• PM To Join • Hard Knock Life (Graded)

[Max]

60th of Zi'da, Arc 711
Early Morning


The orphan girl's head exploded with pain a split trill before her body struck the ground. The air whooshed from her lungs when her back struck the cold earth, eyes turning wide when she realized the difficulty of the following breath. Her mentor hadn't hit her as hard as he could. Not even by half. Yet, as he always did, he showcased just how inferior her abilities were by putting her rightly in her place. Maxine could taste the blood in her mouth. It wasn't an unfamiliar sensation, but it certainly wasn't one that indicated she was on track for a victory.

Gotta move, gotta move!

Fighting hyperventilation away, she shuffled away from the Old Man on her hands and feet the moment she realized she'd been put down. Scrapping was a way of life for the orphan. She scrapped for respect, scrapped for impish retribution, and scrapped for scraps themselves. From her feet or on the ground, Max would take the fight to any level. The Old Man wasn't another child out of line though. He was an experienced assassin. If she wasn't standing a chance swinging standing up, she was doomed should he catch her on her back. Another moment laying there, appreciating the pain he wrought, would only set her up to experience more of it.

The young girl wasn't big. She wasn't all that strong either. All she had (maybe) going for her was that she was small, and therefore quick. It was the latter that likely kept her in the lesson thus far. That, and the Old Man's determination to teach her something rather than relentlessly beat her into failure within trills of the start. Hanging in there was a small feat though.

Her inability to best the experienced killer fed that frustrated, ceaseless flame of fury that burned within her. As they exchanges went on, the blows to her body and ego fed that inner fire. Her attempts became more wild, thoughtless, and sloppy as time went on. Now she was paying for it. Scampering to her feet, she backed away from the raggedy creature beating knowledge into her head. The back of her hand rose to swipe the blood from her lip. A girl her age could only take so much. Maxine had not yet accepted her limit yet. Moving toward him now rather than away now that she was back upright, she only demanded more.

"Tired yet, Old Man?" she taunted him between her own labored breaths. Then, she rushed in with an exhausted stagger, coming for his face with an overhead swing for his jaw with a curled, swollen lip.

[Kasoria]

The ice that choked the night had not truly left the air, but neither of them seemed to feel it. Though he was considerably less tired than the child before him, the Old Man had to remind himself that yes, it was indeed the ending of the arc and this cycle was sliding fast into the freeze of that ending, and the deathly, darkly rebirth of Cylus that would follow. Yet he stood before her in his tiny yard, with his bare feet ignorant to the hissing cold of the stones under them, his gaze blind to the clouds of steam he huffed out with each breath, breeches and simple tunic all he needed to keep the elements at bay.

Later, perhaps he would realize the folly. But in that moment? He was as engrossed as she, and though he would not admit it, Kasoria... appreciated the girl, for providing him with such time.

Even if it is on condition.

"Not yet-"

The last word was snapped out sharply as he swayed to the side, punch that would have crunched into his nose instead flying through the space where his head should have been-

-or would have, if his right arm hadn't shot out, open palm smacking punch away at the forearm, defusing and deflecting it before it could even reach him-

"Bow 'bout you?"

-left hand exploding out, and lower. She was an opponent short enough that he almost had to crouch to get to where he was aiming at-

-her thigh, line of callused knuckles cracking into it with a wet, fleshy sound that drew a howl from her, or at least the genesis of one, before her teeth slammed together and she swallowed the bellow of pain. Instead she just hobbled back, barely able to use a leg that was spasming and numbing under her already, and she glared back at Kasoria once again from the (comparatively) safe distance of several yards.

"Getting hungry, hmm?"

That was what happened, at least physically. Of course, that was but what a sailor could see floating past him. Under the surface, behind those black eyes that made the air around them feel positively warm by comparison, Kasoria was doing more than just a beginner's parry-and-counter.

He saw her footwork become sloppy, feet dragging, steps becoming slides. He saw her form collapse into ragged, exhausted, desperate blows. No defense, no forethought, no strategy behind them. He saw her eyes go from cold and focused to red and raging. She bounced back up every time he knocked her down, but every time she was a mite slower. Breathed harder. Shuddered with every exhale and finally spat out a wad of blood with spittle as she came after him again.

Time to end this.

"Wait."

He spoke, and she listened. He raised his hand, and her guard dropped minutely. She did not surge at him again, and through the glare of confrontation glowed a candle of concentration. Oh, how things had changed between them. Now Maxine knew to listen when he gave orders, for every time he did was an opportunity to learn for her. At the other end of the yard, Kasoria was learning, too. Identifying those chances for himself, and the limitations of his student. Adjusting to her stamina, her moods, her flaws and strengths.

And it's barely been a dozen trials.

"Yer still not using everythin', girl," he said bluntly, still lacking quite a bit when it came to pedagogical vocabulary. But it sufficed for the moment... and the audience. "Still comin' on wiv' her punches an' kicks an' how's that fuckin' goin'? If it didn't work for yeh when youse were fresh an' focused an' not gettin' fuckin' sloppy-" he stressed the words, rebuke sharp in every syllable "-how good d'yeh think they'll do now, hmm?"

His hand came down, and hers came back up.

"One solid punch, or no breakfast," he said, repeating the terms he'd given her when she'd knocked on his door a break before, shivering and threadbare and with a gaze as immovable as a granite slab. "Y'ain't no closer t'that wiv' what yeh've been doin'. So change it. Change it to anythin'. Long as it works. An' you better start now..."

His hands closed into fists. Didn't raise up, as hers did. But she knew with the Old man, they didn't need to. If he wanted to hit you, he hit you. It was as simple as that.

"... cuz I'm done buggerin' about wiv' youse."

Again he came at her, faster and harder than before. Not as hard as he could, and they both knew it, but it didn't matter. She wouldn't stay down unless he put her down, and the more she stubbornly refused to do that, the more bloodied she would be, the more angry, the less willing to learn. Some small part of Kasoria's mind chuckled at his educators' concern for her state of mental openness. That he would be so worried not that she would be hurt, but that said injury would impact her ability to learn.

Because that's what she's here for, he reminded himself, and was mildly surprised at the lack of lie in the thought. You do that right, or you don't do it.

He feinted not once but twice, left arm snapping out-

-pulling back, right arm-

-the same, her guard left, then right, up, not down-

-where his leg lashed out and caught her in the stomach. He closed in and prepared to deliver a couple of chops and punches that would shatter her vision and put her down panting... but even then, he left an opening. Small yet obvious, at least for someone at her level. And of her intelligence, of course. She wasn't stupid, and that was half the reason he was teaching her. The two dummies stood mute and frozen as the Old Man loomed over his prey, chink in his form almost waving at her in invitation.

He expected her to take advantage. What he wasn't expecting was how.

[Max]

The man was at least two decades her senior and she knew his response to be true. He wasn't winded. He was just warming up. A careless sway gave him salvation from her strike aimed for his face just as it had time and again, that right deflection an added safety measure.

The question was rounded back her way just before his counter came with an efficiency that had become nearly predictable. Yes, Maxine was tired. Exhausted, really. Part of her was just waiting for the lesson to end. It was a small, almost voiceless part of her soul. It whispered nonetheless, bolstered by doubt and defeat that she warded away with headstrong stubbornness. His knuckles struck her thigh. A violent hiss came involuntarily from her lips as she hobbled backward with brow knit. Already it felt like a rock had been implanted in the muscle of her leg, impeding her balance as it protested weight being placed firmly upon it again.

Shit!

The Old Man got her good with that one. If it didn't hurt so damn bad and it didn't put her at a disadvantage, she might've told him so. Eyes on his hungry, hurt student he read her well. Hungry? She was starving. The very thought of breakfast tightened her stomach. All the sparring made her nearly forget that pain. Now it was back with a vengeance. She had to earn it.

Practically stumbling toward him, she was surprised when her mentor raised a hand to stop her. Her small fists lowered slightly from her face so she could study his. A frustrated exhale came from her flared nostrils. Per usual, she'd been coming at him more like a wild animal than a disciplined fighter. It fatigued her quickly and now she was in a bind. Again she was in a position wherein she'd adapt or die. Either she could strategize a way to throw at least one worthy punch, or it would be another skipped meal. She couldn't afford not to eat another trial. Failure was not an option on her mind. It always seemed to be that which gave before her body: that hard-headed mind of hers. Max turned her head to the side and spat blood upon the cold dirt. That was all the time she had before she recognized the Old Man's guard was up.

Maxine forced her heavy arms up to protect her face. As though her initial struggles to best him weren't enough, her mentor seemed determined to make victory an impossible feat. While she panted, he turned up the heat. She saw those knuckles soaring in toward her face and she committed to avoiding it. It was when she was already coming back to a stand post-duck that she recognized the first punch had been a feint.

Dammit, dammit, dammit!

Popping up, the next punch coming for her put her squarely on her heels as she worked to recover. So focused was she on the punches, she failed to recognize both were deceptive set-ups for the kick that struck her in the middle when she least expected it. The orphan buckled, and the punishing blows that followed were all the more painful. Her arms came up to shield her head the best she could while she tried to get the last of her wits about her. It was when one of those fateful punches came down on her that she panicked.

Using the ground and her bent knees as her base, Maxine turned, pivoted, and launched herself at his nearby legs. Her arms sought to wrap around the strong trunks, locking behind his knees, while what little body weight and momentum she could generate worked to ground the Old Man onto his back.

Should her level change find merit, the small girl would humorously clamber over his torso to throw that good, solid punch the Old Man tried to taunt out of her. A blow straight to his bearded face. If there were no fruits to be found in her risky labor? Well. As always, Maxine would take the hits as they struck her.

[Kasoria]

The thing about amateurs was, they could still surprise you. In fact, they could do so more than people who were trained to fight. Because they very deliberately, definitely, and cunningly, knew bugger all.

Kasoria knew a dozen ways to fight, even if calling what he knew a "style" would do naught but make him laugh. Throwing technical terms at him would earn some glimmer or recognition, but little in the way of professional respect, should we say. His training started in the gutter and on the cobbles long before the Blackguard got hold of him. Oh, they'd certainly added a fair chunk, streamlining and refining a body already molded for combat... but it had been long decades since that time. His training had continued. A different teacher every fight, a new skill and discipline and set of variables every time.

Truth of it was, he could stand in the last, fractured trill of time before the brawl exploded into action, and know what the man opposite him was going to do. If not know, then guess in six different directions and be prepared for each of them... while factoring in his own retaliation, too. He could look them over and a hundred former fights to the death or the maiming would flash before his eyes and those memories would inform what would follow.

But when he looked down at Max, he saw a blank canvas. An unknown quality. Wild and undisciplined and still not thinking when she really needed to, but still... capable of surprising you.

His hands chopped down once, twice, and her own were up around her head to ward him off. Kasoria snorted and raised his fist, disappointment curling his lip as his eyes narrowed on that patch of skin between her shoulder and her neck. The Sour Spot, he liked to call it. One good, decent punch into that cluster of muscle and ligaments and nerves, and she'd go down as if every limb was afire and then lopped off her trunk. She'd be lucky to stay conscious, and she would have earned such a punishment by not-

-then his target vanished, and in the time it took Kasoria's jaw to drop-

-she darted-

-slender arms like rusted metal wrapping around him and his fist was still in the air-

"Sh-!"

-when her arms squeezed inwards, knocking his knees together, curse barely out his lips before she rolled and pulled at the same time, every ounce of her scrawny body becoming nothing more than a weight dragging him down and back and-

He was grateful she didn't see his arms waving like a demented seagull's. He truly was. He'd never have heard the end of it.

As it was, she was too busy being damn-near crushed by his falling form to take any joy in the sight of The Old Man flailing like a horse-struck idiot. The two of them went down in a knot of cursing, angry, snapping limbs. Cold stones cracked Kasoria across the back from arse to neck, and for a moment the wind was blown from his lungs and an explosion of black stars clouded his vision. but he could still feel, beyond the brief spasm of pain.

Fuck're you up to?

Seizing the moment, evidently. He felt desperate hands paw over him, scaling his fallen body like a wild animal. Squirming out from under his legs and coming up from between them. Straddling him in a hideous parody of sexuality that neither of them recognized. This was worlds away from romance. This was where fights were decided, once they'd degraded this far. The black stars vanished and she was there instead, split lip throbbing, eyes wide and raging, fist pulling back and-

Then it was all reaction times. Speed vs. Time. Thing about speed is, you can't teach it. You can train and get faster, but true, greasy, unstoppable speed of limbs was something you were either born with, or you weren't. Kasoria wasn't. But he'd had going on forty arcs of experience to draw on; forty arcs of muscle memory packed into five-feet-two-four inches of gnarled, wiry, bark-tough brutality. So many arcs that his mind didn't even need to send a signal to duck-

-he just did-

-slamming his head to the side so hard he felt something crack in his neck, back of his skull scraping against the floor-

CRACK

-and the girl howled as her knuckles smashed into the stones where his head had been. But even as his own hands reached up in the space of a blink, grabbing her by the side of the head, he saw pain replaced by bloody determination a moment after she nearly broke her fucking hand. She wasn't giving up. She was already clawing at his arms, but it was too late-

-as he yanked down her head as he jutted his upward-

Careful, now.

-slamming his crown into hers, as delicately as one could do such a thing. At least he hadn't been aiming for her nose, and he hadn't pulled her down that hard into the blow. Instead, it was enough to send her reeling back off him, falling back with her eyes glazed and blind, hands reaching up to cover her face in pain... and giving him a moment to recover himself, too.

"Always fuckin' hurts," he muttered, half to himself, rubbing his forehead with one hand as he rose back to his feet. "No matter how often y'do it..."

He didn't finish the job, as he would have if this was business. Prone, groaning, blind, she was a perfect target for a coup de grace. A few choice stomps and she would have been a still, bloody mess. But instead Kasoria just waited, watching her fight through the blinding pain in her crown... slowly take her hands away... and look at him through a splatter of blood from the cut he'd made. She seemed to be expecting the same. But what she didn't expect, was for him to crouch down... grab her hand roughly by the wrist, and turn it over, examining the bloody knuckles... before letting her hand drop back down with a snort.

"One good, solid punch. Well-" The word had a creak in it from where he'd shot back upright, shrugging his shoulders as he turned around. "But I don't recall sayin' if it had t'hit me." The Old Man paused by the door and scratched behind the ears of some worthless moggy or another, some half-feral little beast like him that still purred gently as he tended to it. "Couple of lessons for ya, there. First of all, don't go gettin' fuckin' noble. Someone gives you an out, twists the words of a deal so youse can get what y'want without gettin' beat half t'death, don't refuse an' go the hard way. Yer not a knight on a fuckin' crusade, an' no cunt's gonna be tellin' tales of your shame and glory."

That was as far as Kasoria would go to being easy with her: letting her see him do it, so there was no mistake that he was doing just that. But she'd tried hard, and it was only her lack of arcs that had stopped that punch landing. No teacher was more valuable than experience, save pain. Kasoria had thrice her age under his belt, by the looks of her, and in a brawl, that was a bastard of an advantage. But even with that, she'd still touched upon-

"Lesson Two-" He said as he walked back inside, two fingers held up over his shoulder, then flipping forward to beckon her follow him "-if yer up against a big bastard, bring him down t'your size. Take his legs. Drag him to the floor. Even up the field an' batter him when he's on his back." The Old Man scooped up a towel and flicked it at a curious cat on the counter, snapping it in the creature's face as it tried to stick its head into the stew pot. It hissed but fled, leaving him to stir what was inside it. "Y'had good instincts. Stand up fight ain't workin'? Fine. Take it down to the ground. An' if that don't work? Pick up a weapon."

By the time he turned back to her, he expected to find her waiting for her food. Not waiting to be seated, but already at the table. Because what was the point in teaching her how to be an opportunistic little bastard, if she never actually acted like one?

[Max]

Desperate exhaustion nearly overwhelmed her as the pair crashed into the ground. Taking the Old Man off his feet and sitting mounted atop him was a victory in itself. The swell of celebration was dull against the burn in her muscles and the heaving of her chest. A sense of urgency consumed her few thoughts. She had to capitalize on this small win in order to gain something from it. Right now.

From atop the man she cocked her small fist back and launched it down toward the bearded face of her opponent. With little left to give, Maxine put all she had behind it, using her body weight rather than her strength to make the most of her attack. She watched her knuckles soar down to make purchase...and then he was gone. Too slow to recognize the disappearance of her target, her fist slammed straight into the ground. Her eyes widened and her body postured up, a yelp howling from her as she shook the wounded hand. Blood seeped from the scrapes on the back of her hand. Pieces of gravel and dirt embedded themselves in the cracks of her skin. There was no time to mourn her failure or fully acknowledge the pain in her limb. Instead she was focused on the sensation of hands grabbing her by the head. Her fingers curled and clawed at his grip, trying to secure freedom all too late. His head smashed into her.

Maxine's back struck the earth before she was aware she was no longer straddling the Old Man. Her head swirled and her eyes involuntarily swam. She blinked, shaking her aching head while she tried to get her feet back under herself. The world didn't orient itself quite right. Not at first. It took her until her second attempt at squirming from her hands and knees to her feet to get up. Blood dripped down her right arm and trailed from her face. The latter injury was far messier than she expected. It was a strange thing, the way the head seemed to bleed alarmingly no matter how seemingly minor the wound. She was half expected the Old Man to knock her clean out when he snatched up her wrist instead. Her other hand flinched up to protect one side of her face. Instead she was attacked with nothing more than priceless knowledge.

"I almost had you," she murmured when he was through instilled lessons she'd never forget, heavy feet moving back to the comfort of indoors. "On the ground. If I was a little faster, I would've hit you." Her battered mind was still trying to process his wisdom and her own takeaways from the spar as she trudge toward the table. She brought the heel of her good hand to dab the blood away from her eyebrow. Wincing, Maxine slid herself into a seat and rested her forearms on the surface of the table.

"Who taught you all this stuff?" Max found herself asking out of turn as the world return to crystal clear focus. The Old Man must've seen this coming eventually. To question the experience of the teacher was an expected phase of a student, whether they be a soldier or a street rat orphan. It was simply the way of it. "Were you in an army? Or a fighting pit?" Dull, obvious guesses. Yet the man who murdered and lived with more cats than could be considered healthy was a mystery to her. Where he came from, how he became what he is, and why he does what he does were all things she did not understand. Shit. She didn't even know his real name. And in a childish fashion, the more she asked, the more questions she seemed to have.

"Aren't you scared the people you work for now will send someone like you to kill you some trial?"

[Kasoria]

It was porridge, not stew, but given the time of trial, that was to be expected. He wasn't an animal, after all. Stew for breakfast? Why not cake for dinner and a bath in brandy? He stirred the thick sludge as it loosened into something more palatable, fire under it kindled hotter now the training was over for the moment.

Kasoria snorted as she said her piece, limping back inside, holding her bloody hand. Refusing to admit either defeat or reality in the stubborn, implacable way that only children can manage. He spoke without turning around, sniffing at the aroma wafting off their meal and wondering if he needed to add more milk.

"Aye, but what's the important word there?" After a few moment he heard nothing but a scrawny ass sitting in a chair, so he answered his own question with a raise, emphatic finger. "'Almost'. And 'almost' don't mean shite, girl. You either win, or ya lose. Don't matter if it's by one punch or a hundred. Cuz in this life, 'almost' is 'almost alive', not 'almost had you'."

He ladled a hefty portion of the porridge into two bowls, and took them over to her. He set them down and then put a little jar of honey between them, for flavor. More than a spoonful, though, and she'd get a rap across the knuckles that weren't bleeding. The killer heard yet another question but ignored it. Instead he saw her twisting and squirming and trying to get a good look at her fist. He was sorely tempted to jog her elbow and slam it into her squinting face.

No. Even your cunty nature has limits.

Since when?

"Here." Maxine would look up and find a rag and a foul-smelling bottle placed next to her elbow. "Pure booze. Kills fuckin' anything. Use the rag and clean your knuckles up. Yer not gettin' blood all over my fuckin' table..."

Then he sat down, and then he pondered her question, and Fates she had so many of them. He expected that, though. Stepping back from this queer and unlikely arrangement, he could see what an enigmatic figure he must have cut to her. No family. No confederates. No history save for rumors and whispers. Not even a name that she'd discovered. Kasoria had decided that she'd have told him immediately if she'd found it out, just to prove she could. He mused that maybe, just maybe, she'd keep it to herself. Be sneaky. Be strategic. Keep it known but hidden, for use when she required it.

Then he looked over his bowl and saw him devouring the porridge with the hearty, honest hunger of an orphan in need of some extra meals, and decided that likely wasn't the case. The girl didn't have enough guile in her. Yet.

"Those sound like good guesses," he said as he ate his foot, taking his time, savoring each bite. "They're both right. Or they're both wrong. Since when did youse become my fuckin' chronicler?" He grinned as she just gaped for a moment, then treated himself to some honey. "You set yerself on this path, you learn from folk. Allies. Employers. Enemies. Some in uniform, most outta it. Cobbles teach yeh more than anyone. Experience... y'can't learn that. Can't find in a book the lessons pain an' blood an' fear instruct ya."

Well, fuck me, Kas. That was almost poetic.

Then there was a low, grinding sound as she asked her last question. She realized it was his idea of chuckling.

"Some've tried. Not long ago, in fact," he said, omitting the details and the bodies and the blood and the part he did not want to discuss. The part that happened after. "Six fellas broke in here-" he gestured around his head to the house, with a spoon that dripped a dollop of porridge as he did so "-tried t'put me down. Didn't work out well for 'em..."

Ah, understatement. That classic trait of a brooding, taciturn bruiser. Kasoria snorted to himself at the notion he would be cast in such a light. There was nothing literary about that night, not even a full season ago. Nothing bardic about the ruins of six men, battered and slashed and gutted and mutilated and dismembered still screaming around his modest house. Nothing heroic about how he'd collapsed like a boned fish when that fucking witch put her curse on him, stealing from the shadows that forged her to deliver a warning on behalf of The Fence.

Kasoria's gaze hardened as he studied the coffee in his cup. No. He knew what fear was. Fear of helplessness. Fear of dying without a fight. Fear of never seeing his son again. He closed his eyes and banished that thought, that face, that trembling terror. He made it go away and opened his eyes to present business.

"There's no-one like me," he said quietly, with more gravity than he intended. "Not in Etzos. If there was, one of us'd be dead by now."

He finished the cup and waited for her to finish her bowl. He wasn't avoiding the point of all this, but he was... pacing himself on the journey to it. This was training, after all, and training always had a purpose. Without it, all the exertion and lessons and blood and curses was just sadistic exercise, and he wasn't a fucking fitness instructor. The scrawny, hungry, querying thing in his other chair - his only other chair, he realized with some tiny tremor of inherited shame (probably from his house-proud mother) - was being molded into a scratcher. That didn't mean you slapped a dagger in her hand and told her to cut throats, but still-

Gotta start somewhere.

"Yer comin' wiv' me on a job tonight," he said casually, ignoring the way her whole body, whole being, every strand of her snapped to attention when he said those magic words. He snorted with his usual derision and got up to get another cup of the black bean. "Don't look so bloody excited. S'just scouting. Need youse t'point someone out for me. Walk through a tavern, see if who I'm lookin' fer is there. F'he is, y'let me know an' go on yer way."

There was a stunned, hollow silence, broken only by steaming black coffee being poured into a clay mug. Kasoria turned around and leaning back on the rough, battered countertop. He sipped at the brew and hissed between his teeth as it burned his tongue, scorched his lungs, woke his arse up proper. Then he raised an eyebrow, almost lost under a forest of hair.

"Think youse can handle that?"

[Max]

Almost.

One trial she'd almost make it through a lesson without being swiftly corrected with a brutal life lesson, or a reminder that even the small victorious she relished in would be her undoing out in the real world. She rolled her eyes behind his back before he turned with the two bowls. Her young caramel eyes peered into the simple, bland meal with mouth-watering gleam. Her spoon dug into the meal, lifting a small pile of it up before she shoveled it in her face.

Hot!

She withdrew the utensil with the same vigor, but it was too late. The cooked down grains were already between her lips, and as much as she loathed the minor burn, her greedy stomach cared not. The spoon returned to dig into the porridge while her other hand found the honey spoon. One hand shoveled while the other added a spoonful of sweet, forbidden honey to the mix. The feast came to a prompt halt the moment the bottle and rag was set before her. Porridge dribbled out from her drowning bottom lip. Any alcohol burned. Pure alcohol? Now that was going to be a punishment worse than salt.

With a sigh she set both spoons down and did his bidding. She took up the rag and bottle, soaking the former with the latter, and sat back while the man went about answering her childish pestering. His time taken to think worked in her favor. Her porridge cooled to a more comfortable temperature and she got fewer breaks between dabs of alcohol to her wounds. When she was finished she dropped the rag on the table and took the spoon back up. Her brow furrowed at the Old Man when he first began to entertain her. He was an outcast just like her, but there he was: shooting off big, meaningless words like "chronicler" between his gapped smile.

Thoughts of damned scholarly vocabulary flew from her mind when he indulged her the truth. Men like him had been sent to cut his throat. He didn't need to sit there and recall every gory detail of the encounter. He was still here. Likely, they were not. Maxine had seen the Old Man at work before, and it was a disgusting as it was something to admire. Like art. She could imagine just what happened to those six men. Six stupid men. She wondered absently what the man who sent them must've thought. Did he like that the Old Man had snuffed his agents out? Did he respect the rabble king in that way? Or was he forced into quiet submission? Once again, she was probably far off from the truth. Wondering was half the fun though...until the mystery became old and nothing more than a thing to question or doubt.

Maxine could feel herself reaching the end of her rope. There was a line between innocent, owed questions and outright prying. Too many and she'd have use for that rag and bottle again. So she went back to shoveling food into her hungry mouth until there was none left. Until the Old Man gave her something else entirely to sink her teeth in.

A job?

She sat straight up with wide, hopeful eyes. Just like that the sores and bruises littering her body ached just a little less. Hard work really did pay off, and despite her role not being of great importance, it was a start. This was a chance to prove to the Old Man she'd been listening and absorbing his lessons. This was the door. And this ambitious little orphan was going to kick it down.

"Of course I can handle it," the child grinned, fighting the urge to arrogantly kick her feet up on his table. She dropped her elbows down instead to lean forward with a wicked gleam in her gaze. "You just tell me who to find. I'll find 'im for you."

[Kasoria]

She wants this so badly. She's eager. So excited. Aching to put the theory into practice.

Kasoria remembered the slow, sly smile of his trainers back at the Academy, the first time he'd drew blood in the training yard. They'd seen that spark of animal joy turn into a blaze that glowed from his eyes. Tantos had chuckled; Drix had grunted, but a smile had been there, on lips ill-formed for such a feature. They'd trained and drilled the class, and now the "scholarship boy" from the back-end of the Oh'Pee had proved Tantos' instincts right. He'd drew blood, he'd tasted it, and he was ready for more.

He did not smile. He did not chuckle. He just looked at the girl leaning over her empty bowl, with her eyes bright and hopeful. The slightest sigh drifted from his nose and he resisted the urge to shake his head. That had been a long time ago. He'd drawn blood, but not taken a life. He'd been trained to fight, and fight like an even dirtier bastard than he already was, but not to kill. He was a Cadet Guardsman, a Baby Blackjack. Sworn to safeguard citizenry and uphold the law. Now he was the opposite of that, beholden to laws fractious and shifting, writ by betrayal and coin in a kingdom of liars and monsters.

Now the girl was on the edge of that chasm. Looking down into the black with a grin.

She has no idea what this will do to her. But you do.

Kasoria sighed again, this time heavier. Resigned. Resolute. He was far past moralizing and philosophizing. He remembered every man he'd killed, if not their number. One or a thousand, it didn't matter. He was what he was, and part of the What was This.

Corruption.

"I told ya t'calm yerself," he growled, injecting enough menace into his tone to get the point across. He rose from his seats and took both bowls over to the wash basin. "Yeh'll know when we get over there. Best t'do our business when at night. Less folk on the streets. Less eyes seein' that shouldn't be. Most of all?" The clay clattered into the water-filled metal bowl, and the killer started scrubbing like a fishwife. "Shadows. Deep and dark and warm and safe. Whole city's lit up at night, from the river to the Citadel. But there's never enough. Always shadows t'work in..."

The old man's voice trickled away to nothing, and the sound of slow scrubbing replaced it. Not like him, to meander like that. Being... around people, around children... it was affecting him. He grunted at his stupidity and tossed the thought away. Instead of dwelling on it further, he placed the dripping but clean bowl to one side, and then the spoon that had been inside it. He kept talking as he washed, trusting her to still be hanging on his words.

"Get over here and dry up. Got plenty a' trial-light left. Not gonna waste it."

++++++++++

Everyone knew they had diseases, so Jeric was careful not to touch them. Not even allow an inch of swishing robe to brush the hem of his cloak. He skittered to one side and dragged the girl with him. He only just remembered to do the latter. It showed quite well what sort of man he was, though she wasn't that bright and so did not appreciate his... priorities.

He didn't want the pestilential bastards touching him. She could go hang.

"Surry, surry suhs, surry..." The blind man waved his free hand vaguely in their direction. Whether blind by birth or plague or accident, Jeric couldn't tell. The blindfold he wore stole all sight of his eyes, not just from them. He cocked his head in roughly the young clerk's direction and mumbled more wet, mewling words. "Surry, surry t'be in yer way, girl, cum nah, outta-"

"Oh, shut up and stay away from us, wretch."

"Surry, suh, surry, surry..."

Jeric snorted at the pantomime, the mockery of manhood in front of him. Bowing and apologizing and waving and trying to keep his other hand on the girl's shoulder, all at once. She turned around and gripped his hand with both of hers. Muttering to him, trying to pull him along like a farmer would a stubborn mule. Finally the blind, stinking relic tottered the way she was dragging him.

Jeric licked his lips. A beauty, that one would be. Not now, of course. Still clinging to the formless fat of childhood. Lank hair. Sallow cheeks. But fine, brown eyes. Full lips. Childish, too childish even for him, but a fruit he'd pay well to taste when her body caught up with his tastes. Speaking of which, he felt the warm flesh against his side, as... whatever her name was slid her hand against his stomach.

And kept sliding.

"In a hurry, are we? Fine, fine, if you must bully me. On we go, my dearie."

The Blind Man and The Girl continued on their way, towards the bastion of light and laughter the clerk had just left. "Morey's Eel" it was called, sign above the door emblazoned with those rude words and a far grander painting of a twisting, contorted, grinning sea-snake that looked far too human in the face than was comfortable. But the eerie sight was no bar to custom. Men and women and younger came and went, drank and gambled, laughed and argued, and all manners of human debaucheries and amusements took place inside.

A beggar and his guide were barely even noticed. Which was, Maxine was learning, the whole point behind this charade.

"Over there, on the corner," he said, voice a world apart from the one he'd used moments before. He tipped his head back and his eyes glinted like coals behind his blindfold. From his hunched, bowed stance, it seemed to cover his eyes wholly. But there was, in fact, just enough room below for him to see... if he moved his head back far enough. "Leave me there."

Maxine did as she was told, and the killer squatted down on the wet cobbles. Numbing cold ate into his arse before he even got comfortable, and he ignored it. He talked as he drew not a blade, but a begging bowl from under his cloak. Always time to teach a lesson.

"Y'get used t'the cold. The stones. The wetness. The wind. The stench. Most folk wouldn't stand it, so they think those that would're drunks, or scum, or mad. Fine. Let 'em think that." She looked down, and the "blind" man smiled below his bound eyes. "Makes our job easier. Now, go in there and find what I told you t'look fer."

She set off without a word, a complaint, or a question. He heard the quick, sharp shuffle of a nodding head, almost military in its curtness, and then she was gone. Kasoria tipped his head back again and watched first her feet and then her legs march away from him. He almost winced. Too much purpose. Too much steel in her step. Weak. Vulnerable. Childish. That's what she needed to project into every eye and heart.

Helpless. Wretched. Harmless. The finest guise from which to strike a killing blow.

Kasoria shook his sad little bowl and called out for alms in a cracking voice. Muffled metal shook under his cloak. Tools of death, all hidden from sight. He knew Horum favored the Eel, and mayhap he had company tonight. That would make things... interesting. But tonight was as good as any, and he had an extra pair of hands and feet and eyes he wished to make use of. He spared one more hidden, half-obscured glance at the girl, just before her feet vanished into the Eel.

[Max]

The Old Man was as quick to dim her glow as quickly as it had spread with a grin upon her face. His menacing turned that childish giddiness into one of utter disdain. One step forward, two steps back. He doubted her. She knew it. That had to be the reason for his reluctant sighs and biting tone, both which sought to put her right back in her place. At least he wasn't walking back on the opportunity. That was a letdown she couldn't shoulder.

Maxine watched her mentor pick up their bowls and set to scrubbing them in the sink. Her brow knit as she sat there at that empty table, muscles and hand aching while she considered his words. This was about to be a culmination of all his teachings. This was more than a chance to prove herself capable, but a full test in and of itself. One wrong step and she'd merit not only her mentor's ire, but that of the danger his enemies might inflict on a sea urchin tumbled too close to greater Etzos predators. Max didn't think of those waiting fangs though. Instead her mind was absorbed in the imagination of her success.

She was feelings what it was like to have her figure embraced by the shadows of the night, listening to the hollow silence of her presence as she moved after her mark just as she'd been taught. Light was the enemy and discovery was death she did not acknowledge. Only the clanging of discarded utensils and a new command could pull her from that tantalizing reverie. So she got up, pushed in her chair, grabbed a rag, and did as she was bid. With every movement of the cloth across a bowl, anticipation built with the butterflies in her stomach.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ruses. It seemed The Old Man was full of them. Once a downtrodden panhandler, now a blind beggar, he was a man who could wear many masks upon one face. He didn't just look the part either. With all the stumbling, staggering, and nervous mumbling, he sounded like the sorry sod of a role he was playing. One glance at him and even the most suspicious figure was put at ease. And why wouldn't they be? He appeared as defenseless as they come. No eyes to see their faces let alone track their movements. No sure feet upon a path he could not predict. Hell, he had a little girl do all that seeing for him. Impoverished. Vulnerable. If he had anything worth taking, he would've been the perfect victim the crueler souls of Etzos would victimize over and over again. He was a wretch and a waste upon this world. And yet, little did they know, he was the most dangerous person they could ever encounter in any one of the city's mean streets.

This philosophy was a hard one for Maxine to get behind. She was so caught up with the desire to look strong, to be strong, that to embrace an image of undeniable weakness was counter-intuitive. So many times she'd pestered him. About the sword, about doing a job like this, that she'd given up now that she realized his answer would never change. Bastards like him stayed alive this long with cunning. His cunning ploys kept his enemies' guards nice and low. Right where he wanted them. It was this lesson on deception and intelligence he'd tried so hard to instill in her. It was this lesson she kept failing to wholly grasp. He knew that though. Perhaps that was why he chose to play this part rather than lurk patiently in the shadows until she returned. Show, not tell, because tell wasn't working. That, and he was probably about as tired as giving her a good smack about it as she was tired of receiving it.

The young orphan glanced cautiously about as she pretended to lead the "blind" man along. Walking ahead but following his lead, Maxine followed him to the corner. There she waited for him to move into the next scene of his act, bowl and all, while her mind drifted anxiously toward the task ahead of her. He took his squatter's spot and she gave her sharp nod. It was her turn now and it was time she delivered. Long before this charade, The Old Man had talked and she'd listened. Maxine looked up at the humanoid serpent on the tavern sign nearby. One big inhale. One big exhale. She knew what to do.

Fists balled at her sides, standing tall, Maxine made her deliberate advance. She paused at the tavern at the door. Just for a moment. Part of her felt that urge to look back at her mentor hiding in the shadows. One last glance for reassurance before she was plunged into this unsavory pit. She steeled herself and fought that urge away. He would not see her anxiety. He would not see the self-doubt in her eyes now that the moment to perform had arrived.

Don't be weak. You're not weak. Show him now.

She shoved her way in, the door swinging open and the stench of alcohol and sweating bodies hitting her like a punch in the face. A bard played over the loud banter of the intoxicated crowd and lanterns dimly lit the place. Max continued in with searching eyes, occasionally rocking to the tips of her toes to get a look at the faces towering over her. A few steps into her entrance and she bumped into the thick belly of a man standing in her path. Post-rebound, Maxine's face scrunched and she peered up at the living obstacle in her path: a bald, grim-looking man with thick arms crossed.

"Li'l young ta be 'ere, aren't ya?" the meat-head grumped down at the orphan with knowing eyes. The young girl's heart pounded in her chest. Panic began to wash over her. This test was about to be over and failed before it even began, most likely with a literally kick out the door. She swallowed hard, mind reeling as her moment to reply arrived. Then a small, devious voice whispered its answer.

Lie.

"Little too early to be this stupid," her sharp tongue countered like it had a mind of its own. "What are you? New? Wait until my daddy hears about this. Move." Max pushed past the burly bouncer she'd left baffled in her wake. Quickly, she moved deeper into the tavern, hoping to at least get lost between the drunken bodies before the man came to his senses. It seemed like she was there forever, like she was never going to find him, until she did.

Hello, Horum.

He was a big guy, her mark. Bigger than the bouncer but intimidating in all the best ways. His mug was filled but he wasn't cursed with a gut of it. Oh, no. He held a statuesque, impressive stature of lean muscle and broad shoulders. His head was not balding but shaved clean with all the diligence of a man who paid close attention to the fine details. When he laughed, it wasn't a chuckle, but deep and thunderous as he sloshed his ale about. His image shined bright in the eyes of lesser men around him, who huddled close in hopes they'd absorb some of his nefarious light by being good company for the break. The women were no better. He was the sun, and they too craved wealth from his rays. A big smile on his face and a commanding presence, he was evidently the life of this social scene beyond whatever it was he did to gain The Old Man's attention.

All of this Max noticed. Yet as she flitted back out from whence she'd come like a good, obedient student, she'd failed to notice one woman in particular: the woman on his arm. Her hair was fiery in color, curling down and around her shoulders. She dressed no better than those in her company. Besides her proximity to Horum, she shouldn't have stood out at all. Except that her sharp, green eyes had noticed the little runt as soon as she started staring. The Red Head saw Maxine, and she knew. Knew before the orphan turned on her heels to run back to report to her master. She wasn't like the others Horum kept close for entertainment. And as Max vanished, she was whispering in Horum's ear.

"It's done," Max whispered to the Old Man once she'd sauntered back to the corner and squatted down beside him. She waggled her eyebrows, unable to wipe the victorious smirk from her face. "He's in there. Far right corner against the wall. He's got a little crowd but they're not much. Some guys and a couple girls. If they're really with him they don't look like much." Voice rushed, she realized she'd forgotten to breathe with all the excitement. "What do you want me to do now?"

[Kasoria]

The "blind" man listened with his eyes covered and the rest of his face impassive, what little of it showed, at least. He'd been listening since the girl had left, breathing slow and shallow so even the rote suck and blow of that personal atmosphere didn't muddle his hearing. He could already tell her steps as they approached him. Calm. Purposeful. Mayhap even proud, eating up the ground between her and whatever objective she decided upon.

Kasoria's lip twitched in the shadows of his hairy face. Confidence, or arrogance. He'd not yet decided which truly ruled her. But a coward? No... that was not in doubt.

He absorbed the information she gave him like the sponge he was. She was the paint, and his mind did the painting. He could see his target, and the gaggle of sycophants preening around him like those mangy cats he had at home. Aye, that made sense. Horum had quite the magnetic personality, to use Vorund's expression. He could have told the girl what he knew about the man. The reasons for why he was here that night. The long train of discrepancies and defiance; outrages and misunderstandings; a sorry saga of underworld ambition that had finally resulted in a valuable enforcer deciding he was better off plying his trade for a more appreciative master. Maybe even set up in business for himself, and why not? He'd certainly the experience, and the connections.

Kasoria had listened to all of this from his master, like he listened to the girl right now. Much like trials ago, the same still applied: it made no difference. A blade did not ask wherefore the hand wielded; an arrow did not query the marksman its destination. He had listened and stored it all away, knowing that his only role was to find the time and opportunity to "send this smug cunt to hell in a way folk'll remember the rest of the fuckin' arc, and then some".

The man who only looked blind held out his hand, sticking to his assigned role and letting the girl heave and puff as she pulled him to his feet. When he was sure no-one was idling around them, he leaned closer and into that expectant face he said: "Go home. Yer job's done for the night."

She thought otherwise, of course. Like any good teacher, Kasoria would supply his reasons, not just try to bluntly assert his will.

"Yer makin' progress, girl, but y'ain't ready to mix it with a pack a' street dogs like that. 'specially not that big cunt. He's been rakin' men over the cobbles almost as long'uz I 'ave. I'll handle him. You'll jus' get in the way. Go home. Come see me again in three trials."

Still she thought otherwise, and started to speak a second time as if the explanation had never come. Kasoria had his limits.

His hand snapped out like a gnarled old switch and cuffed her about the head. Not hard enough to bruise or draw blood, but enough to make her stagger. She grunted but didn't yelp. Hid her pain and masked it as best she could. Better, with her training. Even glaring down at her from under his lying blindfold, Kasoria felt a glimmer of pride. He'd chosen well, in this one. But his pride didn't change the circumstances.

"Not gonna ask again, girl," he looked around and above the girl and pinned his gaze briefly on the doorway to the courtyard behind the tavern. Where a row of outhouses waited. "Fuck off. Go home. Come back in three trials." A callused, dirty finger leveled at her, all the menace of a loaded crossbow behind it. "An' if I see youse skulkin' around tonight, we're fuckin' done."

The Old Man pushed past her and slid back into his ruined role in the space it took him to do so. Gone were the stern words and ruthless intent; she turned and saw the tottering vagrant from before, one hand clutching his bowl, the other waving vaguely in front of him as he inched across the road. Meandering and muttering and begging figures unseen or uncaring for change. Working away from her like some hunchbacked snail, moving closer to the back of the Eel, and the spot where he'd make Horum into an example for all those who defied Bangun Vorund.

++++++++++

It was going well. That should have been the first hint.

He'd found a comfy patch of shadow to squat in, deep in the fetid recesses of the yard. He had a good view of the outhouses, the rough and rude wooden boxes that stank even from where he sat. A steady stream of men went to and fro, sometimes bringing women with them. What kind of women - even a whore - would ride a man or take it in her holes while staring at or bouncing over a bucket of shit, Kasoria couldn't hope to guess at.

It was a thought to divert him, though. He needed those. One after another, until the right frame and build came staggering out to empty his bladder. He waited, and his hands played over the wooden handles of the garrote he held. For cutting cheese, he'd learned. That was where he'd first seen it, in fact. Cutting up a block as big and thick as a lodestone like it was wet paper. Kasoria knew potential when he saw it, and purchased one right away.

A few trials later, he'd used it for... another purpose. Now he intended to do the same. Quick, quiet, irresistible. Horum was a big bloke, so h'd probably get tossed around some as he struggled, but that was hardly anything new to the Raggedy Man. Feared and dreaded and all of five-feet-four-inches, in his bare feet.

He grunted at the thought. Hmph. Well. They weren't all welcome.

The door swung open, slashing light and sound around the yard. There he was. Holding his liquor enough to walk, but only just. The general direction of the shitboxes was enough for Horum, and he let out a dreary, drunken little ditty as he went. Kasoria waited until he was at one before rising to his feet, hands griping the handles tighter. He started to move, soft leather shoes perfect for this work. Not a footfall did he make nor a breath did he take louder than the slightest sigh. He almost grinned when he saw Horum wasn't closing the door of his reeking little cubicle: just left it swinging open, hands by his cock, back arched as he sung at the sky, probably missing every drop.

If he were a teacher, he'd have told his student to be wary of such lucky. Afterwards, he reminded himself that he was. Which just made it worse.

Quick and quiet, he told himself, voice in his skull a whisper, as if he feared his thoughts would betray him. He edged closer to the hulking man with the statue's body, starting to raise the lethal wire. Loop it over fast, knee in his back, drop him down to his, then flex your arms until-

"Youse here t'wipe me cock, Raggedy Man?"

He froze. Just like he'd told the girl not to do a hundred times; just like he'd got his enemies to do a thousand times before, for just this fucking reason. His nickname, his discovery, the sheer omniscient absurdity of it all... they stuck his feet into the cobbles as if they were planted. And even as his mind started like an engineer's stalling creation, part of it screamed at him to move, to lunge, to kill-

Too late.

Horum spun around with a speed a man that side should not have had-

-revealing the pistol crossbow gripped in one hand, held at crotch level, next to the bottle he'd been pouring out and the breeches he'd not even unbuttoned. The bastard chuckled, shoulders bobbing like uprooted boulders, and Kasoria realized just how stupid he must look. Standing there, in a half-crouch, garrote held out like a priest's talisman and just as fucking useless. Before he could drop it, Horum let out a piercing whistle, as if calling a dog-

"Right, you little cunt!"

-and the doors spilled open behind him.

"Figured the old fucker'd send youse. Lady friend a' mine spotted yer little spy. Barry back there spotted her talkin' t'you right after, through the window." Kasoria turned and saw the same pathetic posse that Maxine had clocked, all of them now holding some weapon to hand. The Red Head was there, too, standing to one side and enjoying the show. "Jus' wanted youse t'know, before we got to business."

Kasoria turned back, and saw-

-a flying fist-

-then naught but stars and exploding shadows and blood filling his mouth from the ducts in his broken nose. He fell, barely even feeling his back clatter against the cobbles. But he heard the laughter, the hyena choir piercing through the pounding in his skull. And he heard Horum, somewhere far above him, calling down at him from a cliff in tones low and calm and dripping with malice.

"Shoulda' got better help, Raggedy Man. Now, let's have a fuckin' chat about yer master..."