The Whore, the Mortician and the Corpse

[Breda Dreaughan]

Winter of 124-123

When bad things happened, they always assumed she would be the one able to cope. She assumed it had to do with her body shape. She was sturdy, so she was reliable. And they weren't entirely wrong. She was older than most of them, and she had seen (even) worse than most of them. And it was her role to be the down-to-earth, reassuring one. The one for the young and the nervous.

They all had one modest, simple black dress to be used in any situation that warranted such an outfit. Wearing that, and with her hair on a simple braid, she could barely recognise herself in the mirror. The people who passed her in the streets did not recognise her either, although she was pretty certain she still carried the scent of The Kitten, and she certainly walked like a prostitute.

The Business District was never truly quiet, but during the early hours of morning there were less people around than usual. A few night shifters - in every possible sense of the word - and old people moved about their business. One of the latter helpfully pointed her to the direction of the funeral parlour, and she reached the shelter of its canopy just as it started snowing.

"Grave Endings, huh," she said quietly to herself. "I guess that's witty, then." She drew a deep breath and grasped the heavy iron knocker. It would do good for everyone to get Jolayna's body moved away from the house as soon as possible.

[Myron Fernsby]

The woman who opened the door was young and decidedly perky. She dressed in jewel-tones: too dark to be considered tasteless, but bright enough to stave away the typical pall that hung over such funeral parlors as the one that belonged to Myron Fernsby. Her demeanor was one notch below what most people would be offended at, and though she was capable of displaying mournful sympathy, she was simply the type of woman who found it hard not to smile. Myron had chosen her on purpose just for that reason, having built himself a healthy sense of irreverent behavior, particularly after he'd gotten turned into a shifter. It helped to distract away from the shit deal he'd gotten out of life.

"Evening mum," the young woman said with a brisk curtsey and a gracious sweep of her hand into the waiting area.

It was the type of area that could have been overbearing. A few couches sat with fluffed pillows and muted throws. A small table sat in the middle, the furniture colored a cherry-brown and the pillows various shades of blue and green. The room was wallpapered with a green vine pattern that had enough variation to keep it from being overly repetitive. The lighting was on this side of bright without being so dim as to put those waiting to sleep. Refined and slightly luxurious: it had Myron's fingerprints all over it.

"I'll go fetch the Mister then," the woman said, gesturing again for Breda to take a seat with a smile that almost overflowed what grip she had on it.

There was a tray of sweetbreads left on one of the tables, and an elegant silver pitcher of water with small glass cups arranged around it. Everything was arranged, one way or another, with a certain feminine quality that most likely pointed to the boredom of the female secretary.

[Breda Dreaughan]

Breda sat on the couch with practiced easiness, assessing her surroundings. She could recognise a deliberately created image when she saw one. She also was not entirely unfamiliar with female boredom.

It would have been nice to have something like this. A respectable business, daylight business hours. Of course there were people, mainly in the clientele, who were desperately clinging to the idea that The Kitten was also a respectable business. It was government sanctioned, after all, and as far as Breda could tell, even paid some taxes.

Jolayna had been good with that kind of people. She had been able to convey dignified atmosphere, without appearing bored. She had attracted many of the important customers with that. One - Breda was not sure which - had been attracted enough to fund for the funeral.

Breda herself was not one to enjoy the benefits of the most high-profile clientele. Those tended to be humans, and humans were seldom attracted to dwarves for more than occasional experimenting. Not that she particularly minded. Even if the long period of relative peace and security had awakened her natural ambitions, they did not lie in prostitution.

She picked up a sweetbread from the tray and leaned back with a sigh. She had liked Jolayna. This was her own last service to her sister.

[Myron Fernsby]

Breda would have been left to her thoughts for several minutes.

Lira was good at her job. She had to be in order to be hired by Myron and then kept as he reordered the business to suit his own needs. More than that, she had to be grounded in order to endure his moods and his business habits. It wasn't that he was a rude man, or even one given to bouts of temper. The way he acted could change day to day, from a warm friendliness to a cold veneer to something slightly. . .unnerving when he was in a mood for work, where work involved cold steel instruments and his special cold room in the back that involved some hellish gnomish technology that required more care than a house plant to keep it working as a source of cold. Once upon a time its odd daily maintenance had been forgotten, which had resulted in it turning into a source of heat. Considering that was where they kept their bodies waiting to be buried or burned, it was not a mistake that had been repeated.

So it was not by coincidence that Lira was still around. She was a good woman, a steady woman, and she tolerated Myron with the firm hand of a much older person. Some might have considered her an old soul, but the simple truth was that she was the daughter of an undertaker, and she was comfortable both with dead bodies and the eccentricities that inevitably rose around those who took care of them.

Which explains why she didn't flee when she found Myron in the back room elbow deep in someone's stomach.

"You 'ave a customer, sir!"

Nothing.

"Sir!"

Nothing.

"There's a lady waitin' for you 'round front, sir!"

Nothing.

She took a deep breath. "Myron Barnaby Fernsby, get yore 'ands out of that body this instant!"

He looked up. She smiled. "You've a customer, sir."

More minutes later, Myron appeared from the single doorway that lead into the labyrinth of small back rooms, Lira not far behind him. She settled behind the large desk that guarded the door like some brooding hawk, and returned to whatever it was that kept her busy; Myron didn't know what it was, though he did have some sense that if she stopped he would shortly thereafter find himself out of business, or at the very least in trouble for some baffling bureaucratic reason or another. So, he ignored her as was their tradition so that she could get the work done, and she put up a very good front that she wasn't paying attention to any words that passed between him and his customers. Her gossip always had been benign.

"Good evening," he said, the utter formality of his tone matched by the short bow he offered to the dwarven woman. There was no hint of irony in the movement, despite the obvious gap in their social ranks. "I am Myron Fernsby, owner of this establishment. What might I do for you today?"

[Breda Dreaughan]

These days she assessed each person as a potential customer. How should they be approached, what would they want. This one seemed to put some weight on appearances, both of himself and of others. He would probably go for the dignified type. In a worst case scenario, he'd be the type who would try to rescue you.

In any case, he treated his customers with respect, which she could appreciate. I guess it's not all that different, your profession and mine. It's all about atmosphere, isn't it. They need to feel comfortable. They need to leave feeling better, then they'll come back.

She stood up and responded to the undertaker's bow with a nod. "Breda Dreaughan from The Cozy Kitten. My colleague passed away yesterday. We would like to utilise your services for her."

She watched his face. There were a lot of people who would recoil at the thought of a dead prostitute, presumably even among the professionals. If this man turned out to be one of those, well, it's not like there was anything Breda could do about it, but at least she could be silently sour.

[Myron Fernsby]

Prostitutes. Myron's control of his expression was good enough that he did not show outright distate, but there was a reaction. His eyebrows lifted slightly, and his mouth drew a little tighter, giving him a somewhat quizzical, somewhat surprised expression for a brief second before it smoothed into the grave and understanding mask of the professional. And, of course, that would not be complete without due sympathy and all that came along with that. Some days, Myron found it hard to maintain the illusion that he cared. Considering there was a corpse that was to be burned in the back he had free reign (more or less, it wasn't as if anyone would check and Lira was too comfortable with her job to care) to examine the body for any number of purposes. It pleased him, and so he had been content to do that. He had made the assumption that there wasn't likely to be any more business for the evening, and had prepared to suit himself with pleasure until the hour grew too late.

So to say that Myron cared at all about this woman or the dead whore would have been someone's due mistake. Or a polite fiction. Still, he gave a small sad smile and nodded. "Of course, madam. How may I assist?"

[Breda Dreaughan]

Well, that was not too bad. Probably not a saviour person, but ilkely professional enough to take care of Jolayna with dignity. Breda was not expecting a flood of sympathy. After all, it's not like she loved all her own customers.

"Our first concern would be to get her removed from the house," she responded calmly. "Her being there upsets some of the girls, and we don't have the, er, facilities necessary. We would be also very glad if the transport could be arranged during daylight hours. I mean no offence or disrespect to your own business, but you understand it rather spoils our atmosphere to have a hearse by the door when the customers are arriving."

She paused for a moment, trying to remember everything she had been told to say. "There is an, um, individual who has requested to pay the expenses of the actual service. I assume he'll want to come here himself to discuss the details."

[Myron Fernsby]

"Quite so," Myron murmured, studying Breda as he placed his hands behind his back. "Indeed, that is worthy of note." Louder, he continued, "I will arrange transport for your departed come first light at dawn, if that is acceptable? At that time we shall make arrangements for this individual of yours and ourselves to have a meeting. While patrons are not unusual when it comes to arranging services, I have found it smooths the process considerably if representatives from all involved come to the table. In the meantime, my dear, was there anything else I might do?"

He stared down at Breda with his false kindness, a voice in the back of his mind agitating for her to leave and leave now before too much more time slipped away. The corpse had to be burned tomorrow, and he was nothing if not punctual. The longer she lingered, the less time he would have to study the progress of the disease of the intestine that had shuffled the man off this mortal coil.

[Breda Dreaughan]

Breda suppressed a sigh. She had hoped a quick escape from dealing with this miserable business, but apparently that was not going to happen. She knew without asking that she would be designated to deal with the mortician and the customer.

So she nodded curtly in response. "Of course. We will be present to ensure that nothing… unacceptable is agreed on. We will also try to arrange for the patron to be present when you arrive. Best get things over with as quickly as possible."

She tilted her head to the side, narrowing her eyes. She had a vague feeling that the man was itching to get her out of the room. "I'm sure you have pressing matters to attend to, so I shall not steal any more of your valuable time. I thank you, sir, and we'll meet again at dawn tomorrow." We both have a night's work ahead of us. She gave a slight bow to the man, turned on her heels and left.

Outside, the snowfall had turned horizontal. She pulled her hood back on, glad to hide her face from the world. Well, that's the first step, at least. Maybe the patron will decide he won't need me around. She snorted to herself. As if Madame would ever allow that.

[Myron Fernsby]

"Indeed," Myron said with some small amount of graciousness. Exactly his opinion, as the sooner she left the brighter all would doubtless be. "My dear – " he began as Breda turned, "please do try to have the patron available at dawn? Best to take care of these things as quickly as possible."

Then, there was blessed silence from the prattle of customers. The scratch of a stylus and shuffle of papers dropped off, and Myron knew even as he turned away from the door that Lira had fixed him with one of her stares. She never looked at him with anything other than the utmost professionalism, but she had this manner of arranging her face into a blank expression that was nonetheless the height of disapproval. He had to expect that it was something that came along with being of the female persuasion, since his mother and sisters also had the dreadful ability. Therefore he liked to think himself mostly immune to it, but as he walked towards the door the sensation of it, the weight of it, tingled between his shoulderblades.

"Have you something to say, Miss Beltyzar?" He had his hand on the door handle, ready to escape with one last cutting remark should she happen to say something regrettable. True, he was used to dealing with female theatrics, but he rather didn't have the patience for them at the moment.

"Mister Fernsby," was her reply, and somehow despite the lack of anything that could be considered a criticism, he still felt it find its way into the deep tissue of his back. What an impossible woman. He nodded stiffly, and retreated back to his cold room, where he might have a few more hours of bliss before he was required to interact with the living again.

[Breda Dreaughan]

'The exit hour' was over. Those who cared about appearances had disappeared before the first light. Those who didn't, and those who had an image that required being seen leaving a high-class brothel, still lingered around, soon to be thrown out by Madame's porter.

Jolayna's body was still in her old room, covered with a sheet and surrounded by scented candles. Those of the girls who had not had customers that night had been holding an informal wake around her. Breda had not been one of those girls, but at least her busy night meant that someone else had been sent to deliver the message to the patron. Presumably one of the urchins who worked as errand boys for the brothel.

She was tired, somewhat sore, and generally in a somber mood when she emerged from her room. She walked past Jolayna's room without looking in, and made her way down to the lounge downstairs. She poured herself a glass of wine and slumped on the settee. "Is the hearse here? Or the patron?" She asked, as the porter peered in from the doorway. The burly, blonde man shook his head, and Breda let out an irritated sigh. Please, let them be in time. Please, don't make me go looking for either of them.

[Gennison]

Gennison watched from across the street as the blonde headed porter left his post at the front of the building. He could only propose the man was waiting to greet Gennison's arrival, and had left to report his tardiness, again. Beads of sweat ran down his forehead as Gennison watched from a convenient alley across the street. He was nervous, as he should be, a young woman was dead. A young woman, who presumable, was with him before her death.

If only he could remember!

Gennison very rarely gets drunk, nothing short of a dwarven concoction could put him in such a state. As fate would have it, the Cozy Kitten served such fine drinks. "Stupid, Stupid, Stupid", Gennison chasticed himself again. Gennison had thought nothing of it when the rest of his new comrades wished to celebrate his introduction into the guard, to think he had been excited! That is, until he had walked into the whore house. There had been so many woman, so many drinks, so many boobs. He had been quiet and resistant to the men as they encouraged him to engage in fornication with the women. He was doing well, turning away every advance.

Then they bought him alcohol.

The night was downhill from there, from what Gennison could remember of it. He had become the cliche' life of the party, drinking exotic ales from many of questionable sources. Dancing and laughing, having a merry ole' time. Then the men had bought him some time with a young woman who took him upstairs. After that, everything is black. It came as a haunting surprise when he had been informed she was dead the next day.

Now here he was, shaking in his boots from across the street. Even dressed in formal attire to fit the occasion, it was obvious that he felt unsettled. "I have to go in," Gennison thought,"Now or never!". With that, Gennison made his way across the street and into the brothel. Gennison caught the porter just as he was entering, who escorted him to a dwarven female who seemed oddly familiar. Perhaps she had been around that night? Gennison could only assume that was the case.

"Hello madame" Gennison said.

[Myron Fernsby]

Myron Fernsby had the sort of impeccable sense of time that, should one know him well, was exasperating and on the verge of impossible. He arrived precisely when expected, not a minute sooner and not a minute later. So when dawn came – and he knew, because he was waiting for it a block away from the Kitten – he had the driver pull them up alongside the brothel. Exactly when. He was not bothered by the state of the place, nor was he ruffled in any fashion. True, he didn't think very highly of women who sold their bodies to men for some common coin, but neither did he disparage them or think ill. They were distasteful, but so were many more of the people he dealt with, and going by society's standards most of them were much more respectable.

He had dressed smartly in styles that were not quite Marnian standards but not out of date or out of Marn's past. A traveller would recognize them as being south Eyropan in origin, and slightly behind the cutting edge at that. His clothing was well tailored, the vest over his shirt flattering to his figure and itself visibly luxurious. Myron was wealthy by most standards, especially Marn's, and though the money oozed off him his airs were rather muted by those standards.

So he entered the Kitten without hubris, a footman behind him. They were both somber, carrying no false cheerfulness or any attempt to make the situation lighter than it was. They were there to recover a corpse and deal with it, and despite the humor implicit in the name of Fernsby's business, it ended there. When dealing with bodies, he did not engage in humor. He found it to be crude.

He did not recognize Gennison, and would not have thought him to be the patron. Myron was not the type of man to try to categorize things or people, or pre-empt the situation. Life was as it was, and early on he'd learned to let it happen one way or another. Dealing with its little foibles was something he had become accustomed to.

"I am Myron Fernsby of Grave Endings. I have an appointment with a Miss Dreaughan?" he spoke to the porter after knocking on the door, his face a perfect arrangement of conciliation.

[Breda Dreaughan]

She was more than a little surprised to see Gennison escorted in. She had expected one of the better-off regulars, but this one was young, unfamiliar and visibly agitated. She did not remember his face, but she recognised the type. Virgins who did not get on with it fast enough for their fathers or brothers, shy bridegrooms in their stag dos, youngest members of a workplace, considered needing some "manning up" by their colleagues. They came in reluctantly, got wasted, had the night of their life in the arms of one of the gentle, considerate girls, and woke up the next morning full of repentance. How had he even learned about Jolayna's death? Someone in that group of "friends" must have really hated this poor boy.

Feeling a lot more sympathetic, she stood up and nodded to the man in greeting. "Good morning, sir. Thank you for coming. The mortician wishes to speak with you in person about the arrangements. I'll be representing the establishment." She gave the man a friendly, non-threatening smile. "It is very kind of you to care this much."

While she spoke, the mortician was also escorted in. "Mr. Fernsby," she said formally. "How do you wish to proceed? The porter can show your men to Jolayna's room, if you wish to start discussing the ceremony." She paused for a moment, and shrugged. "To be absolutely honest with you, I have no idea how this works."

[Gennison]

Gennison could have breathed a sigh of relief at the woman's kindness. Her tone set her apart from what he had expected, surely he did not know exactly what he had expected, but her gentle tone was not one of them. "I would be happy to meet the mortician, perhaps he could shed some light on the whole affair", Gennison said. As she expressed her gratitude for his care, he simply nodded. He wasn't sure on how to feel about that compliment, he was only doing what was right.

Then entered the mortician. The man entered the room in a way that a man might expect from someone charged with handling a corpse. He was somber, like death had a hold of the man before he had even entered the room, he seemed a man of few words. Despite his elegance, and his obvious taste for the expensive, Gennison got the sense that the man wouldn't mind changing into something far more plain in order to cut into a body. Corpse or not.

"I am Myron Fernsby of Grave Endings. I have an appointment with a Miss Dreaughan?"

"Mr. Fernsby, How do you wish to proceed? The porter can show your men to Jolayna's room, if you wish to start discussing the ceremony....To be absolutely honest with you, I have no idea how this works."

Gennison stayed silent for the moment, finding no need to admit his ignorance in the affair. He was only slightly less anxious than he was before he had entered, if only because he had been greeted kindly, and the man to handle the affairs had appeared to explain the process. Both of these were comforting indeed.