Closed Help Wanted (Wrenmae)

[Razkar]

"There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter."

38th Day of Winter
18th Bell

Razkar knew that buried in the turgid, stinking scrum of humanity that was Sunberth was the man he wanted. A man whose death he'd been contracted to ensure. From a half a country away, the life of Anar DuFarro had been weighed and measured by one Ignotus Everto, and for whatever true reason the Nuit had, he had decided it needed to end.

He'd told the Myrian it was because he sought to "throw Zeltiva" into chaos. Razkar had nodded somberly and privately judged the Nuit full of shyke. Whatever reason Ignotus wanted Anar removed, he had no doubt it wasn't for the civic good of Zeltiva. But what did he care? It was two hundred old mizas, a job, a commission.

A hunt. A purpose. But if every hunt has prey, you must find him... and know how to find him.

Which was why the Myrian had been tramping around Sunberth for the last two days, making visits in the vein of-

"Wo'ken I getcha, stranger?"

"This is the Pig's Foot, yes?"

"Aye," the bearded old bartender said with a sniff, crossing lined but still sinewy-strong arms over his chest, "'tis. What of it?"

"You have seen the flyers around town? About this... Hound?"

The bartender kept his peace for long ticks, and Razkar could see his mind whirring away, weighing up the pros of admitting as much, or the cons of doing the same. Eventually he just shrugged. "Yeah, everyone has. Loada' cobblers, you ask me..."

Razkar wasn't, but he wasn't about to alienate the man by saying so. Instead he ordered an ale and paid for it... with twenty gold mizas. Merv cocked an eyebrow at the excessive amount, the raised line of hair asking the only relevant question. Razkar obliged him.

"Well, if it is not just... cobblers, as you say-" Razkar wondered what a collection of shoemakers had to do with it "-let him know the savage from the docks wishes to speak to him."

Razkar remembered that the bartender and owner of the Pig's Foot had covered his surprise well, and the resultant uneasiness that came with it. He'd seen that look several times since their arrival in Sunberth, he and Edreina and their cargo of fleeing Denvali. Within a bell of making port in Sunberth, the usual thuggish welcoming committee had descended upon them... and then descended into a mass of shattered limbs, eviscerated bodies and still-screaming heads lopped from bloody trunks.

Razkar knew how to make an impression in a rat's nest such as this. The Hound sought to use horror and death to spread his message? Well, Razkar could do the same, and got the same reaction at-

"Ten to one on Erik The Bloody, reigning champion!" The tall man bellowed over the rutting, chattering crowd, a pain of ape-like minders flanking him and shoving a path for him. "Sixteen to one on his opponent, Hagar The Fell-Handed, pride of Riverfall! C'mon, ladies and gents, lets see where your courage lies...!"

Twas a packed house at Johnny's establishment, and the mustachioed entrepreneur found few things as likely to warm his heart than the sight of dozens, scores, hundreds of punters almost fighting to give him their money.

The fighters were in the back, warming up and getting ready. His platoon of bookies were shouting odds and scribbling wagers, taking fistfuls of coins and a few IOUs from the handful of punters they knew to be good for them. Whores circled and preyed on the drunk and amorous; pickpockets did the same (at least the ones who knew to pay a hefty cut to Johnny for the privilege of poaching on his hallowed ground).

And then someone - or something new - stepped from the crowd that parted for him all by itself.

Someone with bone in his face, skewed through skin dark and marked with ink. Eyes as black as coals stared at him shrewdly, tall and lithe body planting itself in his path. Johnny looked down at him (he wasn't called "Tall" for no reason), and gauged him as what he was within a blink.

Warrior. Reaver. Killer. Savage. Myrian...

"Looking for some time in the cage, friend?" He said with his trademark grin, gesturing to the cage at the end of the building. "Sure we can accommodate and if you're the man I think you are...?"

"Which would be?"

"At the docks. Lot of bodies dropped, if I recall correctly. Or parts of them, anyway. We're a city used to butchery, Myrian, but so many in such short a time..." He shook his head and tut-tutted. "Quite an impression."

"That was the idea." Razkar's hand went to his purse and the minders flinched, their own stubby fingers flying to sheathed blades. The Myrian didn't pause, not even when Johnny waved off his bodyguards... hand coming up full of coin, instead. "This is for you."

"Who're you betting on?"

"Myself."

"You're going to fight?" Johnny said with an avaricious gleam in his eyes. "You could go up next, if-"

"Trying to find someone." Razkar said, plowing on mercilessly, letting the rainfall of gold discs pour into the human's hand, forty of them, each one catching the human's eye. "The man from the fliers. This... Hound."

"Ah."

A small sound, but indicative of much. Reticence. Caution. Concern. Johnny was successful, and that meant rich, and that meant he could afford the swords and hands to wield them Sunberth was built on. But while the Daggerhands were dead in name, they still had men and soldiers who would not care for him allying with the Hound. But people whispered... they confided... they passed on tidbits and rumors... and Johnny was always looking to be well-informed...

"Well, I wouldn't know much," he said, though his twinkling eyes said different, "But even if I did, how would I find you to tell otherwise...?"

And Razkar had told him the same as he did the proprietor of the Pig's Foot: Baroque Bay. Where his time in Sunberth began. There he stood at that time, as Syna began to flee over the horizon as if unwilling to gaze upon the festering city any longer. Shadows long grew longer, and while the same detritus that infested Sunberth did not really vary at night, they came in greater numbers, and bolder.

But the Myrian was left unmolested. He sat plain and unafraid as a statue at the end of the dock the Calypso had arrived on. If he looked carefully, he could still see the tried and dark bloodstains he'd left there when he arrived, ripped spurting and screaming from those who'd tried to extort him, his lover and their charges.

The shadows watched him, but like the tale of The Hound, the whispers of The Savage had spread, too. There were few Myrians in Sunberth, and everyone knew Dastana stayed in her darkened, blood-reeking den in the north-east. Razkar was known, if not by his name then his appearence... and he would seek to use that.

But asking for Amar directly? No, that would only scare off his prey, drive hin deeper underground, perhaps even out of the city... or force a confrontation he was not yet ready for. No, the best hunts were the ones when your prey never knew it was being hunted. That way you could prepare the killing ground, wait patiently for that perfect moment... then strike with the lethal power that surprise granted any killer.

For that, Razkar needed aid, and he knew no-one in the stinking city and was not about to trust anyone in it. Hence them meeting him there, if they dared, and not at their lodgings. He would not leave a trail back to his lover for some scum to follow. No... they would meet him here, be it The Hound, a proxy or even an enemy.

Skkkkkt... Skkkkt...

Whetstone moved slow, methodically across his gladius, every stroke drawing it a mite sharper. The sound growled through the dark and shadows, warning and alerting all at once. Razkar liked it: simple, clean and purposeful, was the means of making a blade keen and useful. So unlike this skulking espionage he had to embark upon.

The Mhyrian sighed and continued waiting. Such was the nature of the hunt, however: it depended on the prey...

Receipt:-60gm

[Wrenmae]

Violence beget violence, and before the blood had long cooled on the cobblestone beneath the gallows, word had begun to spread. Wrenmae sat in the Pig's Foot, sipping on something he forced himself not to taste. It lit a fire in his belly briefly before hissing and subsiding. Fallon was gone, out in the streets pressing scholar hands, warrior hands, against walls to press Wren's flyers. He nursed his twisted nose in the only way he knew how, Forgetful-brew. Enough of it dulled the pain, more would make him forget he was ever injured.

On the precipice he swayed.

"Do yer think Hound is that one bloke from the docks?" Wren turned his attention on a weasel-faced man leaning across the table toward his larger partner, speaking too loudly to be secretive, but miming the act of conspiracy. "After all, he did kill Silas an' his Seagull gang."

The larger man shook his head somberly, rubbing his hands together against the cold invading even the inn, "Nah, Nah, aint the same fella. Yer didn't see the savage, but I was workin that day for Nan, dock-master's wife, haulin cargo and-"

"Just outta the goodness of yer heart, I 'magine," His companion finished with a smarmy grin. It earned him a kick beneath the table that tore the grin from his face and replaced it with vein-bulging pain.

"Shove it, Barney, gimme my piece." Barney the weasel-faced man fell silent, but nursed his injured leg with both hands, rocking back and forth. Wren wordlessly toasted the larger man, although neither of them saw and brought the mug back to his lips. Nothing passed between them, instead he listened. "Wot I saw...petch, wot any man saw that'll talk was a man...no...a monster. He carved through almost the whole lot'o them, woulda if not fer his lady friend with red hair. They..." He took a heavy gulp of his flagon and slammed it on the table, drawing eyes.

"Well, he, he...he cut em all down, yeah? Then he reaches in and pulls ones heart out an he...he...he bites on it. Like, he's eating a petching apple." His shoulders shook, his body swaying beneath the pressures of the memory, "Nah, nah this hound bloke aint him. Aint even close. That man is a terror who kills in the light. Coupla monsters in the city this season, Tommy. We best be lookin on a ship out."

Wren didn't bother to listen to the rest of the conversation, instead he finished half of his mug and left it on the table, swaying up to the bartender and sliding five gold miza across the table. The bartender looked at it and grunted.

"Not your usual fare," Wren said with a raised brow, "But then, I imagine information is in ample supply, and I could get it cheaper from any street wretch. The savage. What do you know?"

The bartender stared at him long and hard before reaching out and taking the coin. He was right, of course. Razkar had been anything but subtle around the city. The coin the savage had paid for the Hound was good coin...few knew about the skulking Daggerhand killer. But the savage? Word traveled fast. The gangs would have his head or his hand soon enough...way it went around Sunberth. "I can tell you he wants the Hound."

Wrenmae did well to disguise his surprise, swallowing a gaping expression and averting it somewhere deep inside him. This changed things. "Why? Want to have a go? Skinny runt like you?"

"What did you tell him about the Hound?"

The bartender looked at Wren and raised an eyebrow, the hypnotist bit back a snarl and slid ten more mizas his way. "It's in your best interest. Whoever I am, whatever I offer...isn't it best that you come clean about whatever it is you know? Don't want to leave me thinking you're holding something back. The Daggerhand haven't been renowned for their mercy in interrogation."

He spiced the words with hypnotic reach, pushing the edge of fear against his stubborn pride, echoing in the vaults of his own mind that he should just say it and be done with it...that some secrets, between slaughter of this caliber, should be left for men who could lose lest when angry gangers came calling.

"Nothing about the Hound," The bartender shrugged, "But I know where the bloke will be, lookin to have me tell the Hound to find him."

"Not many dead men walk to their own execution."

"Between the two of us, I hope you do tell the Hound and they kill eachother. Bad enough to have the gangs as they are, riling em up makes the whole beehive ornery-like. Bound to sting anyone looking for who bashed up their hive so well."

"Wise man," Wren commiserated, "Now...where would I find a savage looking for a savage?"

The bartender offered only the barest of grins before leaning in.

Wren listened.


*********

The savage sat on the end of his killing dock. It was easy to see him from Wren's vantage point, only sitting and sharpening. He looked like a monster, pierced and tattooed, too much skin even in the chill that had taken Sunberth. If the man felt Morwen's breath upon his neck, he made no notice. There was a single minded focus to his work, the sort of concentration a scholar puts into writing in some dusty tome, or a wizard puts into their preparation. He'd seen the same poise in Rayage over his alchemy circles.

A thug did not spend so much time sharpening his weapons. A thug took new weapons from his kill and discarded old ones. A thug did not seek to deliver a message to a man who had not allowed himself to be found and then sat in plain sight, waiting for him to show up.

There was confidence here, a blinding overconfidence, maybe...but one honed and sharpened over many survived battles, and certainly skill that could take down at least a moderately skilled gang of dock-thieves without sustaining any meaningful injury. Much to consider. The approach must be careful, calculated. The gladius suggested up-close fighter and while Wren's skill with a dagger was anything but novice, he didn't trust himself against a horde of men like this savage had cut through.

A brash man walked into battle without knowing his opponent, offering only honor. Wren played with no such contrivances, opting for a longer life built carefully. Still, as an assassin, the Myrian had overplayed his hand. Being so overt with his arrival and asking the Hound out of hiding was sloppy, or the ballsiest thing he'd been party to.

Either way, he couldn't walk in there as he was.

But someone could.

Listen closely. I have a plan.



He strode up to the Myrian on the dock, hands clasped behind his back, cloak open and billowing in the cold. He paused where land touched wood, a distance from the Myrian that was comfortable. Dark stains etched themselves in greater black than the night could design, testaments to the Myrian's brutality not so long ago.

No one approached him, no one dared.

"They say you're the Savage," he called out, "That you slew many men in moments...that you tore out one's heart and ate it. Such a man is not to be controlled, and he might come to realize the gangs will realize it as well, and move to silence him. You have proven yourself against wharf rats, but will your blade not dull through the hordes of dogs that await you farther down the line? What they cannot tame, they break...it is Sunberth, and chaos has its price."

He offered a small smile, pushing a hand through his hair almost nervously, "They say you're looking for someone, another killer but far less public. Why? What does one killer want with another?"

[Razkar]

He'd smelled him from the end of the dock. The stink of rotting fish and dug mixed with sea salt was... heady, to say the least, but it made the smell of sweat and soap and liquor... it was like a beacon in the darkness.

A fuzzy one, anyway. The fog was murder that night...

The stone continued its sacred, relentless meditation across the steel gladius, but now Razkar's eyes were elsewhere. By the footsteps... just one person... tall, though not quite his height... lean, with the gait of a panther, confident and unafraid. Which, considering he was alone on the Sunberth Docks, told Razkar an awful lot.

"They say you're the Savage..."

The figure talked, partially hidden behind his cloak, and Razkar listened, though it didn't seem to be anything he hadn't heard before. He even cocked his head to one side when the waxing human mentioned the risks of Sunberth, it's chaos and yawning hunger...

Razkar shook his head slightly. Barbarians. They never understood his people.

"They say you're looking for someone, another killer but far less public. Why? What does one killer want with another?"

The Myrian stood up, and raised his gladius... but after a tick's fraction, the human would see it was to inspect the blade against the quivering shards of Leth that pierced the fog. Keen... unblemished... full of lethal purpose. He nodded in satisfaction and sheathed it, hands behind his back...

... and one of them closed around the punching dagger sheathed there. Trust was a rare and precious thing among killers, after all. If it even existed.

"What would any killer want?" He said, fluent Common sliding incongruously from such an uncivilized visage, then answered his own question a few ticks later. "For the chance to kill again. But wharf rats, as you call them, do not interest me. They were simply in my way, and a useful means to announce myself. I am looking for a man; just one man, somewhere, buried in this... city."

He sneered the word like some profane curse, casting a quick, black glance over the squatting mass beyond the spray and piers. But out there, in the roiling chaos, was the man he sought, and he could not seek him without help.

Regardless of which quarter it came from.

"This 'Hound', whomever he may be-" the Myrian inclined his head toward the human, tight, wry smile on his lips like he was sharing some private joke "-seems well-connected in this town. He knows things. Places. People. Where the two would meet, and in return for his assistance in locating the one I seek, I would... repay that service in kind."

[Wrenmae]

On the roof beside the docks, pressed up against the brick chimney so tight he might as well have been a shadow, Wren sat with his arms crossed and his eyes closed. So. The Myrian was looking for information and had assumed the Hound would be the one to go to. Not altogether a poor guess, but one steeped in almost child-like association. The biggest killer in Sunberth was also the keeper of the darkest secrets. Not altogether a mutual relation, but smart to begin with. If you could suss out who the killer was, then it might follow one could use that information to track down other information.

Clever.

But there had been no guarantee that information would have found its way into his hands...the Myrian was a gambler, not made for the world of espionage, information gathering, and guile. He was more the kind to torture the information out of people and hold their life as ransom for its veracity.

Zan stood with Wren's poise in front of the Myrian, ready at a thought's notice to become water once again and slide to open sea. How does one face a killer who chops men like firewood? Send someone that can't be cut.

To his credit, Zan was remarkably good at tying down his eccentricities when it was demanded. But, as predicted, Zan had altered his Wren guise with morphing before approaching the Myrian. His nose was longer, face a little narrower with higher bone structure and blazing blue eyes. Not that the sort of change particularly bothered Wren, but it was the act of going slightly against their plan that made him uneasy. Zan was crucial in this part of the relation, and he would have to speak through the familiar.

No easy task.

"Rather heavy handed investigation," Zan said with an easy smile, "Although I suppose a man of your particular type might have trouble being subtle." As the Myrian approached, Zan spread both hands out and held his arms out wide for a moment before letting them drop to his side.

"Hey. Unarmed, hardly worth the time to kill, eh? Let's say I was connected to this Hound fellow...a fact hard to prove given their attention to secrecy...but leeeeeeet's say I knew and ear that knew an ear. What would be the stakes? Who do you need to find? Why? Part of the cost of collaboration is information."

He was off the script. Wren scowled and almost slid down the roof, but paused. No. Let this play out. For now.

"You can caaaaaall me Zan, Myrian. And I'm your best bet to locating the ever oh-so-elusive Hound character. There. I told you something, now tell me something about yourself. Name? Favorite Color? Favorite...murder-thing?" Zan shrugged and Wren made a note never to let Zan do anything like this ever again.

Ever.

[Razkar]

Part of Razkar wasn't surprised that it wasn't The Hound that had come to parlay with him. He'd hoped, but... really? If he'd been the barbarian, would have have come down in person, or sent a proxy? Half of Sunberth probably had a vested interest in scattering his body parts across the city; the other half would do it for the lint in his pockets.

Those who rule in this place do so from the shadows. The ones that live longest, anyway.

A pair of steps towards the human was enough to get him to drop the quips, at least for the moment. As he approached, though, Razkar couldn't shake the feeling of... disquiet. He looked human, anyway, this "Zan", but his movements... very... what was the word?

Fluid. Almost like he'd only just acquired his body and was having fun with it. Speaking of which...

Razkar rolled his eyes in a gesture very much at odds with the stoic savage he showed to the world at large. The sigh that followed it spoke more of an exasperated adult talking to a child, and his black eyes turned upward as if beseeching.

"Goddess save me from barbarians and their stupid questions..." But before Zan could query that guttural, grinding tongue, he looked back at him, gaze firm and businesslike. "The cost of collaboration is my word that once my part of it is satisfied, I will satisfy yours. Reciprocity-" Ha! Finally, a chance to use that word! "-is the key to successful ventures, no?"

Light and airy words, but he flicked up a finger and his voice was rank with warning.

"And in case you want to make another little joke, don't question my word when I offer or give it... human." That last word almost had a question mark on it. What was it that so unnerved him about this harmless and unarmed individual? "You barbarians may shit on your honor when it suits you; I do not."

The Myrian relaxed a touch and let go of his dagger, but took a step back, too. He dug around in his pouch and came up with a worn clay pipe, packing a small amount of tobacco into the bowl with smooth, well-practiced movements, talking as he did so.

"Now... as for the 'who', which I know you do need, the name is Anar DuFarro." His black eyes glittered with brief amusement. "The name alone, if you can pin facts to it, will give you a clue as to why I seek his end. He is a human, blessed by Sagallius. I have been told he is in Sunberth. Why I want him dead is for me to know, and as long as his death doesn't effect you... why should you care?"

A match flared and sizzled in the muggy air and he held it delicately to the bowl until the dry herb caught and glowed within the bowl. Razkar took a deep draw... speaking on the exhale, grey and blue smoke oozing from his mouth like the fire lizards his Grandmother told him about.

"My name is Razkar of the Shorn Skulls, my favorite means of dispatch is the one that works-" the last words came out in a puff, a tiny bump of smoke that blossomed like the ghost of a flower "-depending on my enemy... and you will need a man of my skills."

The Myrian rested his weight on his back foot, one arm crossed across his stomach, the elbow of his other resting on it, holding the pipe to his mouth as smoke curled to join its cold, clammy cousin.

"... well?"

[Wrenmae]

Instruction was no longer an option. Zan had apparently decided to abandon the plan midway through completion. He had no significant concerns about assassinations or anything of that matter, his entire nature was dependent upon his definition of fun. All the inquiry of a child, all the power of Wren, and all the patience of butterfly.

He shouldn't have been surprised, honestly, but he had hoped by including the familiar in his own plans, the creature would have felt some manner of dedication to completing his work. He didn't need to peer around the chimney to see what Zan saw, warning him carefully to stay at the edge of the Myrian's range...that meant an arm's length and stride's length. Zan perpetually ignored the hypnotist.

As if he wasn't gambling with both their lives.

"Reciprocity!" The familiar cried, clapping both hands together once, "What a word, what a word!" he wriggled, the only word that could possibly be used to describe the alien way he moved, as if he'd forgotten bones were bones. Wren felt Zan yank a muscle in his back and hissed, but only to himself.

"And I'll have you know that even if I was turned down from the Syliran Knights, I-" He paused, left eye twitched, frowned and muttered, "Did YOU sign up for the Knights? No. Didn't think so. Was pretty sure that was me, Zan. So...who's story is it? Mine. Shove off."

Blinking, he refocused on Raz, "Sorry about that, domestic dispute, anyways, I wasn't turned down from the Knights on account of my lack of honor, so maybe be a little more considerate, huh?"

This was a nightmare.

Wait.

Wait...

Anar DuFarro...the man he wanted found. Why was that name familiar? Wren dared to cut his link with Zan momentarily while he considered. The name was almost certainly one he had heard before, and he had heard it while in Sunberth. Yes....that was it. He HAD heard it here, even looked for the man...accompanied by.

Ignotus. Everto.

The taste of enlightenment was an ambrosia the hypnotist delighted in, and it wasn't one that ordinarily came with such fateful coincidence. So, Ignotus Everto has signed a savage to seek out his little treasure box for Sagallius' little game. How very quaint...still not doing it himself, as if he hadn't learned an ample lesson the first time.

Well.

Two of them were Cordas now, and that meant, in some roundabout way, they were opponents on the same game board. It was most certainly in Wren's best interest to seek out Anar DuFarro before Ignotus could...and as they had already contracted to meet later in the season, he had to be swift...dangerous swift.

"So you just gotta kill the guy, right?" Zan asked, crossing his arms and tapping a foot vigorously on the dock, "Yes...mhm...murder is certainly something the Hound does. Yes indeed. Came to the right place for murder and stuff, right good killer he is, butcher really, or is that just food? I can never remember. Anyways, yes. Yes. I think we can accommodate you Mr. Shorn Skulls. You'll have to give us a bit to turn up the information you're looking for but you want us to....what? Point the way? Deliver the guy to you? If you can't tell us all the details, at least let us know how we are to know what works so far as yes or no...in this littler arrangement you're proposing."

"Enough."

Rising along the rigid back of the brick roof, Wren strode to the edge of the roof and looked down at them, propping up an arm on one of his bent knees as he leaned down to look at Razkar and Zan.

"You'll excuse my partner, I do believe he has taken too much drink."

"I...what? Really? That's what you're going with? Drink? Man. Applause for creativity there, boyo, really surprised us all with-"

"Shut up, Zan." Wren scowled, reaching up to knock loose strands of hair away from his face. He measured up the Myrian, not disguising the way he sized his stance, the way he held himself, and his cold confidence. He recognized the words, not their meaning, but enough to know their origin. Myrian, just like Cade and Ximal sometimes spoke to each other. "The Hound wanted to offer you his praise for an impressive show on the docks earlier this season. I hear they don't expect to ever get the blood out of the wood. If my partner has insulted you, I apologize on his behalf. A man with your skills will certainly be of use to the Hound. Tell me, how long do you plan to stay in Sunberth? And perhaps most importantly...is there anything else concerning the murder we need to know. A dead man will almost certainly not be leaving any belongings, are these ours to take when he's passed?"

He didn't climb down, not just yet. Instead he watched the Myrian, calmly matching his icy gaze with his own. Zan looked between the two and threw up his hands, stomping to a barrel and sitting, leaning his chin on both hands and muttering to himself.

Wren would speak to him later.

Now was a time for business.

[Razkar]

Razkar's expression darkened as he watched Zan have his little "domestic". The last time he'd seen a two-sided conversation in one mouth, he was observing an urchin named Grisham debating Classical Literature.

While picking lice off a stray cat and eating them.

But before the Myrian could make a quick exit from this lunatic, new questions were posed... and Zan's behavior changed remarkably quickly. Gone was the scatter-brained eccentric; in his place was someone intent and interested, very interested, in Anar DuFarro. Razkar didn't think much of it then, but it was gratifying.

Not then. But later.

"Enough."

Again his words were stymied, but this time from a different, higher voice. His ears picked out the location immediately, stance sliding to combat-ready in the same instant... and he saw...

A twin?

Stunned, incredulous eyes looked between the two figures. They were... nearly identical. Zan was more... what was the word? Equine? The features were longer and the eyes were different. Wait, if that was the case, then...

Zan spoke again. Something about "drink", the new face's... "creativity"? So it wasn't the booze talking? What in the world was-

Enough. This doesn't help you for the moment. Focus on the task at hand.

So instead, he listened. He relaxed, or as much as he dared to around these two unusual men. The new face was clearly the brains, the boss... and where Zan was a flighty sparrow, this one had the intensity of a hawk in his gaze. He wasn't trying to hide his scrutiny, either. He wanted to know the measure of the man he'd do business with. His words were conciliatory, too, even apologetic... so, of course, they set Razkar on edge.

Pouring piss in my pocket and telling me it's raining. He sent this... character, down to see me, and he takes over hen he fears the facade is slipping.

Then he frowned again. He hadn't thought about DuFarro's possessions... but what did it matter?

"I am concerned with his death, not the insides of his pockets," he said, addressing the Hawk and not the sulking Face, "I want to know where he is and, just as importantly, where he will be. If you can tell me that, point me in his direction, then before his body is even stiff, I will be ready to make good on my part of our deal."

There were no more oaths or pledges or even handshakes, offered or taken. All three of them knew what Sunberth was: all three of them could be lying, or working for someone else, or playing each other... well, probably not Zan, in Razkar's opinion.

"When you're ready, leave a message with the 'tender at the Pig's Foot. I'll check in every day. When he tells me he's heard from you, we'll meet here again, same time."

The words were rapped out quickly, without room for negotiation. Razkar wanted this to run smoothly, anonymously... and he certainly Wasn't letting these slippery bastards know where Edreina laid her head alongside him. Once he was finished, he spread his arms in a simple, silent shrug.

"Anything else?"

[Wrenmae]

"A deadline," Wren answered, raising an eyebrow, "I assume you will not make your home in Sunberth if you're here to do a job. When should I expect you to make your departure? Even if I do tell you where Anar DuFarro is and you kill the man, if you're on a boat the next day, your word hardly does me any good, does it?"

Zan opened his mouth as if to speak, and Wren shot him a glare. Falling silent, the familiar wandered away from Razkar to sit on the dock, poking the water with his feet.

The hypnotist smiled, but the glare in his gaze did not settle even a fraction, "I won't be the only one who will hear you sought out the Hound. You make yourself some dangerous enemies who will come to ask you if you found him. I trust that so long as we are in agreement, I won't have to worry about the Daggerhands tracking down my description to ask me about the interests of the Hound?"

It was worth asking, even if the Myrian would feel insulted that his professional honor was being questioned. Personally, Wren couldn't give less of a petch about his personal honor. It could mean anything...as mercurial as anyone in Sunberth. He'd have to be sure. The information he had suggested the savage had come with a companion, a red haired girl with a whip and a ship of others. Finding her might be another leg up on the situation...not that he wanted to make an enemy of the Myrian, but simply that there needed to be at least some manner of guarantee the savage wouldn't betray his word so easily.

Zan stiffened, stood, looked up at Wren and stuck out his tongue, shoving his hands into his pockets and sauntering away towards the Pig's Foot. He'd find information there.

"So long as we can meet that arrangement, I think I can help you locate this Anar."

[Razkar]

"Not question my word, barbarian."

Razkar put a special emphasis on the last word, though he didn't think the inference would do anything but bounce off the cool exterior of... whomever it was he was talking to. The Hound? He certainly had an inkling, the way the man assiduously always stated the mysterious overlord as a separate person... but he'd already shown Razkar that he had a talent for crafting masks and proxies for himself. What was one more to him?

"My plans are fluid, and have been for some time. However, Sunberth seems... congenial, to my own mores and worship of Blessed Myri-" he touched the eye-like tattoo on his forehead instinctively "-so I might be here longer than expected. Even if that was not the case, I square my debts before I leave the debtors behind..."

He listened to the rest of the human's speech and terms, observed the sullen Zan stomp off into the fog. He barely noticed the comment about fresh "enemies", or the vague threat about keeping his mouth shut. Instead he just chuckled, rolling billow of smoke exhaled as sharpened teeth gleamed in the Leth-light.

"I have been embroiled in betrayal before, barbarian... but I never never instigated it." He tapped the smoldering ash from the bowl and pocketed it. "And if others come looking for me, well..."

Razkar left the rest unsaid: he hardly had to draw a picture. The rank, dank stains at his feet were all the illustration he needed. He gave a slight but definite bow at the figure perched on the rooftop and began to walk away. Within ticks he was enveloped in the fog, twisting down alleys and sidestreets, doubling back and finally ducking into a shadow-filled doorway.

His breathing stilled to shallow, silent draughts, foggy exhalations mingling with the fog. If anyone was following him, Razkar would hear them coming, and see to it they would stop. If not, he would continue his meandering, cautious route back to Sunset Quarters, face stern... but a speed in his step that spoke of restrained excitement.

The Hound was on the scent.