• PM To Join • Enlightened Self-Interest (Quio) [Graded]

[Kasoria]

28th Trial, Saun, 718a
Outer Perimeter, South Side
22nd bell

"There was an item, stolen from the Museum of Art and History, that we want you to retrieve for us. Doing so will not be forgotten."

"What was the item?"

"I'm told that it's a sword guard. Maybe the size of my palm, bronze, in the design of a resting snake. It's incredibly rare and thus, outstandingly valuable."

The old man did not ask the younger one Why. He wasn't in the business of questions that day, that meeting, which was defined and informed by who walked into his office. And that Why, the why that took this well-dressed and immaculately-manicured fellow down from On High to treat with these Oh'Pee sorts, reeked of a situation that broached no questions.

The watcher had been in this room before. Heard this... tone. The words were difference, but a dance could be the same with the notes rearranged. His master was studying the middle-aged man who'd waltzed clean through his screens of guards and muscle as if they were air. He flashed a little symbol he carried in his pocket, and once the master of the house was told what it was, all doors were unbarred and flung open.

"You have any idea who stole it?"

"Some brigands, as far as we can tell from museum staff. We don't think it was a plot or conspiracy. Some gutter scum looking to steal some valuables, fence them for quick coin."

"You wanna do that, you rob a silversmith's, or a gem polisher, or any other place that has stuff you can move quick. Old junk like that? Most people won't pay for it, because they don't know what it is. So you have to know people that do."

"What's your point, Mister Vorund?"

Bangun Vorund finished his drink and noticed his visitor hadn't even touched his own. Dedicated man, he thought with a wry, inward chuckle. Doesn't want to lose a step by imbibing. Stay sober, stay sharp. Good for him. Might get all the way to Chief Arse-Kisser Third Class (Conditional). He gripped the bottle of liquor and refilled his own. He sure as fuck didn't need permission, or motivation.

And he was plenty fucking sharp as he was. Even in his seventh decade.

"My point, Mister Sit," he said, using the nickname he'd chosen for the man arcs ago, when he'd first come to him for favors on behalf of interests and individuals who would never admit to contracting such a villain. "Is that a bunch of scallies from the Oh'Pee don't just happen to wander out of their manors, through the Comm'See, into the Citadel, and then put on some show and fucking dance, just to steal something they might not even be able to sell on. It's too much bloody bother."

The visitor blinked a few times and digested the words. His eyes flickered to the watcher on the wall, and then he dared to take a sip for himself.

"So you heard about it?"

Vorund smirked and shrugged, acting the innocent when everyone in the building knew he was anything but. "I hear things. Same things you probably heard."

"You think it a conspiracy?"

There was silence as Vorund pondered the notion. Studied the brown surface of his shot glass and the murky, craggy, tired face looking back at him. Again, Mister Sit flicked a glance at the man who hadn't so much as cleared his throat the whole time he'd been in the room. He was small and wiry, dressed in poor clothes with holes and stitched across them. He had masses of hair flooding from his head, down his back, his front, his shoulders, and his eyes...

Mister Sit took another sip. He didn't want to look at that man again.

"Think I can put the word out, is what I think. Think that these lads, if they're Oh'Pee, will go to a fence. Fence that'll have some experience with museum shite like what yer talking about. We can reach out to them, let them know that if they should pass along word of such an item coming across their tables, they're to get back to me. So when these boys come back..."

He let empty air and imagination end the sentence for him. The watcher could see that Mister Sit did not have an issue when Vorund's sly, knife-thin smile painted a future that didn't bode well for these clueless thieves. But it wasn't a lack of empathy or a simple desire for justice; he could see it was a suppressed annoyance instead, strong enough to have him bite out-

"You didn't answer my question, Mister Vorund. Do you suspect a plot?"

"I always suspect things, Mister Sit," Vorund said, knocking back his shot and belching, just to annoy the prissy little cunt. "That's why I'm alive. Maybe it is. Maybe it isn't. Don't matter much, in any case. You want it back, and I'll get it back."

And they'll be dead moments after, the watcher finished for him, knowing that he'd most likely be the hand crafting the outcome Vorund would wish. He watched Mister Sit get back to his feet and button up his coat, neatly, quickly, fastidiously. He gave a short note of politeness that he probably hated having to use with a man like Vorund. Bangun gave him a toast by way of reply.

"I'll be in touch. Same as last time."

"Your service will not be forgotten, Mister Vorund. Not by the people that matter."

And that was the crux of it, after all. Not money or valuables, gems of gold, houses and silks and horses and slaves. Favors. The right people in power, remembering what you'd done for them. Because neither the watcher nor his master doubted that even among the mercantile nobility that truly ran Etzos, there was a distant cousin of the same cutthroat code that held affairs together. More than money. More than profit. You traded a favor for a favor, never writing anything down, but it was understood by all with a brain that the contract was still made. If you broke it, or didn't pay it back down the line, good luck getting someone to help you again.

Your word and your will. You build it all on those. Everything else is-

"Al'right," Vorund said, slamming down the glass hard enough the break his reverie. The old man got to his feet without tremble or pause, sweeping out from behind his desk and snatching up his jacket. "Last meeting of the day, downstairs. Afterwards, get the lads together and I'll tell them to get spreading the word. South Side and the people we know in the North. Trial or two, every fence in the city will know I'm looking for that little thing."

He stopped at the doorway, and the watcher stepped forward, at his side. Silent and careful. Managing a half-smile to the grin that Vorund gave him.

"Then you'll go hunting, Kas."

[Quio]

"Speaking in Rakahi"
"Speaking in Common"
"Speaking in Ulehi"
"Speaking in Ith'ession"

25th of Saun, 718

The words were different, but a dance could be the same with the notes rearranged.

Three trials prior, Quio was taking part in a dance of his own.

The men who had taken the item from the museum were heading from the Citadel to the Commercial Circle, and Quio waltzed after them. He put a spring in his step, and, as the men passed from the near-deserted streets of the Citadel to the ever-busy streets of Comm'See, he didn't slow, even as the men themselves slowed and nearly stopped due to the bustle.

Quio used the crowds to his advantage, unlike the men. Amongst the people he was just another person, and with his marked arm down close by his side he was not a person to pay attention to. No one looked twice at him not even the men, perhaps because no one expected someone who looked in good spirits to be pursuing them. Quio strolled after the men, waiting for an opportunity to get close, and merrily spun the closed pocketknife he still held in one hand.

It was a pleasure, he thought, to be adverse to petty thieves.

So often before he had been on the wrong side of bad people, and Quio, being who and what he was, was the sort of person who often found himself bringing out people's worst. In comparison, these men were a dream. He was near-certain they weren't aware they were being followed, despite having made him before. If they were aware, they certainly would have tried harder to lose themselves in the crowd. Instead, the men stopped completely when they came to a particularly dense throng of people, and Quio grinned.

Dancing after them, he slipped and shimmied between person and person. There was a trick to crowds, and it was like a dance, knowing when to step and when to hold, and when to stride through. Quio skipped through the crowd, sidestepping and skirting, and within a bit or so made his way out from them. He stepped from the main street to a side corridor between buildings, then walked down the corridor, around the back of the buildings, and went through the next corridor over, returning to the crowds one section ahead.

With the men none the wiser, he stepped back into the crowd. Now he was ahead of them, and they were making their way towards him. Since Quio was exactly where he wanted to be, he began to step so that the crowd moved around him, whilst he --appearing to
move-- actually stayed exactly where he stood.

He waited until the perfect moment, when the group of men had gotten near and one man in particular wasn't looking, to knock into him-- much as one of them had knocked into him before, in the Citadel. He had paid attention to which man had pocketed the item from the museum, and he bumped into that man in particular. And as he did, though he had never done this before, Quio stuck a hand in the man's pocket.

But instead of trying to pick the item, Quio turned the man's pocket out entirely.

Everything that was in the man's pocket fell out, and Quio snatched the item as soon as he saw it. "Hey!" the man said as he bumped into him, but it had happened fast enough that he didn't seem to realize what was going on. At least, not yet.

As Quio snatched the item he dropped the pocketknife he'd been holding. The men heard the thunk of something metal hitting the cobbles, amongst the coins and the rest. "Where is it?" one man said, and a couple of them scrambled after the pocketknife, not noticing that something was amiss.

Quio was already two steps away by then.

"No!" he heard one of them say, and then, "Stop him!" He felt someone snatch at him; he pulled out of their grasp. Then he began twisting and dancing through the crowd once again.

Apparently the men didn't know that trick. They shoved at people, and people shoved back. People started to yell, and then almost to fight, and Quio grinned as he bumped into someone else in his hurry. "Sorry," he said in Ith'ession, and the girl he'd bumped into grinned back. He slid his way past her, out of the crowd, and took a look at the item in his hand.

It was not whatever the men had taken from the museum.

The men had taken a small, oblong, bronze item, heavily engraved, almost in the shape of a disk. This was a pocket flask, a half flask, made of steel. "What--" Quio said, and thought he must have made a mistake. But no, there had been no flask in the man's pocket, and he was certain he'd had the correct item in hand. He turned back towards the crowd, and the image of the girl's smiling face flashed to mind.

"No," he said, astonished, and then looked at the flask again and thought yes, and he laughed. The girl had taken what he had taken from the men. She had jostled him as he bumped into her, nearly jarring the item from his hand. No-- she had succeeded in jarring it from his hand. And, he noticed, she was missing from the crowd.

Quio fixed in his mind what the girl had looked like, dark-haired and bright-eyed with a wide smile, young, with a dimple in her chin. She had been his age, or just a little younger. She had been short enough she could have passed for a teenager, but he didn't think she was that young. And she was, he presumed, an expert pickpocket. He laughed again.

Smiling, Quio shook his head and began to go from street to street and corridor to corridor, just in case he might catch the girl.

Whether or not he caught her, he was not going to give up on the item just yet.

---

Two breaks later Quio was in the Outer Perimeter, trying --and failing-- to gather information on the girl. Nobody wanted to give up details without coin in exchange, and he had only a couple of nel and a steel half flask. He showed the flask around, thinking it might be the girl's, but no one wanted to say either way. But he thought it must be hers. One of the bartenders in the Perimeter had looked at it as if he had recognized it. So Quio took to waiting outside the bar.

And waiting.

And waiting.

After two more breaks, he wondered if it was worth it to go through the trouble to retrieve the item, especially not knowing what it was.

But at this point it was a challenge.

---

29th of Saun, 718

Four trials later it was more than a challenge. Quio was outside the bar yet again. He'd left the bar after keeping an informal watch the first and second day, determining that whatever the item was it was not worth the trouble. And yet his mind kept returning to the bar again and again. He had decided to take another look.

This last time someone had noticed him watching the place and told the bartender, who had told him to scram. So Quio had waited a break and resumed his watch from a new position. He was no longer in sight of the door to the bar, which wasn't ideal, but he had just realized-- there was a second door, in the back. He hadn't noticed it before because it was between the bar and the next building over, and nearly hidden by barrels. The back door was also completely fenced off.

Quio was watching this second door when a group of girls wandered by. He glanced over at them. None of them had hair as dark as the girl he was looking for. He went back to watching the door.

But something nagged at him, and just before the girls turned the corner he glanced at them again.

Amongst the girls were a couple of brunettes, a girl with auburn hair, and--and a girl with dark hair. He tried to recall if that girl had been with them before. He didn't think she had.

Quio followed after them.

He came to the corner they had turned at and they were gone. Or wait-- there they were, farther away than he'd have thought. He went after them, and they turned another corner, and he slowed. Something nagged at him again. Had the dark-haired girl been with them still? He ran forward after the girls, but when he turned the corner they were no longer in sight. He turned and ran back to the front of the bar, opened the door, and looked in.

The dark-haired girl wasn't at the bar. A bell clanged above his head as Quio opened the door and the bartender glanced over. "What did I tell you--" he started to say, but Quio shut the door. He ran to the back.

The door in the back looked the same, the same fence without a gate, the same obscuring barrels. Fence, Quio thought, the word trying to gain significance in his mind. And yet--

Quio ran back along the front of the building. At the end of the building he looked down along the street. There was no one there. He looked the other way. Someone --he couldn't tell if it was a man or woman-- was just turning the corner three streets down.

Quio ran.

When he reached the corner whoever it was was out of sight, but he heard heavy footsteps hitting the packed dirt of the street. Someone was running. Quio sprinted after them.

He must have chased the person for three full bits, skidding around corners and looping behind and back and forward, bypassing certain streets and cutting through alleys. He was certain the person knew they were being followed, and he was near-certain it was the girl.

And then, abruptly, they were gone. Quio slid to a halt and went silent, but he didn't hear anything. His first thought was that whoever it was had ducked around a building and hidden themselves. He looked in every hiding space he could find. Nothing. He tried the nearby buildings. Nothing. He asked a couple passerby, but without a bribe they hadn't seen anyone, nevermind a girl. He clambered up on a shed to look at the rooftops, but there was no one crouched above, trying to be quiet. And then--

The building over, there was a trapdoor on the roof. And, he saw, the trapdoor was open.

There.

There didn't appear to be a way to get to that building from the one he was at, not without jumping, but it wasn't that far of a jump. Quio took a few running steps and leapt. His feet hit the rooftop at a bad angle, and he stumbled, tripped, and went to a knee. No doubt the knee was scraped. He bent his leg to make sure there was no serious damage, and then walked over to the open trapdoor.

It led down into a small room, perhaps only four or five feet high at the ceiling. The room was devoid of adornment, no furnishings or decoration. All there was was a small door.

Quio dropped down through the trapdoor and tried the door handle. It was locked.

He didn't pause to consider that maybe he shouldn't bash down the door; he just backed up as far as he could, maybe three or four feet, and gave it a hard kick. Then again. And again. Finally the door broke open. He swung it out of the way.

Behind it was darkness.

From the doorway he could make out a crude hallway, short enough in height that Quio would have to bend, and then a stairway down. Quio went to the top of the stairway and looked along it. Far, far off was a flickering light. Up until that, it was black.

This, he realized, was the Underground. He'd steered clear of the Underground thus far, but this must be it. And the girl, or whoever he had been chasing, had come through here. They must have. The trapdoor had been open.

Up until this point it had been just a challenge, almost like a game. He would find the girl, and get what she had taken back. He would give her her flask in return. And he'd give the bronze item to the museum. He just wanted to know what it was. Since it had been just a challenge, it had felt like whoever ended up with the item won.

But this was the Underground.

Quio stood on the top step of the stairway which went gently down into the dark. Each moment he waited, the person he had been chasing got farther away.

He took a step forward. When no one jumped out at him, and when the crumbling stairs didn't give out from under his feet, he took another step. Then another.

The light of the doorway behind him was fading. He took another step. The stairway started to turn from adobe brick to stone. He took another. The air began to feel clammy, wet.

Step by step, Quio made his way into the Underground.

[Kasoria]

25th Trial, Saun, 718a
Outer Perimeter, West Side
22nd bell


"Fine day to you, noble sir!"

"Oh, Sweet Bloody Mercies..."

The tone was despairing, but there was a smile on the older man's face when he turned around and beheld the impish figure bowing - actually bowing - in the doorway. A couple of customers took her in and fingered their purses or their pearls, whichever were closer to hand. Definitely a bam, that one. Barmy and batty despite her rough beauty.

Screever couldn't help himself. She was a charming rogue, just like the colorful creations all those stupid plays had. Sly and always smiling; winsome and oddly honest; quite and skilled so much that any man in any trade would marvel at her fast fingers. And all that, wrapped up in a rather... delightful physical package that was most definitely into womanhood. Dark hair, quick eyes that glimmered at night, dimples and oh my oh my, what a wonderful nightmare she must have been to the suitors who tried their hand with her.

Long as they kept one on their purses.

"I know, I know, far too long since last I blessed your humble emporium."

"Emporium? Bloody hells did you hear a word like that, girl?"

"Oh, you know," she said, walking towards the counter and trailing a tapered finger along a shelf of crockery and gardening tools as she went. "You pick up things, here and there."

Screever cocked a wry eyebrow. One of only two examples of hair that he had left on his head. He snorted in the back of his throat and flicked a glance at the other customers. Safely out of earshot. He leaned closer, and she followed suit.

"I'm sure. Anything else interesting you picked up lately?"

Freyda flashed a smile just for him. All white, sharp teeth and a hint of tongue. Her hand came up from her pocket and when her fingers opened... oh, she had been a busy girl. Broaches and necklaces, silk hankerchiefs, some odd little bronze item that could be hammered onto a sword, he guessed, if the bloke liked snakes... and even...

"... are those rings?!"

His words were whispered, so urgent, so disbelieving, that Freyda had to slap a hand across her face to smother her smile. Old Screevy was plenty older than her, she was sure he'd seen better dippers before. But every arc that went by and her gift for pilfering increased, she always got that same reaction. Although, she admitted to herself with a touch of preening pride, getting a ring clean off a finger without alarm... that's one for the masters.

"What can I say," she whispered back, shrugging her shoulders. "I'm getting better."

Screever frowned, but eventually the smile came back. She was just too charming to stay mad at. He licked his lips and Freyda saw that glint of avarice in his eyes. He always gave a good deal, but she hadn't lasted as long on the streets by being overly trusting. She watched his lips move as he totted up the prices in his head, then scratched under his chin before jutting it towards her hand.

"Give you fifty gold nels for the lot, and that's-"

"Fifty?!"

"-and that's all, Fates cast me down to the pits elsewise!"

She was struggling to keep her voice level, now. Their haggling was always like this, but he was playing particularly hard with her over this particular haul. "Screeves, half a' what's in me hand is gold, youse can turn around and sell that off for four times that-"

"And if full price was what youse after, yuh'd go t'one a' them fancy ships in the Comm'See, wouldn't yeh?"

Screever dropped his cultured accent, too, showing her that yeah, he could play that game, too. Add that Oh'Pee edge to his voice and manners, all gravelly and pushy even with just the tone alone. The young pickpocket glared at him, shaking her head, sending dark curls dancing around her ears. Screever licked his lips again for just a trill, as she looked away. One day, he promised himself. One day you'll forgo the coin and just take... something else, instead.

"An' you ain't the only fence on the West Side, Screevy. Or the North, or the South-"

"Go on, then." He reclined in his chair behind the counter, arms crossed, a barrier and challenge both. "Off wiv' ya. Go to some cunt who don't know ya, won't do right by ya. Give ya a tenth of what I'm offerin'." He smiled a little, part in victory, part in reconciliation. Someone had to lose the haggle, of course. "That's why you come here, Frey. Cuz y'know I won't fuck you around."

"Fifty nels. For all this?" She shoved the goods back into her pocket and cursed brutally in Ith'ession for a long, creative few while. "Yeah. Never fuck me around, would you?"

Again, that cold shrug. That smile that never reached his eyes. No friend to her, was this one. Just another minor player on a board with thousands of the like, from minnows like her, to perch like him, to the middling salmon that ran streets and business, to... well... she'd never seen higher than that. Just heard names, rumors, stories. The Prince of Eternal Mercies. Old Vorund. The Raggedy Man. The Shadow Witch of the Underground, and The Fence. Titles that attached themselves to myths and legends, without any truth tagging on with them... but believed all the same.

Freyday believed them. Not in Immortals, but the blood and fear she'd seen... and the price of food and lodging with the Cold Cycle fast approaching.

"Fine. But-!" She jutted a finger towards his face as his polite smile became a grin of victory. "Bring more than that when we meet down below. I'll have more for you in a few trials."

"Same time and place, eh?"

Freyda breathed in deep, shoulders back, well-upholstered chest high and proud. The accent that answered him one more time was as cultured as before, even if it was delivered with a hidden dirty gesture as she backed away.

"Aye. See you in a few, Screevy."

"Aye, y'will..."

Screever shook his head and went back to his ledger. Freyda twirled and her dress bustled and flared around her-

-hiding her hand perfectly as she swiped a rather nice drinking flask from the shelf as she went.

Teach you to be a greedy little stoat, Screevy. Besides... I needed to replace the old one, anyway.

++++++++++

"I, uh... I don't suppose I could ask about the reward-"

"Screevers, give us a trill, would ya?"

"Um... okay..."

The little man was still clutching his hat as he shuffled out of the office. Bangun Vorund waited until not just the door was closed, but he heard the sofa on the other side of the waiting room creak. Telling him the fence was sitting down, a good bit away, and was unlikely to standing there with an ear pressed to the door. Not that he was over-worried about that.

Kasoria was standing next to it. Throwing knife playing over his knuckles. Straight, shining length of razor sharpness twirling over and over again. Vorund and Ilos could hear it from across the room. That gentle patter of metal on bone wrapped in flesh. The old gangster chuckled to himself. Kasoria truly was one for letting people know he was there, without actually using words. There and armed, by the way.

"Sounds like what Mister Sit was talking about," he said to Ilos, his lieutenant nodding along. "Bronze. Could fit on a sword, like a hand guard or summin'. An' the snake thing... yeah, ain't many a' those around. Even less not already on fuckin' swords."

"Sounds like an easy night to me, then." Ilos plucked another grape off the bundle on his plate, chewing it as he spoke. "He pays her for her goods, then he brings it right on back to you, hands it over, we give him what he'd charge for it, everyone's happy." Silence answered him. From Kasoria, but that was no shock to Ilos. The man was a fucking dog, an attack animal. Barely even human, and with no sense of whom his betters were. But to hear no reply from Vorund... that was unusual. "Unless I'm missing something...?"

"Ain't just about what got robbed. S'about the robbers."

"You think there really is a... conspiracy?"

"Doesn't seem like it. F'they wanted this thing so bad, fuck would they be selling it in some West Side fence's shop?"

Ilos pondered this for a moment, then came up with the obvious answer.

"Well, it's shit she stole, right? So, she stole it from the robbers. She wasn't there, at the Museum."

"Aye... she wasn't. But she saw who was. Or at least one of 'em."

Kasoria's knife stopped moving across his fingers. The sudden absence of noise was as loud as a throat-clearing in the quiet room. Both other men turned to him, unspoken question in his eyes at he ignored Ilos completely, and stared at his boss. Vorund pondered his options. The possibilites. Ilos, prick that he was, still had a good, solid plan. The dipper wasn't the problem here, as much as there was one in human form. Only the robbers concerned stoked the paranoia of Mister Sit and his cabal of Citadel Types. This... Freyda, that Screever had told them about, was a working girl, only her work was slipping shinies and pretties out of closed pockets.

Strange fucking leap, going from that to knocking over art in museums.

"Talk to her, Kas. When you're there. ask her what she knows. What she remembers." That was simple enough. He'd be in the room with her and Screever, after all. Protection for the exchange, considering the value of what was being handed over by the girl. But he wasn't expecting... that particular duty. And while he was already finding way to poke holes in it, Vorund shut that down with: "Find the truth in her eyes, Kas. This is important."

Kasoria didn't need to ask if that was an order. If it was important, it wasn't a suggestion, or an observation. It was something you fucking well did, because it mattered. Both older men knew the phrasing, too. Knew what was expected of a man that had to... work, until there were no layers left in the eyes of the person he was questioning. Until it was only stark, naked truth left in them. Terrified and without anything to protect or cloak them. Kasoria was suddenly, keenly aware of the sharp, evil little blade in his hand.

Won't be that one, a cruel, pitiless voice in his head reminded him. Be the curved little cunt at your back. Much better for... questions.

"I'll handle it."

"Good. Now get that cunt back in here. They're meeting tonight and I want this shite over with..."

+++++++++

So they did, and so they would. It was just a matter of how.

"No word yet as t'when I get paid, I notice."

Kasoria was not in the mood to hear from Screever. He'd been standing in what he assumed was an abandoned wine cellar for going on two breaks. Any scent of culture and refined alcohol was gone; now it was rat shit and rotting rats and rat piss and... just a general miasma of fucking vermin in general. And now one of them was muttering to itself and whining about money.

"Didn't have to bloody well stick my neck out, did I? But I did. Heard the word, heard the Old Man wanted that brozne... whatever, found. And who found it? I fucking did. A little coin up front is hardly a lot to-"

SHHUUK

The fence flinched and shut right the fuck up as a silver dart flashed out from the darkness, and smacked into the ground in front of him. His eyes were drawn to the throwing knife for a moment. Or rather, how close to his feet it had landed. He barely heard the slow, patient footsteps walk over. But he saw the man, clear as day. Same one that sat in his meeting with Vorund trials ago. Just listening. Playing with those damn knives.

"Mister Vorund" the man said, reclaiming his knife and still refusing to give his own name. "is what you call him. An' you'll get paid when we get what we want. The bronze, and the answers. Then you can have yer reward."

"Um... okay... well-"

"Just stay quiet, would ya?" Kasoria kept his eyes on the man as he backed into the shadows he'd been hiding in. The glint of the knife, the glimmer of his eyes... the form and shape of his body, wrapped in ratty clothes yet laden with deadly tools... all of it vanished in the darkness. Shapes and outlines obliterated, from his scuffed boots to his chaotic mass of hair. "Yer meant t'be alone, right?"

"Y-Yes."

Screever was afraid now. He wasn't a violent man. Oh, he could be a vindictive one, but he'd never had the skill or size to go throwing his fists around. His polar opposite was less than twenty feet away. Someone who just reeked of the stuff. Screever knew it the same way a deer would know a wolf. He'd heard the stories about him. Has to be him, he thought. Dresses like a beggar. Smells awful. Likes his knives. Tears people up for Old Man Vorund. As often as he says, how many as he wants.

The Raggedy Man. A minor legend in South Etzos, now watching his back for a deal with-

"Wait... here we are."

Kasoria frowned. There was uncertainty in the man's voice, as Screever frowned and peered down the torch-lit tunnel the pounding footsteps coming towards them. He guessed that was the problem: because they sounded to him like a soul in flight.

So what's chasing her?

[Kasoria]

Freyda didn't know who that was, and didn't need to know. All she knew was that she was eing chased, and in her line of work, the end of such a chase would likely be harsh words and a beating at best, or death at the worst.

So she ran. She ran through alleys and streets. Through vacant lots and over roofs. Ran until her lungs cut her with every breath and still she could hear, could feel her pursuer. Tenacious, that one. She wondered for one idle moment why he was after her. Stole something from him, maybe? That seemed likely. Maybe she'd done so on his patch, or his boss'? Also likely. In the Outer Perimeter, everyone worked on someone's patch, so everyone paid... or, like Freyda, they were nomadic by nature, and kept sweet with everyone.

There were other options. Rape. Torture. Slavery. Sheer, sickening amusement. This was Etzos, after all. There were greedier and darker appetites in the low places that damsels seeking gemstones or diamonds.

Fuck it, risk I've got to take.

She stole down a trapdoor, and kept going down and down until she found another one. Bright suns and sweltering open airs were replaced by shadows and cold and the stink of all places hidden below the ground. Somewhere between decay and fresh soil. Only this was a city, and a whole universe of ancient aromas were in the Underground. Freyda filled her snout with a mouthful as she started running again, only this time a little slower... and quieter.

You know how to run, do you? Clever boy. But do you know the tunnels?

Freyda did. She'd been raised in them, like countless other Etzos brats. They were private kingdoms when one was a child: full of mystery and adventure. She remembered those games as well as she remembered the rooms and passages and basements and cellars and entire houses and streets buried by a constantly growing city... not to mention the sewers. There was no missing them. She picked her way across one such shit-smelling alcove before resuming her steady run... until she heard no pursuit... and got her bearings.

Right, so, if I'm... yeah, under the bakery... that means... by the burned doorway... this way!

"What're you runnin' from?"

"And 'hello' t'you, too, Screevy!" The pickpocket rolled her eyes and caught her breath as she came to a stop in front of the scowling fence. Right where he was supposed to be, and sour as ever. "Hardly a way to greet a lady, is it?"

Screever was a cunt, but he was a malleable one, usually. This, apparently, was not The Usual. His words came out in a hateful rasp, so thick and choleric that Fredya was taken aback for a moment. Looking into his eyes as he took a step closer, she could see anger warring with... fear, in his eyes. Immediately her hackles went up. This wasn't right. This was The Usual.

"I'm not in the mood t'be fucked around to-trial, girl."

"Screevy, calm down," she said, raising her hands and deciding on meekness over meeting his simmering attitude. By the inconstant shards of light filtering in from above, the girl looked flushed and vital and... suspicious. Even as she spoke her reasonable words, she had the tense look of one ready to bolt. "Someone was chasing me, I don't know who-"

"Who the fuck would be-"

"Didn't you hear me?! I don't know! Look-" she rummaged in her pockets and and came up with the bundle of shiny stuff and precious filched knickknacks. Gold and silver and brass and bronze glittered in the light, in the eyes of all watching. Seen and unseen. "-here's the stuff, all there, so you toss me the fifty nels and I'll be on my-"

"No y'won't, girlie."

Which was surprising, since it hadn't come from Kasoria. The killer was still swaddled in shadows, peering out from cover with growing annoyance as a new parcel of urchins swaggered into view from one of the many tunnels leading into the wine cellar. Screever immediately shrunk away from them, towards him, and Freyda followed suit. Her haul was quickly covered up, but the leader of the foursome had already seen, and pointed down at the bundle.

"That thing? That bronze one? That-" A sneer, that came from a bloated ego and four pliable fools at your back. The scent of sweat and cheap cologne, masking rotgut gin and cloying Euphoria. The pointing finger became a thumb, jutting back towards the speaker. "-belongs to us."

"Wh... What?"

All was confusion for a moment, save on the face of the man that no-one had yet spotted. Freyda had stolen this bronze bauble from a man that had in turn stolen it from the Museum. Identifying it specifically, well, that told Kasoria this was the man in question. The silent, sneering, armed men backing him were clearly the others he'd ran with that day. He remembered the meeting with Mister Sit. The words they wished to have with these men and their travesty of a crime. For his part, he remembered the orders of his Master. How he wanted the girl questioned, for she was an unknown quality, but now...

Kasoria frowned a little deeper. Independent thinking. Vorund had mixed feelings about that. But in this regard, he knew this was the better course.

Why bugger about with the fingers when you can pick the brains?

Even confronted by rats walking upright, Freyda still tried to turn on the charm: "L-Look, mate, I don't know your face and I didn't steal-"

"Yes, you did."

Once again, all eyes turned as a new party joined the strange subterranean tableau. The five toughs, one pickpocket and solitary, jittery fence all saw the little man step lightly out of the shadows. Reeking almost as bad as the verminous cavern they were all standing in. All hair and dirt and shoddy clothing and all this was accurate... except his bearing. His eyes. His voice. These things were not that of a vagrant. He clasped his hands together within the folds of his too-large and too-long cloak. Back straight. Eyes clear. Nothing foggy or drunken about his words.

It was almost comical, Freyda though. Until he swiveled his eyes over her way, and she was reminded of a snake she'd found coiled in her grandmother's woodpile back when she was a girl. The shiny, glossy, soulless blackness of them. She'd recoiled from that little nightmare before, and now she felt the urge to do the same-

-until Screever's arm clamped around her bicep, and there were a dagger in his hand.

"S-Screevy, the fuck're you-"

"Old man, youse best put that down," The Leader said, gesturing with a curved knife that had cheap gems in the handle. Shiny, flashy, and far more worthless than the owner could care to admit. Kasoria smiled softly at the notion, and his hidden hand readied itself. "An' youse, whoever the fuck you are-"

"You lads blagged the Museum, didn't you?"

Fergus stood agog for a moment. Crazy old coot had fucking balls, that had to be said. Outnumbered, out-sized, and he was asking stupid questions. Not to mention fatal ones. But since the old man was all of these things, and he didn't see the fence or the cunt escaping anytime soon, the petty gang leader just shrugged and grinned at his underlings.

"Yeah? So what?"

"All I needed to know."

Freyda decided to bolt in the same moment the assassin moved. But a man died a moment later, and the sight of it turned her feet to lead. The swiftness, the certainty, the ease of it, with the flick of a wrist and a dart of shooting silver... it seized her limbs and rooted her as sure as the horror of seeing some chuckling ganger coughing up blood barely ten feet from her. Screever gripped her tighter, out of fear or bondage she did not know, and she did not care.

She could not look away. The little man was far from finished.

[Kasoria]

He would admit afterwards, that it was a rather tedious affair. A drab, grey incident, interrupted by splashes of color and variance, but not enough to rise it from the humdrum. Almost banal, really. These were not men to test his abilities; opponents that would stretch his prowess and leave him frayed, panting, standing alone and barely triumphant, victorious in the only way true victory meant anything: by the merest of odds and slimmest of margins. Alas, the five men that died were not such a challenge. But Kasoria did not grouse over this, of course. He was, after all, a professional. A tradesman, if you will.

Sometimes a job was just a job, and you carried it out to the best of your abilities. No need to enjoy yourself, just carry it out.

Although... there were the aforementioned splashes of color.

Take what pleasures you can, from an ill-pleasured task.

The first man died before the fight properly began. He took a step towards the "beggar" just as Kasoria's arm straightened, hand shooting out from the folds of his cloak-

-letting fly the throwing knife he'd pulled from wrist bracer hidden there, one of two. Only the one was necessary... especially since it was coated with Ghost Mushroom. The ganger had enough time to open his mouth for a smirking curse before something silver flew across his vision, blinding him for a second in the gloomy confines of the cellar-

-before he found he could not speak, and in a hammering, shattering instant of pain, he clawed at his throat and found something hard and sharp jammed in the front of it. The crude bludgeon fell from his hand, man falling to his knees a moment later-

-and Kasoria was already moving on to the next. The first was already dead. The second needed to be ushered along.

"Fuck-"

To the woman and lowlife that watched, it seemed to occur in a handful of trills. Not even long enough for shock to turn to disgust and then fear and then speed limbs away from the slaughter. By the time that imperative shrieked through their minds, the deeds were done... but Kasoria did not see it that way. He saw the faces of the five men, and their bearing, and the stories they told. He was to the left of where the leader stood, with two of his men almost in the way of killer and victim. One of those two was dead in a blink. The other was fast to react, but had no form, no skill, no-

Challenge.

He stabbed out at Kasoria's stomach, pulling back to his hip and practically yelling out at the little assassin what he intended to do. When the short machete came stabbing out for his gut, Kasoria sidestepped away, right arm sweeping down at the same time-

-back of his forearm smashing hard into the back of Second's wrist, sheer force of the blow and precise strike at a knot of nerves and tendons sending the blade clattering away and across the floor and before the blade-

crackcrackcrack

-had even stopped-

crunchcrackCRACK

-clamoring over the stones-

Fergus' jaw dropped as the man's arms seemed to blur, became nothing more than a whirl of flesh vibrating in the air between Kasoria and Second. But there was no apparition nor phantasm in the sound. Like meat being beaten with a brick. Bones broke and blood splattered with every punch, Kasoria's explosion of strikes pulping Second's face, breaking his nose, one of his cheeks, ending him with a kick to the front of the knee that bent him over with a screech-

-straight into Kasoria's waiting arms, and with a heave and a grunt and a savage jerk of his hips-

-he hurled the man face-first into the wall behind him. Another, louder, wetter crunch. Hard things in a fleshy bag, smashed into splinters by the impact. Freyda flinched as Second's head snapped back, crippled man burbling and gurgling as he slid down the wall, leaving a livid, vertical scarlet stripe as he went.

Fergus made a sound somewhere between a growl and a whimper. Kasoria's eyes flashed to him, and he could see from his own that it was more the latter. Fear spewed from those orbs like tears. A terror that was already infecting the gaggle of thugs had seized their leader most of all. The other two would break. Kasoria knew this. He could already see it. Two of Fergus' men were dead or dying, and there was no-one between him and the one who had killed them. But he still needed to be dealt with.

And kept alive.

Kasoria remembered that when the man hacked at him with that knife, swaying away and having to force himself not to roll his eyes and huff his displeasure. So clumsy. So desperate. So foolish. Not a blade for hacking or slashing or swinging. Thin and straight it was, for piercing and gouging and impaling. But Fergus was operating more out of fear that skill, backhanding again, Kasoria snapping his torso away from it, and now there was some variance, some vitality-

-Fergus following up with a kick, right leg swinging up between Kasoria's legs, only it didn't, because Kasoria slide to the side-

-catching the leg under his arm, right elbow coming down into the middle of it like a felled tree in the gloom of the acrid cellar-

Freyda shrank into the wall along with Screever as Fergus shrieked, knee breaking under the savage blow, bent down and inward at a hideous, unnatural angle. Kasoria didn't even slow down, heaving the hopping man back and into a screaming heap on the floor. Two left. Two trembling, frightful figures. One with a hatchet he barely seemed to remember he was holding, and his hesitation gave Kasoria the moment he needed to slip his hand into his pocket-

"F-Fuck you!"

Not quite enough to beat the first strike, though. His fingers still groped and flexed and wormed around what he sought as Forth hacked at him with the simple little ax. Swung and missed, up and down, forcing him back step after step until he swung down again and was stunned as Kasoria's fist rocketed up to meet it-

CLANG

-which was nothing compared to his horror when the hatchet bounced off the man's knuckles. A hundred forgotten nightmares from childhood roared through his brain as the ax trembled in his hand, bouncing away from that apparently impermeable limb. Tales of monsters with metal skin, of Immortals with constructs of brass and steel, creatures who could not die, could not be harmed save by the most potent of mages, and was such an aberration as this before him now, conjured from fitful dreams and dusty history?

Kasoria wasn't privy to these thoughts. All he knew was, he'd timed that punch perfectly, and was fucking well pleased his brass knuckles were worth keeping on his person. Fourth was still in the throes of confusion when he jabbed out again, metal-tipped punch snapping out and slamming into his chest, knocking the air from his lungs-

-left hand shooting out to wrap around the exposed handle of the ax, keeping it there as Fourth spluttered and staggered, all thoughts of fighting murdered by a tsunami of disbelieving, paralyzing pain.

"F-Fuck this!"

Fifth (also known as Jahlees) had seen enough. He'd seen enough when Fergus went down, screaming and writhing and clutching a leg he'd probably lose. Seeing Ty take one, two, three straight punches to the throat that crushed everything in it save for his spine... that was the deciding factor. The dagger he held dropped from his fingers, a universal sign that yes, in fact, he was fucking off, and no, he was not with these people. The beggar's eyes flashed to him like a hawk disturbed during a meal; Ty seemed to melt into the floor, trying to speak through a throat that was nothing but bruised, pulped flesh, blood spilling out of his mouth as he choked on it. His grip on the ax faded, and Kasoria was left holding it-

-seeing Fifth turn to flee-

-and he didn't hesitate. The more he did, the greater the distance, the worse the shot. He drew back the ax like he would one of his knives, Fifth not getting five paces before he hurled it-

Same principle as before, he reasoned in the split-trill before the ax left his hand. Aim for the largest part of the target. Let go when hand and weapon and target are lined up. Oh, and make sure the sharp bit it facing wanker.

THUNK

It was quite a definite sound. Didn't leave much room for interpretation. Thick and meaty and wet and hard all at once. Bones breaking and muscles cleaved. Hope drowned and life smothered. Jahlees gasped just once in agony as the hatchet buried in his back, embryonic run becoming a stagger and then a tumbling, sprawling fall. He rolled a few yards before he stopped, searing pain white-hot and bone-deep. He barely heard the footsteps approaching him. But he felt the hatchet yanked out of him like a limb torn from his socket and was gratefully on the verge of blacking out when-

SHUNK

Kasoria buried the ax in his skull, then yanked it out again when he felt the man became naught but dead weight underneath him. He turned and found one man crippled, two more dying, and one dead. The First had turned a morbid mix of black and blue as the Ghost Mushroom coating the blade and rushed around his bloodstream like a cackling daemon. He'd died on his back, choking on blood and poison. Second was wheezing gently, wetly, helplessly. Spine broken. Dead below the waist. Fergus was still whimpering and clutching his ruined leg. Ty was gasping much like Second, inches away from drowning in his own blood.

There was a sigh, and Freyda would remember it as much as she would the atrocities she saw inflicted before her that day. The sight of the little man moving from light to shadow, light to shadow, as he passed under the odd spears of light from above, hatchet in hand, expression matching the tone of the sigh.

Boredom. Irritation. Nothing fitting for what she'd just seen. Just a man with a distasteful job to do, for him the butchery of five men was naught but another item to be crossed off the list.

"Right," the old man said, in that faintly-breathy tone of a man resigned to a dirty job. He paused in front of a panting Fergus, and let the light catch the blood coating the blade, bathing the man's sweaty face in reflected crimson. "Time fer a chat, boy..."

[Kasoria]

He didn't need to break Fergus. The man was already broken when he started asking his questions.

The pickpocket and the fence braced themselves for torture, mutilation, living dismemberment, but none of that was necessary. The crippled gang leader was curled up against the wall as much as his shattered leg could allow, Kasoria standing over him like the Judgement of Fate made flesh. Freyda listened to him talk in his calm, easy tone. Not the furious growl she'd been expecting. Not the sadistic rasp.

This is just a job to him, her mind whispered, horrified a the idea of such brutality being made so mundane. He's not in a hurry, but he's not shirking. This is just... work.

"That nonsense at the Museum," the assassin said, pocketing the brass knuckles and replacing them with the hatchet. "Who out you lot up to it?"

"Wh-Wadaya, we dint, I... I... shit..."

The words weren't coming easily to the gang leader now a new cripple, and it wasn't all from the lightning crackling up and down his leg. His future was shattered, and his past was a mockery. Five bits ago, he'd been a face on the rise. A leader, a ganger, with his own underlings and alliances and plotted blags and robberies and rackets. A figure of respect and fear, in certain, narrow circles. Now all that was ripped to shreds and burnt to ash. His men were dead. His reputation was gone. His body was crippled. All of these things harangued his tongue and he shook his head as if fighting them off-

SHUNK

-until the ax head slammed into the wall next to his ear. Close enough for him to feel brick flakes pepper his lobe. That focused him nicely.

"N-N-No-No-one did! W-We-We thought it'd be-be-be an easy blag! No guards, not really, no expecting-"

"Why there? What were you after?"

"A-Anythin' we could sell!"

The little man that moved like a panther wrenched the ax free and rested the edge wet with blood and dry with dust against the young man's cheek. Piss and shit flowed into his breeches and Fergus cared not a dram. Behind him, Kasoria was aware of the two others watching, pinned and trapped. He assumed that flight had occurred to them both, several times. He also assumed they'd seen what happened the last time someone had attempted that.

"I'm not buyin' that, boy. Cunts like youse, y'don't go fer fuckin' artifacts from a fuckin' museum. Y'go fer gold an' nels an' jewels. So why were y'really-"

"J-Jah said he knew a bloke!" The words came out like a shriek. Vomited up in desperation. Soaked with fear and tears and shame. "G-Guy who knew-knew stuff like-like that! Said... Said he'd buy it from us."

"What's his name? Where is he?"

Fergus murmured and sobbed the words and Kasoria got what he wanted just before the man's speech fell apart completely. Then there was nothing but tears. Real and flowing down his face, mixing with the blood. So bereft of honor and dignity that Fergus covered half his face, as if covering all of it was too much effort and he did not deserve the solace. Kasoria straightened up and decided he was telling the truth. There was an honesty to tears like this, weeping so utterly pathetic. You couldn't fake it. Not well, and not someone as young and proud as Fergus had once been.

Someone else to visit, he thought a little sourly, annoyed that this butcher's hall would not be the end of it. This "Wersham" would need to be visited at some point, he was sure of that. If Vorund didn't ask him to follow up, he knew Mister Sit would. Neither he nor his pedantic fucking masters would let this lie without all the loose ends being tied up. But that's for tomorrow. For today...

He ended it quickly, and without a word to drag it out. A "thank you" or "good" might have drawn his eye, and he'd have seen the ax coming down. As if was, Fergus saw naught but a shadow flitting across his splayed legs as he stared down at them through misty eyes. The faint sound of a whoosh that he recognized. His mouth opened to scream, and it never closed again, nor made sound.

Freyda closed her eyes, but she did not flinch. How quick one becomes numb to such horrors. The sounds and tastes and flavors of death in the air. But the sight of Fergus' face twitching with the ax buried in his brain, one eye wide and raging while the other was closed and squinting, was too macabre for her. She closed her eyes and heard a slumping sound. Then a familiar voice spoke again, from further away.

She opened her eyes, and found the little man claiming the first weapon he'd used. Pulling it from First's toxin-colored throat and wiping it on his sleeve. He turned to them both and Freyda saw that snake again. The inhuman patience that possessed it, after the first few moments of discovery had shocked it. He walked over and she almost shivered.

The knife played over the killer's fingers, and Freyda wished she knew enough to pray.

[Kasoria]

"Yer name is Freyda. Yer a pickpocket. Y'sell what y'steal to Screever, an' some others on the North Side. An' now I know what y'look like. Why am I tellin' you all this, girl?"

To her credit, it didn't take the girl long. Her eyes still bore the half-traumatized sheen of one who had been bathed in violence, not just witnessed it. So much, so quickly, it... made the mind pause. Made it stop working for a few moments, just to survive. Now she was starting over, and it would speak to her intellect how long that took. Fortunately for them both, she was as smart as she was pretty.

Much as you have an eye for it, anyway.

"Be... Because you want me t'know you can find me and kill me whenever you want."

Kasoria nodded with raised eyebrows, gesturing with the almost-clean throwing knife, like a teaching giving kudos to a bright little pupil. "Couldn't have put it better myself. Now, why do you think I'd do that? What could you do that would make me come lookin' for ya?"

There was no throat-clearing pause like with her first answer. Whatever machinery needed to jerk back into place, it was grinding away when she answered a second time.

"If I say anything to anyone about what happened down here."

"Right again. Now, last thing." He held out his hand and made a little beckoning motion with his fingers. His other hand sheathed the throwing knife, knowing that it wasn't necessary to be holding it. She'd seen what he was capable of without weapons. "Give me the bundle."

She hesitated, as expected, with all the pride and stubbornness an Etzori lowlife could be counted on. She'd seem him rip through five men like they were children, and knew without a doubt he would do the same to her... and yet, it was her loot. Her labors. Her wares. She clutched the bundle to her breast for a moment, before rude reality reasserted itself on her. Honestly, what real choice did she have?

With all the scowl she could safely muster, she extended her arm, and Kasoria took the bundle. He unwrapped it and peered inside, looking through all the trinkets and pilfered items until he found the dull, snake-headed thing he'd been sent for. All this fracas, all for something so small and trifling. He wondered if the righteous Mister Sit would be happy, knowing five lives had to end for his scholar friends to retrieve their bauble.

Probably, he thought sourly. Cunt probably doesn't think us Oh'Pee types are even fucking human.

"Run."

She paused again, and Kasoria thought she may actually ask what all this was about. Even odds, though. Strange things could occur in front of someone in the Outer Perimeter. Engagements and disputes and incidents that defied logic and sense, but behind most, there was some will and command. Freyda had found herself in the middle of such a web, and now all the spiders were dead save one. One who knew she did not know his name, his master, or his purpose.

Most of all, she didn't know what he sought.

"Now, girl," he said, sweeping back his hand and resting it on the pommel of his gladius. Her eyes widened at the sight. Sweet Fucking Fates, he had more weapons on him?! "Before I have to ask-"

She fled. Quick as a wisp and silent as the moons. Kasoria tracked her progress with eyes and ears until there was nothing but echoes greeting him, and then he turned back to the bundle. He picked the queer little bronze sword ornament from the trash and pocketed it. No thrill of magical power thrummed through his fingers; no visions of Morts or Men. Just cold metal in a black hole of cloth. Then he wrapped it up and tossed it to Screever-

-who barely caught it.

"Wake up, old man," he growled, reaching inside his cloak for something else. "Looks like y'got a sale fer nothin' t'day. Not only that, but-" He tossed the modest purse over as well, and Screever caught that with a little more grace. "-here's the reward you were whining about. Mister Vorund'll remember what you did."

That was as close to a "thank you" Screever was going to get, from a man that had already paid him for his services. What use was thanks when commerce was involved, anyway? Services and goods were exchanged, not freely given in charitable spirit. So there was no need for them. He turned away from the fence and started walking, navigating through the tunnels and sewers as easily as if he were walking by the sunlight above him. Kasoria had been raised down here, too. Long before Freyda.

He kept his hands hidden and brushing sheathed steel, the whole trip back to Vorund. He would relax when the job was done, close though that bit was. He walked past faces seen and unseen, relics and beggars and fugitives and things that fell into no category. For a moment, he thought he saw brighter, sharper eyes tracking him as he strode through the little hallway where Freyda had come before, trapdoor in the roof at the end of a rickety ladder.

But no. Nothing glittered in the shadows. The assassin walked on, to give his master good news, and his prize.

[Yrmellyn Cole]

Thread Rewards

QUIO

Overview

One pickpocket picks the pocket of another pickpocket. A hunt follows, feeling like a challenge and a game, until it ends at a dark gap leading to the underground, and the playful feeling is replaced with a feeling of danger. It’s not a game anymore. It was a well written and promising post and a story to itself. It’s the first time I review for Quio and it was a very nice experience. Hope he survived down there in the underground! It would have been interesting of his participation in the story had continued instead of him just disappearing after one post, but that’s how it is sometimes. Hope to see more of Quio in the days to come^^

Points

15

Loot, Renown, Injuries

Knowledge

None requested (only one post).

KASORIA

Overview

Well, I can’t know if I read your text as you imagined I would read it, so maybe you’ll be surprised.

This could easily be read as a massive description of how the ever unbathed and stinking snake Casoria is at his most grisly professional and carries out massacre and torture. It’s raining splatter and gore at amazing levels and at the end he returns to the boss with the result he was asked to deliver, after scaring the shit out of the witnesses in order to ensure their silence. All this really happens and the combat text is long and detailed. Action story, from assignment to mission completed.

Still. Inside that story I think I see a second story, about a man who actively decides to interpret his orders by independent thinking, redirects the attack to another target (the thugs) than the one he was sent out to hit (the pickpocket girl), gets everything he needs to give the boss ... and makes sure the girl will “run, before I have to ask ...”. Perhaps it was because he’d already had what “fun” he could get from an unpleasant job and he just wanted to avoid unnecessary work there? I can’t know. I think that second story is still there though. There's doubleness, layers, more than meets the eye. Questions to think of and no easy answers. Whether it was your intention or not, this is how I read it. Now you know.

Points

15

Loot, Renown, Injuries

+5 Scary Renown

Knowledge

Knowledge:
Intimidation: I Know Who, What, and Where You Are
Interrogation: Seek Names and Places, Not Rumor and Hearsay
Investigation: Seeing When the Suggested Motive For a Crime Makes No Sense
Investigation: Recognizing Further Leads to be Investigated
Politics: Real Power is in Favors, Not Gold
Psychology: Knowing When a Will is Broken
Stealth: Show Yourself When YOU Choose To
Tactics: You Should Go For The Head
Throwing (Knives): Easily Hidden Weapons
Unarmed Combat (Ki'Enaq - Combo): Catch a Foot, Break a Knee (with an elbow)
Unarmed Combat (Ki'Enaq): Brass Knuckles Can Block a Blade (if you're good enough)

Non-Skill Knowledge:
NPC Freyda: Pickpocket
NPC "Mister Sit": Vorund's Connection to the Citadel Authorities
NPC Screever: West Side Fence
NPC Wersham: Mysterious Fence, Deals in Antiquities

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