing ball incorrectly. He gives a big sigh. Sigh's aren't necessary, but the idea of flesh folk expelling gas out of lung sacks when they are exasperated always amused him, and it was a sound he'd practiced until it sounded natural.

As Damien approaches, he can scent the dust in the air. It makes him want to choke and cough. Bandages rustle as heads turn towards him, kicking up yet another cloud of dust. Four and a half pairs of eyes stare at him. Finally, the Right-Hand Man(that being the big one) speaks, in a ruined rasp barely louder than a whisper. "I saw no fight. I have not seen one for quite some time, now. I should perhaps like to see one soon. But I am afraid I missed yours."

The Bandaged Fighter, however, nods when Damien mentions the fight. "Oh-ho, I caught it alright! A spectacular show! And, better yet, it allowed me to get back at the fellow who's at fault for my imprisonment! A spectacular show, indeed! Say, was that one of yours, with the glasses? Gave him a good walloping, he did!" Her voice is significantly less withered than the Right-Hand Man's, which probably means that she isn't as old as he.

"So," speaks the Right-Hand Man, "What do you want?"

((Not that Ezra can overhear, but are these the Odd Bunch, or the Tomb Colonists?))

(Rewind Time!!!)

As Damien approaches, he can smell the brine in the air. The majority of this medium-sized group is rubbery men, and the burbling sound of Axile, their language of sucks and hoots and pops and squishes, can be heard as they converse among themselves. Curiously, a bald, eyeless astronomer is the first to notice Damien, cocking his head as the warlock approaches. He nudges the fellow with the blemmigan, who nudges a feral-looking man who appears as if he's been stretched upwards like taffy, who in turn nudges the rubbery man with the braided tentacles, who observes Damien. Slowly, he bends down, slimy handicles wrapping around the fallen ball. He hands it to Damien, significantly wetter than it was before, and speaks in the slurred tongue of the rubberies, his tentacles flapping about his mouth.

"Hllrr. Nrr. I dnnt shee fillt. Whshh yr warrnn?"

Whshh yr whaaaaat? asks Croup, crikey this was going to be harder than he thought

The stretched fellow leans over, its spine folding in half as it bends down to Croup's level. Its arms hang limp as it does so and its long, sharp-nailed fingers, of which it has six on each hand, press against the ground to support its weight. It stares at Croup with wide, slit-pupiled eyes the color of amber. It has no nose to speak of, just an open cavity like a skeleton's, and its entire face is warped, unnaturally gaunt like the rest of its body. Its jaw is split in two on the bottom, and as it speaks the two halves open and close like the pincers on an insect, revealing sharpened teeth on the inside.

(This thing is not a creature that any of you would recognize on sight, but you may make a history or arcana check to try and understand it, if you like)

"Shhlr'aSHOOSH asks what you want, little one. I apologize on its behalf, its nonexistent tongue can be hard to understand at times. But no matter, no matter." The creature pauses, appraising Croup's body, unnaturally large for a rat. Its split mouth fractures into something that might be considered a smile. "You are like us, little one. Bizarre... unnatural. I like you."

The Braided Cephalopod appears slightly miffed by the stretched thing's interruption, but does not speak

“No need to apologize and thank your for helping us understand.” Damian says in the most respectful tone he could muster, ignoring the wetness of the ball. “We are newcomers here and already in our first hours we were involved in a fight. During it we noticed certain hostile individuals gesticulate like they had weapons, blades I guess.” Probably knifes, maybe daggers, but it was not the time nor the place to worry about the subtleties of weapon differentiation. “We are not certain about that, but understandably worried. I guess what we want is to ask if you know anything about other inmates having this kind of thing on them.”

Years of smuggling had taught him that one does not simply ask directly for contraband. First you peruse about the existence of the smuggled item and only after you ask how it was obtained. Even then there were chances the odd group would not speak about the matter. In this case, imagined the warlock, he could at least ask about them about the two other groups that caught his attention. The fact that they sympathized with Croup should ensure at least that much information. Best thing I did was to have him accompanying me, Armstrong though while waiting for an answer.

"Knivesh..." Shhlr'aSHOOSH ponders, stroking its braided tentacles. "Shhivshh rr errvrworr. Prshhonrrsh make thmm. Shom betterr thnn othrshh."

The rubbery man pats his pocket, where what could only be a short blade is outlined. Several other members of the group do the same, surreptitiously revealing that they too are armed. The tall fellow does no such thing, and merely bares its needle-like teeth.

"Lrrking fr a recrrmndashun?"

"Our esteemed leader," says the stretched one, who will be referred to from now on as the Aberrant Ambassador, "Is asking if you'd like to know where to find such armaments."

Damien decided he liked the Aberrant Ambassador. The man, if there was such as concept as gender for his kind, was fast on the uptake and went direct to the point. Maybe he is the smuggler, thought the warlock. That would be almost too good to be lucky strike. Maybe too lucky to be true. Even if he is not chances are he know where to find the contrabandist, and that was everything the spellcaster needed.

“Well, I would definitely feel more comfortable having something like that at hand.” One can never have too many knifes, the streets of London had taught him as much. “So would my friends.” He said looking at Croup, then at his other allies. Herman was likely to not need a weapon, but the other two seemed like they could enjoy a blade. “How can one acquire such thing around these parts?”

Damian was careful as to not assume the odd group had the blade or to ask for a price. The first thing could be made into an offense, the second taken as a sign of despair. Too much eagerness was bad for business or so it was said by the Wolfstak Docks. He could only hope the liking the odd group took to the Faber would make them more prone to help.

The Braided Cephalopod shakes a besuckered appendage that one might call a finger, if it had a few more bones in it. Or any at all, really. "Firsht. Paymrnnt. Whrt cnn you orfferr?"

The Aberrant Ambassador grins cruelly. "Information is a precious thing, up here, down here. Shhlr'aSHOOSH can help you, but not unless you first help him. What payment have you, hm?"

“A very far position, if I say so myself.“ It was indeed. Even outside of the prison the criminal underworld worked in that manner. It would be strange and downright unsettling if the odd group had offered to help for no price. It would be something to avoid, a trap of sorts, he was sure. “Now, our group is not very familiar with trading inside these walls so I fear any offer I make could be unintentionally offensive to you, if too inadequate.” That or he could offer too much for something cheap. Not that it would matter if they managed to escape soon, but it was better to be careful.  He had suffered enough for taking the risk and attempting to get what he wished for. “As to avoid such unfortunate situation I would like to ask in turn, what do you want for the product?”

Together the five of them had muscle and magic, the information Herman received and more than a few coins worth of gold. Ezra’s tools were not his to offer and they would need them, but Damien was willing to part with the crystal he deployed as arcane focus. That alone should be worth fifty pieces, possibly more, if considered the little supply inside New Newgate.