Nine Swords

At the Nine Swords cabal headquarters, everyone was gearing up for the big anniversary party coming up. The warriors had been called home to celebrate, and everyone in the cabal except perhaps the ones on the most sensitive missions were bustling around in preparation for the big night.

Some folks were choosing and hanging decorations, adding a touch of festivity to the elegant marble stone halls. Some were making catering plans, figuring out what delicious confections and libations to serve at the party. And some... Some were just flat-out causing trouble. Or at least, had a vast potential to cause trouble unless a more level-headed cabalmate stepped in...

Razorgrin was sat cross-legged in the middle of the courtyard garden, grinning from ear to ear. Someone had put him in charge of the fireworks... He had the sort of manic smile on his face more suited to a supervillain, and of course explosive chemicals were involved.

Razor had Oni horns on his brow, and wore a long black leather coat with flames up the sleeves, looking outright devilish while he giggled over the various tools of mayhem in front of him. There were various tubes, shells, and powders scattered at his feet, and he was giddily packing a giant mortar shell by hand. The thing was easily as big as his head.

That was... way, WAY too much powder. Oh, no...

Balam had been a forty-something project manager before her unfortunate bee-related circumstances, and had not taken kindly to the fact that she could now sling blood magic and had been downloaded overnight in the body of a young capoeira-capable starlet. The cabal that had taken in her had been a haven of sorts, a resting-place until she got over things, and she had been delighted to find a use for her old talents: more wars had been won by quartermasters than generals, and she had taken to party preparations with great glee.

She had seen it all before at her old accounting firm: orders for dozens of little sausage rolls and delicate puff pastry, champagne by the crate, a virtual plethora of flowers and chocolates and things to arrange. Caterers to retain. Sourcing an orchestra for dancing.

She had not expected the stranger parts: Fae wine for those brave enough to try, little spiced mushroom appetizers from some hole in Darkside, or the man that had ordered a thousand tacos from a well-known ghoul.

She was also not sure why there were little bottles named ‘Sheol Spice’ everywhere, or why it smelled like a thousand farts gone wrong… no, wait, that was the durian, or perhaps the Stinky Bishop.

The last indignity, however, had been a mysterious, badly-wrapped box in old Christmas paper, marked as ‘Supplies’ in sloppy Sharpie, and a series of little doodled flames all around the edges. It had mysteriously shown up on her desk, with the only identification being an ironically charming doodle of little razor-blades arranged in a wicked smile.

Thus, power-suit rustling and court heels clicking on the lovely floor, she wends her way towards the courtyard garden and the giggling man there. Her eyebrows arch – it was a momentous occasion to see him walk around with everything covered – and she clears her throat at a safe distance. “Mr. Arclight?” she asked of the man she had not formally met yet. Thick accent, twisted, but very precise. “There is … a thing. I am not sure of the sender, or its contents.”

Unsaid, but very heavily implied by the arch of exquisite brows, some questions: a) why are you giggling, b) is there time to get out of explosion range, and c) who left this thing on my desk?

Razorgrin had grinned at Balam as she approached, as she got closer she would find that he was actually still shirtless under the big leather coat. His fashion sense continued to be quite shirt-adverse. Putting down the overstuffed mortar shell and getting up to his feet, he took the box from Balam. “Supplies, eh? It does look like it’s for me— who drew all the cute little razor blades? That’s adorable!”

He looked around the courtyard to see if anyone was watching and waiting for him to open it, then just shrugged and lifted the lid. If it was a prank box, he’d get a giggle out of just as much as the prankster, and if it was a bomb... he’d just resurrect at the nearest Anima well. Kate might have a go at him over the property damage, but it wouldn’t be the first time.

Oblivious to anything and everything going on in the world, she tapped with fury entering the information into spreadsheets, cross checking it, making sure there were no conflicts, added the dates and times into the cabal calendar and made notes to see who had not done yet what they said they were going to do.

Katelin's to-do list was growing, not getting shorter.

"We have had a year to plan this .. well.. damnit we have had almost nine years to figure all this out" she mumbled out-loud to herself

Her phone started ringing, a welcome distraction.

Warglaive, a Dragon agent of Asian descent with bleach-blonde hair and bright yellow eyes, was on the other side of the courtyard hanging decorations. He was only mildly surly about it, surely there were better uses of his talents but Kate had asked this of him. He was busily sticking banners on stone columns while balanced on a stepladder, when he heard Razorgrin cackling like a fool behind him. Glaring instantly, he turned around to scowl at the idiot redhead.

His jaw dropped. Razor was waving a red gem around in the air, it was throwing sparks and small flames in its wake while he shook it. Warglaive reached into his pocket for his agent phone, and mashed the button for Katelin's speed dial.

"Mistress Katelin--" Warg always addressed her formally, "We seem to have a situation in the courtyard. There is a Salamander Stone on premises. Very rare solidified secretion from a salamander's firebreathing glands, highly volatile. And..." He sighed wearily, "Someone gave it to Razorgrin."

He kept the phone up to his ear as he quickly descended the ladder, then started stalking toward Razor. Tilting the microphone piece away from his mouth so he at least wasn't screaming in Kate's ear, Warglaive pointed at Razor threateningly and told him, "Razorgrin, NO."

Seeing his old frenemy approaching him, Razor naturally did the opposite. "Razorgrin, YES!" He did a defiant little pirouette with the gem held over his head, showering sparks down all around him in a pretty, dangerous display.

"You LITERALLY have gunpowder at your feet, stop flinging it around before you blow us all to hell and back!" Warglaive yelled a second time, pulling the phone away from his face in a vain attempt to keep from screaming in Kate's ear again. The redhead just giggled at him.

Katelin coughed once, then stabbed her finger at the intercom transmit button:

"ZWEIHÄNDER Division! Suit up. Courtyard."