Fall Guy (Casper, Evelyn)

[Wrenmae]

Spring 68, 512 AV How do these things always start? Words. It was through the gateway of words that all possibility came to term. Outside the Pig's Foot Tavern, Shroud leaned against the wall, picking his teeth with a fishbone. It wasn't ideal, of course, no real toothpick could be found in the whole of the damned city. Just like Sunberth to lack even the most basic necessities fit for civilization. Tonight was his last job, his last one in this damn stinking town. The Crimson Edge were all but gone playing hero to a bunch of monkeys, and just as well. In their absence, Shroud had fallen back on himself almost exclusively. Jobs were easier and it helped not having to babysit a bunch of children playing at bandit. "You're quiet," A voice hissed at him from the wall, "Reconsidering?" Shroud smiled, crushing the fishbone in his palm and letting it drop, "Reflecting," he answered, crushing the remains beneath his heel, [color=#ac8166]"Thinking back on my time here." "Past is best left in the past," his contact offered, "Men who cling to what was don't last long here." "And I am not long for this petching shykehole." "As you say." Shroud frowned, knocking his knuckles against the wall, eyeing a few swaying sailors as they passed by. "You said you had work for me?" "No," his contact answered, and Shroud could hear the smile, "I said I had work, but not for a skinny shyke like you. We need a heavy lifter, someone with substance. Need two crates relocated from a Wolf-fist hideout in the South of Sunberth, near where the fire started a week ago." "You really are kinda thin," Zan remarked from Shroud's stomach, "I think you should probably eat more people." You mean meat? Shroud thought back, wryly, "Peaple, meat, same thing." Zan quipped instantly. The familiar's master smiled, entertained. "What do you suggest then?" Shroud asked, sighing, glancing through the gloom of the fast approaching dusk, "Do you have any leads?" "One last thing," the voice corrected, "You'll need a fall guy, someone to pawn the attention off on. Can't move these goods with eyes combing the docks, see that you make sure they're looking to the roads instead." "Extra details," Shroud tutted, "Do they come with more mizas?" A chuckle. No then. "Very well," the mercenary sighed, pushing off the wall, "Any leads on where I can find my lifter?" "Of course, goes by the name of Casper. You'll find him in a dive called the Bucket, down by the docks." "Heard that place was ruined by the storm." "Not the storm that ruined it, but they make do." "How will I know him?" "White hair, brawny fellow, doesn't look like a native. Probably alone." "No friends?" "Not the best reputation." "I like him already," Zan piped up, "Sounds like a man of action." "Good," Shroud grinned, "Makes things easier." "Ware well, friend," The voice cautioned, "A man with little..." "Yes, I know," Shroud interrupted, "A man with little has little to lose." "I'm not sure you'll ever understand," his contact criticized with a sigh, "But those lessons are best learned firsthand." "If I ever end up in such straits, I'll deserve to learn it." Shroud said, turning and strolling down the street. His contact would leave the money in the usual place if the package was delivered. The docks, huh? He knew a perfect burned out storage derelict that would be perfect to store it in. Not even the crows used it as a roost.

[Casper]

The Bucket was barely an excuse for a bar, located in a building so dilapidated that Casper could have sworn it was not completely upright. The interior was just as badly maintained, if not worse. The owner had ought to have been ashamed, but whoever the man was, he probably was not familiar with the word. Then again, the grungy walls did match the faces of the crude men that showered only when the beach was looking particularly inviting. The regulars were familiar with violence and vulgarity, so few stopped to stare at the scene playing itself out in the broken-down dive. "Watch what you ssay, old man," Casper spat, his dagger pressed firmly against the man's throat. The fellow was not considerably aged, but he was indeed older than Casper, and might have sported a slouch had his back not been flattened against a wall. He also seemed to be missing a hand. Despite his disadvantageous position, he did not fret. It almost seemed like he was used to having his life threatened more often than not. "I ain't gonna have some Syliran petcher tellin' me what to do--" He was cut off by a swift blow to his stomach, and groaned as Casper kept him propped up against the wall when he tried to hunch over. "Here'ss a tip. Try to think of me lesss as that 'guy from outta town', and more as the guy who's going to redecorate the wallss with your face," he threatened. It was one of the first times he was actually bluffing though, because if he had actually planned on killing the man, he would have already done so. The truth was that while he did wholeheartedly want to see the man's blood spilled on the floor and his organs showcased to the world, his more rational thoughts were intervening. It was one thing to kill a man over money or in self defense, but a little bit of trash talk did not merit a death sentence. His temper shouldn't have been flared by some random drunkard who was simply trying to provoke him, but it was. He had snapped the moment he had started speaking about his Syliran origins. While a random bystander would have seen it as an act of pride for his home city, it was quite the opposite for Casper. He hated Syliras with a passion, and he did not want to be associated with the pretentious city. The man was starting to speak up again, but Casper didn't really want to hear it. He dealt another blow with his knee, and let go of him this time, let him curl up on the ground as he buried his foot in his torso several times, finishing it off with a kick to the face. It took a lot of effort and control for him to not hit him as hard in the face, for the difference between a good concussion and death was slim. He returned to his table, and finished the mug he had ordered previously without sitting down. He slammed it down on the table when he finished, and went for the door. He'd had enough of this shoddy joint.

[Wrenmae]

It started to rain before Shroud reached the bar, the light suggestion of rejuvenation granted from the heavens. Pulling his cloak around himself, Shroud scowled and continued forward. Rain always made Sunberth worse, reminding its citizens what it really was. The water ran in rivulets down the walls, washing away the grime from old blood stains, uncovering the bodies in shallow graves, and sending a fog that smelled of rotting and death through the alleyways, hungry for the spark of life. Sunberth was just an open grave no one had the decency to bury. His feet hit the puddles with abandon, wetting the bottom of his pants and his shoes. The eternal scuffle of violence followed him, retreated and swelled from alley to alley, always too dark to pierce the gloom. What would he find there anyways? Rats? Dogs? A mother and son clawing each other to death over a hunk of wet bread? Wretched, wretched place and near the docks only grew more disgusting. Trash littered the bay, disposed bodies sometimes bobbing among discarded driftwood and rotting food. Not even the fish nibbled, darting shapes too rarely seen close to the brackish waters of the Sunberth port. Ships creaked in their berth, half completed shoddy planks of wood that stretched out over black water…an invitation into the living crypt. The Bucket was never renowned for its patronage, or its alcohol, its location, or its service. It existed in a place where mediocrity was cherished above the dull-eyed slack of the wrecks who lived here. It was no ones bare, none had claimed it and none ever would. The gangs stayed out, which made it an oddly fitting sanctuary for the man who laid low while waiting for a boat to dock. The swill could barely be called alcohol, a thick consistency that tasted of water. The owner was never the same, and it practically ran itself with its customers. One drunk wakes from his fitful dreams of lascivious curves and takes over for the other who might have scratched up enough mizas to pay a visit to the brothel. The roof caved inward, a bowl collecting water. The storm had not been kind to it, or at least that’s what a visitor might infer. No. The truth was that the Bucket had always been this way, abandoned by all but those who had nothing left. And this piece of shyke was only scarcely better than nothing. He had not yet made the door when it opened, depositing a wide shouldered man with white-blonde hair and a surly snarl creeping along his features. He was followed by no one, looked out into the street and the driving rain to see the cloaked Shroud. His eyes seemed to dismiss him, but not without a warning glare. This man was not to be trifled with, held an aura of menace around his body and the barely concealed force of violence behind his thick hands. Casper. He’d found his man. Certainly his source didn’t skimp on the challenges. Casper would be a dangerous enemy to make. At least, if he was to stay in Sunberth. Shroud raised his hand in a short wave, pushing back his hood and offering a smile. “Certainly you can find better places to drink than this piece of shyke,” the raised hand turned out, as if inviting him, “Casper, yes? I’ve heard of you. They say you’re a man that might be looking for work, that you can handle a little danger. If there’s any truth to that…I’ve a job for you.”

[Casper]

He had trouble understanding how in the world the Bucket was attracting customers as he saw another making his way to the door. He gave the man a glance, noting his young appearance with apprehension. Alone at night with such a frail body, it was a wonder he had not been mugged, killed and thrown into the murky ocean waters. His thoughts would not have lingered long on the character had he not felt his eyes boring into him, examining him. Still, it was only when he spoke that Casper stopped and gave the boy his attention. Yes, he was skinny and pale, a body that made one wonder if he could even handle the blades at his side. Yet Casper felt sure that he could, for there was something about his posture, or maybe the confidence with which he spoke that emanated an aura of menace. His eyes were even darker than the night around them, and his smile reflected anything but kindness. "In Ssunberth? Not likely," Casper said with a certain nonchalance, his nerves calmed by the beating that had occurred only moments ago. It was quite the stress relief, but that didn't mean that Casper didn't regard this new stranger with overall mistrust. His curiosity was piqued by the offer, but there were too many unknown factors that made him wary."'They' have informed you wrong, my friend. I already have work, and I'm not about to take a job from a scrawny kid like you."

[Wrenmae]

“Come now,” Shroud said with a smile, holding out both of his hands, palm out, “No one who drinks in a place like this has a consistent job. I’m not asking you to trust me, only to trust the power of mizas.” Hypnotic Djed slithered up his tongue and across to the half breed, slipping into Casper’s aura and tantalizing his mind with desire. It wasn’t much, basic manipulation. Shroud lay the groundwork for more advanced manipulations with a surge of curiosity and desire, never pushing hard enough to overcome the burly mans distrust. In Sunberth, distrust was akin to instinct. If anything ever overpowered it completely, one may become suspicious that other powers were at work. Not that he expected Casper to know what Hypnotism was, but the less suspicion the better. Glancing between the brute and the door, Shroud stepped forward. His eyes were on the darkness around them, the lanky figures retreating in the distance, but especially on the things he couldn’t see…the people and ears he knew were there. “A delivery job, one night only,” he promised, “The employer wants the goods moved discretely and quickly, and is willing to pay the extra it takes for reliable service.” Another surge of hypnotism, this time a piercing thought, imagined in Casper’s own voice, that he could probably use the extra money and a contact that could afford to pay well. “There are plenty of strong men in Sunberth, friend,” Shroud warned, “And I can find another set of muscles that aren’t as afraid of risk as you are.” Hypnotic surge, indignation, the edge of competitive bravado. “You have a bell to consider. Accept and I’ll meet you at the Pig’s Foot with details and a settled price for your services. Turn it down and I can’t guarantee what you already know won’t shorten your life expectancy.” He shrugged, turning on his heel, “Not that it matters,” he called over his shoulder, “If you still judge men in Sunberth by their physical appearance alone, you won’t last long anyways.”

[Casper]

He took deep offense at the assumption that he was jobless. Good work was being done at the Fence, and not only was he paid but people also learned to think twice before confronting him. He opened his mouth to retort, but found himself pausing when he looked into his eyes, hesitating. Yes, he was paid decently, but why not make some money on the side? The boy said it was dangerous, but he was well capable of handling himself. He was always quick on his feet when it came to survival, and it wasn't like some kid was going to change that, no matter how clever he thought he was. At least, that was what Casper believed. "I'm lisstening," He replied in a low, gruff voice. He noticed the young man's almost paranoid glances, and wondered how dangerous the job really might be with a slight anxiety. But still, he fancied the prospect of gold, and if the kid really did know what he was doing... Well, he'd reap the benefits when and if things ever came to a happy ending. The problem was that happy endings were never really the outcomes that Casper expected. He scratched his head, trying to reach a rational decision. His silence tipped off his hesitation to the boy, who replied by downplaying Casper's value, tired of playing the game of the desperate salesman. His eyes flared, and he took a step forward, resisted the urge to see a pool of blood emanating from his throat. "Don't tesst me," He said, but the boy was not phased by his intimidating behavior. Instead he simply continued with his proposition, turned on his heel and left, leaving Casper overly irritated and alone. Without much direction, he wandered through the streets, tending to pick the larger, more open ones. He didn't want to have to deal with any bandits to add to rest of the evening's shyke. Perhaps he should find another bar to get his drink on? Why not a brothel... His mind jumped from idea to idea, not able to focus on a single one as most of his conscious mind was still preoccupied by what the stranger had offered him. He felt like he was missing out on some kind of opportunity, and the feeling wouldn't leave him since the conversation. And then there was again the all too vivid vision of the boy laying dead and contorted, alongside that other petcher who provoked him in the bar. He shook the thought from his mind. He was starting to feel more and more like the gore imagery that kept running through his mind was what was keeping him in the drab city, lowering him to the class of the thugs and the low-lifes. If only he could keep his enraged, somewhat sadistic thoughts at bay, perhaps he could come to terms with being employed by the boy. Never too late to try, his reasoning told him. A last second of hesitation, and Casper finally turned around to make his way back to Pig's Foot Tavern. His brooding had not kept him too long, and he reached the tavern before the bell was out. Upon entering, he found the boy sitting in one of the more deserted corners of the place, and with a determined walk, made his way to him. He tried to convince himself that he would not let words get to him before the conversation started."Iss there ssomething I can call you by?" He asked as he took the seat across from him.

[Wrenmae]

He sat back against the wall, eyes closed, listening to the footfalls of scuffed heels on stained wood. Arms crossed, no one bothered him. It was well known, by this time, that Wrenmae ran with the Crimson Edge. Upstarts, mostly, but their leader had a price on his head from one of the more influential Sunberth gangs…and that carried a measure of respect. A mug sat untouched on the table in front of the murderer, the cool grog long since warmed. Spring wormed its way through closed shutters and saturated the inside like a wet blanket. Humid air, the smell of the docks, bodies and blood. Sunberth had its own cocktail of scents, preceded only by the way its residents dressed…and walked. One could pick out a Sunberth man from down the road just in the way he moved. Always so careful, or predatory. Stalking like the cat or skittish like the mouse. Polar opposites. Sunberth was populated by both kinds. He heard the scrape of wood across the ground, the settling of wait, the hissing words Casper spoke. Smiling, the Hypnotist opened his eyes and leaned forward on his chair, sliding the mug to his temporary partner. “Wrenmae,” he introduced with a smile, “And you are the infamous Casper. I’ve heard about you around Sunberth. Not many can claim uniqueness in their violence in a city of killers…but you manage. I admire that.” Reaching into his cloak, he pulled out a handful of gold mizas, dropping them onto the table before arranging them across the top. Lantern light lanced off the rims, flashing like Syna’s wink. Long, nimble fingers set one of the coins near the edge of the table, clustering two together beneath his index and middle finger. “Our quarry is a delivery currently sitting in a warehouse five blocks from where we sit now.” He tapped the coin at the edge of the table and placed two more in front of it. “They keep it guarded, but only by two men. No one wants to draw attention, so our brigands are well trained. Dirtied to look like common thugs, but you can read their history in how they hold themselves.” He tapped the two coins. “We need only one alive, incapacitated…the other we might as well kill.” A wench swung by, her hips moving with flawless symmetry. Shroud was quiet as she passed. Eyes and Ears everywhere these days. Draw the gaze of a man to the ass while her eyes were free to read his mind. Sunberth had hardened him. When she’d passed, Shroud continued, holding Casper’s gaze with his own as he moved the two ‘them’ coins against the two ‘guard’ coins. "Once we take them, we will load the boxes into a wagon, provided by my employer. We make sure we have all the shipment, and then you drive the wagon outside of Sunberth, westside, to meet with a rendezvous.” Wrenmae tapped the opposite side of the table. “Payment will be provided. I will accompany you outside of town, barring complications. Our greatest obstacle is the guards, mercenaries from the look of them. I believe one may have a price on his head, and for good reason.” A tantalizing flow of Djed to simmer in Casper’s mind. The hint of challenge, of pride, small emotional triggers to guide the brute into answering favorably. The trick was to get the fellow interested. Once the job began, the only complications were ones the Hypnotist couldn’t control anyways. This was the trickiest part. And talking people into things was his specialty.

[Casper]

A crooked smile formed across his lips at the compliment Wrenmae payed him, then disappeared quickly when he realized the context. He was being applauded on his ability to murder, not exactly something he should have been taking pride in. Still, as much as he denied it, he did experience a flurry of exhilarating emotions when he killed, and pride was included among them. So, he only grunted in reply, not willing to acknowledge Wrenmae's flattery but not willing to argue it either. He listened carefully, his eyes on the coins that the boy danced about the table, illustrating the scene. Guarded by two men, hm? It shouldn't be too difficult if they took one on each, but he doubted that this boy had the ability to hold his own against an armed guard, let alone a trained one. No, Casper would have to prepare to deal with them both, a task significantly more difficult. Still, he was confident. The small beating he had dealt tonight reminded him that he was not from Sunberth, yet he survived in the lawless town better than some of the residents themselves. He had proved to himself that the bloody visions he had throughout his entire life, he could make them come true. He still had a few more questions for his strange employer, such as demanding what the payment was, making sure it was well worth the trouble. Alas, he ignored his doubts as Wrenmae reignited, fueled the very emotions that he already felt. It made him cocky, to the point where he wasn't even accepting the job for money's sake. It was just to prove something, though he wasn't sure what that might be. There would be no more dilly-dallying in the tavern, Casper thought impatiently. He got up, and motioned towards Wrenmae as he made his way towards the door. "Let'ss go," he said bluntly, making it clear that he didn't really care for more information than was just given to him. He longed for a breath of fresh air and warm blood on his hands.