Missed Carriage
80 Zi'da, arc 717
Crennon looked once again, to be certain. The woman he was watching had all the indications of being the one they were waiting for. Dark of hair, pale of skin, meek of mannerisms as she strolled down the street, seeming to have no great desire to attract notice. Her clothes and cosmetics were flattering but not flashy. She seemed happy but was not imposing any sort of obnoxiously overbearing greetings to those she passed.Equally indicative of her identity and largely explaining her detachment from others around her was the man whose arm she was on. Love was in every gesture, every laugh, every facial expression, and every step the woman took. The sidewalk was like a dancehall as her steps brought her into repetitive hugs and squeezes with her obvious loved one.
He, for his part, seemed to follow the same general patterns of dress and behavior. Dressed in moderation of color and design, his hair conservatively styled, his mannerisms reserved, save where the woman was concerned. He looked as attentive as one intending to fawn over his companion, yet restraining himself out of respect and acknowledgement of her own ample capabilities.
Crennon cared not one way or the other about the woman's sense of self-sufficiency or independence, nor about her companion's likely sense of responsibility for her well-being. Her well-being was about to change radically, and his interference would not be allowed. What Crennon DID care about was the clearly advanced state of her pregnancy. She could surely not be due in any more than a couple of weeks, near as he could tell.
He anticipated a couple of his men raising a fuss over this detail. They had this old-fashioned notion about degrees of criminality. They all knew she was going to end up dead. What matter the extraneous detail of pregnancy? So an unborn child would never be born. How many orphans spent homeless and loveless nights in cold stone rooms for lack of society's concern. Oh, but if they'd not been born they were suddenly of vast social importance! No one had ever cared about him!
Crennon sneered and waved to Borley, one of the aforementioned men, who took up following the pair none too closely. His actions would hinge entirely upon the martial competency and armament of the woman's escort. And that would surely be focused on Stig, yet another hired thug who was even now departing the inn the pair were approaching. The ringleader of this particular group grinned at Stig's performance.
His sick act was greatly enhanced by his use of "Spots", a pigmentation altering drug made from the pigment nodes of the dermal underlayer of the Oscillus Leopard. Combined with other elements, by someone who knew what they were doing, could result in changing the skin color and tone to whatever served your purpose. The purpose here was to feign the jaundiced look of someone with a serious illness. A nice smear of water on the face to fake the fever-sweat so often accompanying such sickness was a nice touch to which Crennon tipped his metaphoric hat.
Seeing the pair respond to the sudden appearance of such an illness was the last confirmation of this "Faith's" identification. As a healer of the 'Adunny', or whatever they were called, she could not help but to offer aid and comfort. The trick now was to grab her before a crowd gathered. Crennon waved to a horse drawn wagon a block up the street, and the pilot, Crank, slapped leather to flank and the wagon started to quickly close the distance.