PM to join [Pig's foot Tavern] Making Contact

[Fallon]

Fallon gave a nonchalant shrug. What had caused a woman to become so faithless? What had caused such a development in ones mindset? So shallow and narrow it was, and although perhaps in her own right this harlot could allow herself to think in such way, the mercenary still was sceptical. No, it was not just men that could not be trusted - women were just as bad. Her brow only creased slightly - how bleak of a world it must be to dip into such a view. Then again, was her own views such different?

"Orvin, that is what I call him," she looked down at the canine as he cocked his head quizzically at this sudden exposure of this rather potent smelling hand. His ear gave a twitch, his form recoiling back in disdain and released a rather loud huff. Pulling away he padded around to the other side of Fallon, a concerned glance between the master, the woman and then something else. Though what exactly was beyond her at present. She still had that distinct bitter taste in her mouth of disagreement. But now was not the time to argue or stop the whore - there was much more important things to do - like finding a lead for work.

That opportunity however was quickly snuffed out. It became noticeably quieter suddenly, the air around her seemingly holding its breath whilst she herself continued to stare deeply into her tankard. Her hairs prickled, her eyes narrowing down onto the dull sheen of the surface. That imposing sense of something rising up from within. Perhaps it was simply an instinctual reaction that her hand went to the hilt of the kukri - not drawing it but ensuring it was still there within reach.

Head lifting she looked, a sharp exhale to blow the fringe of blonde from her eyes and to the large man who was swiftly making his way towards her. Orvin released a growl, this alien presence setting his eyes locking onto the man - if he was even a man. She was torn in her decision, the build and structure did indeed suggest he was human but it was those features and accessories that suggested otherwise. And the companion was not assisting in making her decision any easier. Clicking she placed her eyes upon him, releasing a long, drawn out hum before giving a point, "You're the Myrian are you not?"

Lips parted into a grin, the eyes turning sharp and fiery if only for a tick. So what brought him here? Purpose? Direction? She knew Wrenmae had spoken of the Savage Razkar previously and the impression was they had plans - was that not the case? Reigning the fire back, she gave a lean against the bar calculating almost in what was to be said next. If anything was to be said at all. Orvin continued his glaring, the rubble crawling from his throat as he decided upon this new potential threat. If he did try anything Fallon would be largely powerless to stop him, so - for now at least - she simply hoped that he would keep in line.

"Did you want something? Or are you after the pretty harlot?"

[Razkar]

Cold but approving eyes noted the way her hand slid from view as he approached, probably to a weapon. A pair of drunks tottered from his path and left him alone at her side, but he made no move to draw any of the steel sheathed on his chest or hip.

She turned and regarded him. Dark, nearly-brown skin, crisscrossed by scars and marked in a dozen places by roiling, rolling tapestries of ink carved into it. A cloak made from scores of what looked like scraps, all sewn together... and all, apparently, boasting hair. Gladius and hand ax at his hip, kukri lashe to his chest... along with the push dagger and double-bladed dagger at his back she couldn't see.

"You're the Myrian are you not?"

Slowly, perversely, the granit visage split into a grin, revealing twin rows of sharpened teeth. They glinted briefly in the low light and then Razkar nodded shortly, flickering candlelight on his piercings throwing weird shadows across his face.

"The Myrian..." He repeated, Common accented and harsh but the vocabulary fluent, practiced. "As if I am the only one." He raised a half-hasty hand in case she took offence. "But I understand your words, Mistress. They travel fast, in a place such as this..."

A quick sweep of his eyes took in the bar, and the dregs crammed into it. Thieves and hoodlums, defrocked holy men and con artists, dock hands and peddlers, sellswords and broke merchants... all with half an eye on him.

The Myrian from the docks. The one that ate a man's heart. The one that swept away Silas and his wharf rats like he was mashing fleas. Whisper-whisper-whisper...

"I am him." He said after Merv plonked a tankard of foamy suds by his elbow, waiting until the bartender strode away before answering her next question. His eyes flashed to the painted female and he figured her for what she was. "I hear you seek someone in this city. The Hound. I seek him, too..."

He sipped and tipped his head to Merv, breaking up a fight by the bar with the judicious use of coaxing words, foul language and a length of wood with a nail in the end.

"Old man said you might be able to help. Or me help you." He shrugged, black eyes glinting in dark amusement. "I think you can let go of the blade, mistress. At this distance, it probably won't help you much."

He gripped his tankard a little tighter, enough for the wood to creak slightly and maybe get her attention. It was heavy, and nearly full... and Razkar was strong enough to crack a skull with it.

"I only want to talk," he said again, sipping a little more, "My name is Razkar of the Shorn Skulls, Son of Yurta and Zek, Warrior of Taloba and Child of Myri." Goddess, that does sound unwieldy when you trot it out like that. Nevertheless, he bowed shortly, not taking his eyes from her. "And we may help each other..."

[Fallon]

"Mistress? There is no need for that title."

Waving a hand to the empty stool to the side of her, an open gesture for him to take should he want to. Her eyes turned away, a distant gaze into the rippled surface. Her words however continued to address him, "But you are the only one here, are you not? Thus, making you the Myrian." Her head tilted to one side, a flash of a grin before it sunk back behind a still canvas.

Something was floating in the surface of her drink, she realised as her lips twisted with thought before she tapped the still surface. The finger tip drew out a hair that had been floating there - and with her eyes still upon the strand she listened. But, she did not look - not until the groaning of the wood tankard in his grasp. A brow cocked, then a look of disapproval swept across her face, "Try not to turn the wood into splinters."

And then promptly her attention returned to her own drink and swirled the contents within in careful, deep thought, "A lot of people seek the Hound. Be it for his words or for his life. I do wonder what your reasons are for seeking the attention of such a man. But... It is most probably the former when it comes to help," she took a glug of the drink, and then let out a long sigh, "True or false on capability, my hand will stay on the hilt regardless. After all, if you deem yourself capable it should be no issue if I hold onto it." Lips gave a curl as she eyed him, and then promptly returned to the business at hand.

"I am Bitzer of no one, daughter of a mystery, whore of blades and child of wisdom. Apparently," she mimicked him in introduction, then gave a shrug, "And the one you seek is Hound. Let me see... well there are two leads I could possibly give you. But you probably know them already, you seem like the sharp sort - more ways than one." Rubbing at her jaw she wore a pondering expression, "I mean, there is the one of 'find the man of the broad brimmed hat' but that seems like a pointless exercise."

Flicking her hand, Fallon continued, "There is no doubt others out there, and as you seem as a reasonable gentleman... well, I don't want to give you what you may already know. So, what do you know so far about the 'Hound'?" And then her hand struck the surface of the bar, "One you may not know for you, as incentive. The Hound is looking for allies, people to be brought together under one banner. Calling those he has got the Scars apparently. Of course, sounds like a load of bull shyke to me."

[Razkar]

Goddess save me from self-indulgent barbarians and their endless love for their own voices...

For most of the female's speech, the Myrian was alternately observing her, the peons that strayed too close to them, or the growling hunk of white fur and fangs at her stool. That was the physical: mentally, he was filtering through the shyke to find the gold and musing that if anyone - even a female - spoke thusly in Falyndar, they'd probably given a swift beating.

Not how it works over here. All is deception and secrets, wrapped around all men of power. No less so than in this place.

"So in a bag of coppers you give me one ring of gold, hmm?" He said dryly, using an old expression from the jungle for those who talk too much. "That this Hound is drawing together allies and underlings into 'The Scars'? Thank you. Too long enough..."

He sipped again and didn't dwell either on her very amusing expression nor the sub-par quality of the ale (sub-par? Stuff could have been used to embalm mountainsides). The Myrian wasn't well-connected here, and coming across as a krok wouldn't help his cause.

"I suspect I know what you know," he said airily, plowing on a scanning the room, idly noting her hand had indeed not moved. "I know the big gang in Sunberth was the Daggerhands. 'Was'. Their leader died, or vanished, I don't know which, and not long after, one of their other leaders was strung up in public."

He chuckled throatily, breathing in the fetid air like an acquired taste.

"Though, honestly, how did anyone notice that in this shithole? But whoever killed him left a note. A lot of them. Now the whole city knows this new man, or force, or army, is moving into the void left by the Daggerhands. Can't do that without recruiting, and that's what he's doing. But there's other gangs. Older gangs. Larger, looking forward to slicing up the Dagger's pie, so they don't want The Hound just taking over... so he has to be careful. Cautious."

Black eyes like carved ebony swiveled slowly to her, and Bitzer could see glimmers like stars in midnight smiling back at her.

"Someone like you, maybe? Or me? Or who knows. All I know is that I need to find a man, and The Hound may help. Other than that..."

How much to reveal? That you have met him, or a proxy? That you have a debt with him you wish to clear? Who to trust, eh? Ah, what a joke in Sunberth.

"... I look to do what I was born to do." The Myrians eyes slid from her and his face curled up in disgust as some half-vomited example of humanity tottered by, supported by a grossly overweight whore. "And what better place to do it that among barbarians?"

[Fallon]

"There is your answer then," Draining the last of her tankard she placed it down with a mighty clunk. Stretching in her seat she simply released an exhale and focused her gaze across the bar. In honesty, Fallon could not care less about the Myrian. He made her feel uncomfortable, unclean and most importantly she had the nagging urge that he would be nothing more than a pigheaded trouble maker for her. It was best, thus, to wring him free of her hands at the first possible moment. No, she was done here. Why bother talking and cooperating with someone such as he?

Besides, if he was simply using the Hound as a stepping stone - which was the impression she was quickly receiving - she was not prepared to simply allow such treatment. No, the Scars nor the Hound did not need such half-hearted members. They needed people who would commit and see things through, and that was exactly what she was looking for. Not people like him.

"He may be a Hound, but he is not a sniffer dog," she said firmly. Her tip picked at the top off the bar for a few chimes, her brow creased into a fine line. She had an idea on what his quip meant, or at least an impression of what it was on about. If that was the childish game he wished to play, to not look upon things beyond and outside of his narrow trail of thought then so be it. Twice today it felt as if she had met similar people, the whore first and now him; trapped within their own little worlds. So she simply released a mutter, "Just because it does not shine, does not mean it has no worth."

Staring deeply into the bottom of her tankard she released her frowning and simply let her lip twitch. Did he think himself above them all? Most probably, but she did not care. His worth would be measured eventually and would be constantly tested ever after.

"If you want to go and play advisor, go find him yourself and kiss up to him. I'm certain the Hound would much appreciate it but, I do not speak for him," hands placing themselves firmly on the surface of the bar. Standing, she only took a moment of pause to ensure some stable footing and then promptly continued. "Or, you could just go and string up a bunch of Daggerhands. Of course, the more the merrier," she said bluntly, "It is what you do best after all. Thus, should prove no challenge to you."

Her head at that point swivelled round to face him, her hand once more returning to the hilt of the kukri. There was no spark, just a cold face of business within her expression, "Are we done here?"

[Razkar]

"He may be a Hound, but he is not a sniffer dog."

Despite the harshness of her reply, Razkar couldn't keep the soft smile from his face. Ah, finally, she gave something away: how would she know what he is or isn't? How would she know, unless she knew him? Finally, she was proving useful.

"Just because it does not shine, does not mean it has no worth."

"Even shyke shines in the midday rays," Razkar said, enjoying the annoyed expression on her face at his airy tone. Good. Let he be annoyed. "But try finding someone to buy it."

Not bad. Lacks a certain lyricism, but not bad.

"If you want to go and play advisor, go find him yourself and kiss up to him. I'm certain the Hound would much appreciate it but, I do not speak for him."

Razkar smirked back at her, deciding that playing the nonchalant shyke-head would get more of a rise from her than getting steamed instead. Besides, she was useful, and he had plenty of other days to show her what her guts looked like.

"Or, you could just go and string up a bunch of Daggerhands. Of course, the more the merrier. It is what you do best after all. Thus, should prove no challenge to you."

"A fair idea, I think..."

He tipped back the last of his ale and noted her hand returning to the handle of her blade, like it was some talisman against him. Out of sheer amusement, Razkar calculated how long it would take, with just his free left and his tankard-filled right.

Five to knock her out. Maybe ten to kill her.

"Are we done here?"

"Not quite, beautiful," he said smoothly, stressing the last word harshly, mercilessly, telling her she was anything but in his eyes. "I don't know where to find any Daggerhands to... string up, as you say." He smiled and patted the bone handle of his gladius. "I find these more efficient, anyway. Point me in their way, mistress, and I shall see to it-"

He moved in a blur and didn't hesitate in his actions. Within a blink his left hand shot out, gripping hard around Fallon's wrist, keeping her hand around the handle of her kukri but unable to draw it, his elbow cocked out so she couldn't jam her own into his ribs, either-

-and his empty tankard scraped hard on the filthy bar-top, tipping to the side as he gripped the handle of it... now aimed directly at her head. A crude and unorthodox knuckle-duster, perhaps, but it was hard, heavy... and wielded by a man who clearly had no problem bludgeoning a female.

He'd been trained by them doing the same to him, after all.

"-and do be sure to tell me the right address," he said lowly, pleasantly, affable voice clashing with the latent violence in his quick, ruthless actions, "I would hate to have to come back here to complain..."

Razkar smiled, wide and leering, proof that he certainly would not feel that way about returning. But then, because some part of him, no matter how far from the jungle he was, would always be his disapproving mother, Razkar let go of her wrist... let his hand fall back to his side... and his tankard right itself.

"I care not for what you think of me, barbarian," he whispered, keeping his voice low enough for just the two of them, "But if aiding this Hound helps me accomplish what I need to, I would make corpses from here to the Docks. Just tell me where to go..."

OOCSo sorry this took so long, love, I completely missed your post!

[Fallon]

When Razkar made a move Fallon could not help but move in recoil. She did not care, the sooner he was gone the better. Those who made open threats, who wanted to bully others into submission, she had no time for them. And whilst he may have walked with intimidation and force it was for her, the little woman that no one suspected; the talker, the chatter, the grinning one to put people into place. The tendons in her arm tensed, the fingers clawing around the hilt of the kukri as she stared back. She met his gaze, holding it firmly, whilst the pulse rose up from simple annoyance to that of a loud deafening drum. And whilst she did not make a noise or move much after that, her eyes simply spoke for her. A burning glare that said; Go on then. Do that, loose all your ties and start again from the start.

She could already feel the astral layer of her left prickling in retaliation, the gentle swirl of Djed as it was directed and moved. Even Orvin had become animated, ears pricking up, the fur bushing out as he watched the Myrian become animated. If it was not the sudden movement that set the beast off, then it was the threatening words that rumbled out. Fallon's throat constricted, tightening up before she released a heavy exhale rattling on out and through. Of course she was nervous, of course the nagging sense of fear shouted in her mind. But if it there was anything the Knights taught her it was being able to focus and redirect that fear.

There was a glance to the tankard that hovered close to her head, a warning and a threat to bash in her skull. The air was sucked in, the words slowing down into something she could work with. And a point of focus. He would have to find her if he was disappointed in the information he was given. With that in mind she wondered how easy it would be for her to disappear into the city. Or better yet give him reason not to look for her. She plucked at the strings of the astral, the ethereal gently pulling and slipping free. Smooth and gentle even as the Myrian released her.

"And I care not what you think of me civilized," she smoothed out the creases formed with her right hand and simply let the left hang beneath the layers of her cloak. For the moment at least. There was a step away, a creating of distance between them in aim to get out of his immediate reach. She rubbed at her jaw, the gloved fingers massaging her jaw whilst the ethereal snake of her arm rose up and hovered there. It was becoming easier of late, less of a strain and faster. In a strange sense it reminded her of her mentor, her initiator into such a magic. The light weight, the smoothness of it. The ethereal fingers gave a testing flex - finer control too. It made her wonder if she was capable of doing that.

"Not a clue where you would find them, I don't know the city well enough for that," the right hand rested on the kukri hilt once more, "The docks maybe? Maybe that is a local haunt of theirs. Think they have some keep or something around there." There was a second shrug, her eyes turning away to the door. She was ready to make her way to it, and if the Myrian wanted to know more he would simply have to pursue her . And if things turned violent, well, she would just have to be efficient.

[Razkar]

"And I care not what you think of me civilized."

He couldn't keep the smile from his face when she delivered her line with such poise, such delicious disdain. Usually he'd have been perturbed that one of his intimidations had went so awry... but from a female? Ah, it was gratifying. Further proof that if you looked hard enough, you'd find traces of Blessed Myri even in these faded examples of "barbarism".

Or "civilization", remember?

"Not a clue where you would find them, I don't know the city well enough for that. The docks maybe? Maybe that is a local haunt of theirs. Think they have some keep or something around there."

The smile stayed but the mocking glint vanished from his eyes. Now there was cold, stony absorption, facts to be assessed and logged away for future reference. The Docks? Typical. The place he first entered Sunberth, and he'd most likely have to return to it to make good on his end of this deal. A keep? He frowned, trying to remember...

That's... it's a building, isn't it? Like... a castle, or a stockade, but... no, like that, but smaller. For a few men, not an army. Hmm. Shouldn't be too hard to find.

Razkar bowed low, mocking... only the mockery ended about halfway down. A lifetime of matriarchy growled its disapproval as he smirked and insulted until finally he dropped his eyes and forced a smidgen of sincerity into his voice.

"My thanks, mistress." He said, nodding politely to her as he straightened, turning on his heel and barking the last over his shoulder. "Always so nice to have a beautiful female lighting your way..."

Within ticks he was out the door and weaving his way through the miasma of hustlers that never seemed to ebb, for Sunberth was always a greasy carnival. The only change tonight was the frigid cold that chattered his teeth and made him pull his cloak of scalps tighter, eyes squinted slightly as he marched towards the Docks.

[Zandelia]

Nadia :

Please update your Ledger with the relevant Living Expenses and I will hand out your grade.

Fallon :

Skills
Intelligence – 2
Rhetoric – 2
Philosophy – 1
Interrogation – 2
Projection – 1
Persuasion - 1

Lores
Intelligence: Importance of Rumour
Sunberth Work: The Docks
Merv: Pig’s Foot Owner
Razkar: The Myrian
Razkar: The Troublemaker

Razkar :

If and when you return please PM me and I’ll hand out your grade

Notes :

I liked this thread, particularly the way you played Fallon true to her character rather than giving in to allow anyone into her schemes. The conflicting perspectives of all provided a good story to read.