[Flashback] Or Maybe That Was the Worst of Us (Naama)

[Hawkins]

12 Spring, 509AV Braga's House of Happy Endings "Haaaawkins, my sweet darling, there is still a matter of payment to discuss." Her voice was like velvet. Silk. Soft, sweet, seductive. Braga. The Whore of Sunberth. She moved with ethereal grace, those long, slender legs no more resistible than the will of the gods themselves. So when she put on that slinky black dress and whispered sweet nothings it behooved the man to melt. Where was that fortuitous will? That biting wit? On the floor. Along with his jaw. At least that was how it was before money came into the occasion. Somehow, the sailor reclaimed himself in all of an instant. Despite the fluid cant of his current aggressor it was as if the very heart and soul of a eunuch took the heart of him, guiding his 'self' in a new, unblemished light. Or maybe a slightly tarnished one. With rust. "About that. Squig'll see to the dispensation of coin, love, he's got a head for accounting and all." With a hand he waved the nonsense on and tipped his hat, one foot spinning about the other as he turned toward the exit. The office was a small, but spacious room. Several couches and cushions filled the innards while a myriad of tapestries adorned the walls, blotting out the various windows and filling those inside with a sense of beauty. "Ramiel. Don't you dare treat me like one of your little whores." There was a sudden shift in tone. A deadly one, even. Hawkins sighed and stopped, his hand hovering just over the knob to his escape. "I'm hiding you from Dastana and Byron. Of all people, Hawkins, why him? Are you going to go grab Alphonse by the balls next? Maybe you'll just go petch Tiandra and wind up dead." The verbal assault came to a sudden close. The click of sandaled feet marked her approach. With a gentle caress Braga wrapped her arms about the man, her head resting against his back. "Please, don't make me choose between you two. I could not bear to lose either." He placed his hand on the door, eyes forward. "No, Lily, we wouldn't want that, would we?" Click. The embrace was broken and Hawkins stepped forward, his boots clattered against the wooden floors with a dull step-thump. The two guards at the entrance of the office ignored the man's departure and the slam that followed him. Back into the fray. The House of Happy Endings was a singular location. Gaudy decorations layered the walls and large, spacious rooms that made up the main floor, whores, entertainers, and patrons alike all spread about a myriad of seats and beds along with food, wine, and song. There was no place like it. Fornication and revelry. The occasional heavy handed sell sword made an appearance but for the most part the House was a happy place, full of celebration and lust. It was difficult to find yourself in a bad mood, but most importantly it was easy to get lost. Those that did come for the purveyor's sublime services cared very little for the rest of the clientele. A man could walk about with a sign advertising his presence and still remain under the radar. After the escape from the docks Hawkins managed to sneak Naama through one of many "hidden" entrances (for the more private consumers) and convinced Braga to aid the ailing Myrian with surprisingly little smooth talk. Since then laying low was the best of plans. The occasional news brought word of a reward for the head of Hawkins and the live capture of the Myrian. Two rewards in fact. One from The Baron himself and Dastana of the Wolf's Den. The life of a Sunberth Celebrity was a hard one indeed. "Oi. Was nuice ta'see 'Ily 'gain. Ya'tink she'd 'till le'me comb 'er 'air?" Squig kicked up next to Hawkins as the man ascended a long, twisted set of stairs. There was no response. The squat fellow bobbed his head and walked in step behind his companion, the two of them only stopping once they had reached the third floor. Where the employees lived. Hawkins could not complain so much. Most of the inhabitants wandered about without much clothing on. Or none. Not too mention he was a popular fellow about these parts. For now though he shoved such thoughts from his mind and made his way to Naama's room. Fortunately, after some persuasion, Braga and let the Myrian use her own private quarters. Hawkins insisted it was for her recovery. Sure. Upon arrival he rapped his knuckles lightly on the wood and, without much more of a warning, stepped inside.

[Naama]

Naama was less than amused. More importantly, the notion of a sole institution made for whoring and selling sexual favors was beyond her comprehension. There was nothing like it in Taloba, where a man would be dismembered should he force himself on the superior woman. But paying for such services? Naama wasn’t sure if she should be disgusted or shocked. Maybe both. At the time, she would have gladly stepped into a pit of bloodthirsty dogs, but her wounds were great and she was too exhausted to even stand let alone walk out of the place. So the halfbreed begrudging allowed the sultry woman to lead her (with much help) to her rooms. She had shot a vicious glare at Hawkins until the company of women tended to her injuries. Braga’s room, however, was gorgeous. There were no bone-carved furniture, no dirt-compacted floors, no weapons of any kind, only vials of liquid that smelled of flowers and powder cups settled across countertops of what Naama could only guess was expensive material. Even the bed was grand, with cushions and tapestries and gilded walls. It was too much to take in. Her neck strained from staring. Naama rarely occupied herself on the bed. The Myrian woman had found the plush couch near the window the easiest to settle into, as her gaze wandered over the dilapidated rooftops of Sunberth, and the coterie of men making rounds about the city. There was no way Naama and Hawkins would get out of the shyke they got themselves into alive, at least that was certain. But for hours at a time she simply sat there, with naught but her bandages and a blanket, staring at the sky and the sea with something that might have been considered yearning… The Myrian was rarely disturbed, much as the women there found her disturbing. For the better part of the second day Naama preoccupied herself with sorting out her gear. Her cuts still throbbed in their bandages, but nothing she couldn’t shove to the back of her mind in terms of regarding. It was only the knock that rudely interrupted her, and the subsequent entrance of none other than Hawkins, himself! There was the glare again, as fresh as it was the last time she’d seen him. But there was another matter that was important to this sudden confrontation. She was undoubtedly naked, save, of course, the grisly bandages and the blanket draped over her legs. “What have we here? Hawkins, back from the void?” She said with a hint of indignation, “Tell me, what more shyke have you gotten us in?”

[Hawkins]

Oh. Petch. Petch! Peeeeeetch. She was naked. Although Hawkins did not mind the view - quite the contrary - he did very much enjoy the fact that he was a man. And what made him such was fragile. Very, very fragile. And Naama was scary. So, with such ideas in mind, he came to a sudden stop once inside, his gaze finding, and lingering, on the halfbreed with an appreciative stare. Oh the little joys of life. He did linger a bit too long for comfort, but once he had his fill the sailor made an effort and turned about, his back facing the glorious nudity. Something made him readjust his hat. "The void is a right nasty bit of business. As for what shyke, well." He glanced over a shoulder to check if she was decent yet. No? Of course not. He knew that. He turned back to the door and made an effort to close it. Squig, of course, complained non verbally, his head peering in as far as it could before Hawkins pushed him out entirely. "Nothing so terrible as for cause for concern. Or, you know. Worry." He paused for just a moment to consider his next words. This would go smooth. Sure it would. "From what I hear we've got a nasty reward for our capture. Your capture. My bounty tends to involve less, ah. Connected limbs. You though, none but the vicious Dastana herself wants your company. And I imagine the Baron has his eyes set on those very fine legs of yours." He spun about all at once, the ever-present, mischievous grin ruling his countenance. "But, as I said, no cause for worry. I have a plan. Kind of. There is yet one man we have yet to invigorate with rage, none other than the great Alphonse himself. He should be willing to help us. Has a right bit of a thing for pissing old Das' off."

[Naama]

Naama disregarded Hawkin’s fluster completely. Or whatever it was he was doing. Had he stared a bit longer, however, she might have thrown a dagger at his face, but as it were, she resumed her task of cleaning her bloodied weaponry with a small rag. There was a hint of a smile on her lips but damned it if she let the sailor notice her amusement just yet. Instead she listened to what Hawkins had to say, rolling her eyes at the mention of the bounty on their heads. “If I had known one bar fight would lead to two top dogs wanting my head I probably would have killed all of you in there.” Maybe she hated Hawkins, maybe she wanted to gut him and eat his insides, but there was no mistaking the fact that she was, for all purposes, enjoying the thrill of the chase. Well, their chase. More fighting? She lived for it. If she could get some answers on the way to fleeing both their deaths even better. “So let me get this straight. I’m going to let you lead me to another apparently important man, who, you, being such an experienced smooth talker, will get us into a load of more shyke that I have to fight ourselves out of until we find ourselves cornered and possibly killed-- or maimed, although I would probably do that to you, myself.” She stood and began donning her armor and once she was done, she gave Hawkins a devious smile. “Lead the way.”

[Hawkins]

"By all means m'lady." Hawkins mocked bowed and skirted his ass away from what he assumed would be a well placed thwack, his wily self transported out through the door the hit the curious Squig as it opened. The little man gave and yelp before he fell in line behind the duo. And off they were. Down flights of stairs and through the whorehouse, there was little pomp and circumstance associated with their leaving. No one much noticed the comings and goings of Braga's lonely customers. Out the front door it was. Swift travel brought the lot of them back out into the city proper. Or whatever that was for Sunberth. The fresh scents of refuse and an unwashed populace cascaded over the senses like an tidal wave of untended stables. How pleasant. A mass of riff-raff made its way about the streets, stalking vendors, stealing vendors, and otherwise making some sort of living that most would consider less than ordinary. The whore house was as close to any kind of "entrance" to the city as it got and, fortunately, that was just where they wanted to be. Or close enough anyway. Hawkins intermixed with the crowd as if he belonged. He did, after all. In one way or another. He ducked, juked, and otherwise skipped a path through the masses, winding his way through narrow, merchant-infested streets toward the large, open bazaar that most considered the center of the city. The lot of it was just a bunch of shouting. A wide, open courtyard dominated the center of commerce, flanked on various sides by warehouses and some of the more prominent shops. Today, of all days, the harvest was in full swing. The commoners were out in droves. All the better. Most of Alphonse's men were tasked with keeping some semblance of order and preventing some sort of mob from over running the farmers as they set up shop. "And this would be our glorious destination." Hawkins came to a sudden halt at the base of a very large, very guarded warehouse. At just the front entrance there were no less than four men - all in armor of some sort - carrying each a long blade and a mass of other weaponry. "I very much doubt we're going to get in by asking. You see, Alphonse doesn't much like. Well. Anyone. But, ah. I have a plan." He said with a wink at the halfbreed. Strangely, Squig had disappeared. Sneaky little bastard. The guards gave the sailor the strangest look when he approached them. None of them said anything, but they all drew their weapons. How appropriate. "'Noon fellows, what if I told you that I, believe or not, am one Argh Hawkins - pardon the name, sort of a mix up really - and this lovely tattooed woman over yonder is, in fact, the Myrian the entire city is looking for. What are the chances, eh?" The lot of the men blinked. "It'd be quite a boon to turn us into your boss. You know, reward and all." He smiled.

[Naama]

She followed him, without much opposition, surprisingly. She couldn’t help but find herself entertained with the prospect of finding herself in yet another situation where her life was on the line. After all, Naama had already gone through a disastrous past to worry about her well-being. Death was truly the only thing left to achieve after the halfbreed finally rescued her sister. So down the steps she went, trailing after the sailor with little regard as to the looks she received when they finally stepped outside. Even the air out here was far more refreshing than the scent of sweat and sex that so permeated the brothel. It was an equally disgusting sight, but at least she had room to swing a sword…. And evidently lose the man she was following. Naama glanced past the heads of bustling commoners, shoving them aside with a vicious shove. It took her a chime to track Hawkins down, but at least the (somewhat) innocent bystanders now knew not to stand in the way of an impatient Myrian woman. When the sailor announced their destination, Naama quirked a brow, “It looks like all the other shoddy buildings in this place.” And the only difference it seemed, was of course, the guards. Naama rolled her eyes. Men, what a surprise. “If he doesn’t like anyone why would he help us?” She sighed audibly, as if all this planning and improvisation visibly bored her, when inside, she was as excited for a kill as a tiger leaping on it’s victim. Where the victim took the form of a certain sailor leading her on. When the guards drew their weapons so too did Naama. The ensuing suggestion that followed made the halfbreed furrow her brow. She didn’t waste time to smack Hawkins upside his head, “That’s your plan?” She might have continued the issue had she not been interested to know the possibilities of this outcome, and was content enough to point a sword at a guard’s throat, “Touch me and I will gut your filthy ass,” Naama hissed, but it seemed compliance was well within reason. She would allow to be led further into the warehouse.

[Hawkins]

The guards shrugged. After all, it was not as if either of them were much of a threat in such small number. The innards of the warehouse were sparse. Two stories high, there was only a balcony around the outer edge of the top half. Several men populated the center floor, all armed, armored, and bored. Various weapons lay strewn about on rack after rack, the building was more of an armory than anything. There was some racket from the rooms that flanked the inner courtyard, but the primary activity shifted it's focus to the two newcomers. The smell was rotten. Unwashed socks and sweat. How delightful. Hawkins, seeming undisturbed by their perilous situation - there were only two means of escape, both of which were guarded by more armored men - strolled behind their escort, his gaze flickering about the place with seemingly little intention. There was one, of course, there was always something at work in his mind. The details, sadly, remained unclear to even himself. Someone yelled. The voice that followed was on racked with annoyance and irritation. A man, partially dressed, made his way out onto the balcony and growled at some of the surrounding vagabonds. He was tall, built, and most notably clean. A rarity to be sure. His attention flipped to the pair. Narrowed, accusing eyes examined the couple, though most notably his attention lingered on the halfbreed for longer than what seemed custom. Strange as it was, he did leer or something as snicker, the man appeared to being the both of them. Considering. "What in all of the petching hell do you want?" The man's voice was stern, cold. Hawkins stepped forward. "To tell the honest truth-" "Not you, bilge rat." The man's tone cut clear through the wily tones of Hawkins' response. "I know very well damn who the shyke you are, I want to know what she wants." He motioned to Naama, arms folding up beneath his chest.