It wasn't hard to see the judgement in her. In all of her. The tone of her voice, the brief twisting of her lips, the gesture with nose and fingers that reeked of exhausted, frustrated disapproval. He knew she hated magic, but now he could see it was beyond mere distrust of mages. There was something... corrupting, even diseased in her perception whenever she saw it in play. As if every wizard or witch was somehow performing an unholy rite in a sacred world.
Aye, said the girl tossing around tornadoes thanks to a fucking Morty.
He saw the sadness, too. Like he'd told her some bastard tumor had gripped him and he didn't have long, but he could have prevented it somehow. Her words in that stinking hold came back to him. Greed. Always wanting more. Never being satisfied. Costing him more and more until he was a walking bag of mutations, everything that made him a man twisted and distorted until he was nothing but a food source for a gaggle of Sparks.
The old man sighed and looked down. The wandering lump of glowing ether could be seen under his tunic, the light of it muffled but visible. He blinked and remembered - like he did almost every day - that when she looked into his eyes, she saw just black orbs, without a spark of life in them. His Transmutation Spark whispered to him even now, always muttering, never ceasing in its cataloging and relaying of everything around him. Under his gloves were eyes sunk into his hands... Fates, there was more.
He looked over the table at her. Staring down into her lap. Shoulders slumped.
"I wuz a monster long a'fore I got me first Spark, girl."
If you'd asked him where the words came from, he wouldn't be able to tell you. Maybe it wasn't the place inside that mattered; more the company to draw them out. When she looked back up, he'd spread his hands and give that fatalistic half-shrug she'd recognize from their earliest days.
"Dun' much matter if I look like one now."
She plowed on after that, maybe not wanting to be drawn into another argument. His frown deepened as she spoke. Words pulling his mind from this useless introspection and onto he task at hand. She was right about The Band: they were too conspicuous a group to be tagging along with him on this hunt, no matter how useful they'd be. Not only that, their role was not as his assistants in scratching. They were protectors, guardians, a living vigil over the delegation. It was better if only he went, leaving them to do their damn jobs.
Left someone out though, didn't you?
He smiled wryly. She'd thought of that, too. She had the scent long before that night, and now she'd bitten deep into the prey. He couldn't order her back to safety and ignorance like when she was a child; that night had proven just how pointless such action would be. He would growl and snap and command and she would ignore him. Whatever job he went on next, he'd always be thinking about when she'd pop up, how she'd make a fine mess of his plans.
Speaking of which.
"Fuguzat?!"
The seven-foot gecko slumped over the bar came too with a grunt and a cry, head twisting around as if waking from a dream of battle. The two Etzori watched him with lidded eyes as the 'tender silently harangued a few more coins from him, before the mammoth creature slouched towards the door. The moment he opened it, a blast of excitement, shouting, alarm-alarm! came blasting through. A whole crowd was headed down to the Docks, eager to see the spectacle The Moray's fiery death upon the open water.
Then it slammed shut and she asked the only question that mattered, and Kasoria took his time. He rummaged around and found his pipe. Packed it with the same fingers in the same places as she remembered from arcs ago. Once it was packed and lit he pulled on it. Staring into the distance between them as he spoke.
"The Flying Moon. Dat's where Blackfin said Venger likes t'hold court. Meet wiv' his lackeys, people lookin' t treat wiv' 'im." He grunted, almost nostalgically. "These ganger lords, they always like t'have a place they can feel like kings. Need t'find out when he'll be there, an' where he'll be. Then we can pay 'im a visit. Problem is, s'inna Glass Quarter. Lot more guards and Knights than out in the Dust an' Earth, ken? We get too loud in there, they'll come down fast an' hard, maybe too much a' both a'fore we get our answers."
We. Our. Nothing the Old Man did or said was without purpose. She remembered that, too.
"Been at this fer a whole fuckin' season, an' ain't heard shite about Syroa or her slaves. Jus' this... Dream Killer, Mars. Maybe he'll be wiv' 'im. Maybe Venger'll know where he is. Either way..." he sighed, angrily expelling a pillar of smoke "s'the only lead we got, only trail we can walk. So we need to talk to Venger, an' have 'im spill all he knows... an' hope he gives us enough t'end this. Cuz frankly, girl? I dun' wanna be doin' this shite the rest a' the season, cutting up Shadow boys wiv' fuck all t'show fer it. We find the Dream Killer, an' maybe that'll be enough fer Timur an' the Kingpin cunts who set him on this."
It wasn't even a plan. It was the lack of one. He had no plays, no options, no alternatives, and the sheer fucking annoyance he felt at that was palpable. But he'd done too much to turn back now, come to Timur empty-handed. Part of him said that's exactly what he should do. Cut this short, go back to Timur and tell him whoever these Syroa-loving wankers were, they were buried so deep in the Shadow Quarter that even their own people had no idea who they really were. He could torture and butcher all he wanted, and still not find them unless he happened by sheer chance to put his blade through one. But the Dream Killer... well... that was everywhere. On the lips of all. A big fish... and maybe a good enough catch.
"So... wada youse think, Wee Monster?"
Aye, said the girl tossing around tornadoes thanks to a fucking Morty.
He saw the sadness, too. Like he'd told her some bastard tumor had gripped him and he didn't have long, but he could have prevented it somehow. Her words in that stinking hold came back to him. Greed. Always wanting more. Never being satisfied. Costing him more and more until he was a walking bag of mutations, everything that made him a man twisted and distorted until he was nothing but a food source for a gaggle of Sparks.
The old man sighed and looked down. The wandering lump of glowing ether could be seen under his tunic, the light of it muffled but visible. He blinked and remembered - like he did almost every day - that when she looked into his eyes, she saw just black orbs, without a spark of life in them. His Transmutation Spark whispered to him even now, always muttering, never ceasing in its cataloging and relaying of everything around him. Under his gloves were eyes sunk into his hands... Fates, there was more.
He looked over the table at her. Staring down into her lap. Shoulders slumped.
"I wuz a monster long a'fore I got me first Spark, girl."
If you'd asked him where the words came from, he wouldn't be able to tell you. Maybe it wasn't the place inside that mattered; more the company to draw them out. When she looked back up, he'd spread his hands and give that fatalistic half-shrug she'd recognize from their earliest days.
"Dun' much matter if I look like one now."
She plowed on after that, maybe not wanting to be drawn into another argument. His frown deepened as she spoke. Words pulling his mind from this useless introspection and onto he task at hand. She was right about The Band: they were too conspicuous a group to be tagging along with him on this hunt, no matter how useful they'd be. Not only that, their role was not as his assistants in scratching. They were protectors, guardians, a living vigil over the delegation. It was better if only he went, leaving them to do their damn jobs.
Left someone out though, didn't you?
He smiled wryly. She'd thought of that, too. She had the scent long before that night, and now she'd bitten deep into the prey. He couldn't order her back to safety and ignorance like when she was a child; that night had proven just how pointless such action would be. He would growl and snap and command and she would ignore him. Whatever job he went on next, he'd always be thinking about when she'd pop up, how she'd make a fine mess of his plans.
Speaking of which.
"Fuguzat?!"
The seven-foot gecko slumped over the bar came too with a grunt and a cry, head twisting around as if waking from a dream of battle. The two Etzori watched him with lidded eyes as the 'tender silently harangued a few more coins from him, before the mammoth creature slouched towards the door. The moment he opened it, a blast of excitement, shouting, alarm-alarm! came blasting through. A whole crowd was headed down to the Docks, eager to see the spectacle The Moray's fiery death upon the open water.
Then it slammed shut and she asked the only question that mattered, and Kasoria took his time. He rummaged around and found his pipe. Packed it with the same fingers in the same places as she remembered from arcs ago. Once it was packed and lit he pulled on it. Staring into the distance between them as he spoke.
"The Flying Moon. Dat's where Blackfin said Venger likes t'hold court. Meet wiv' his lackeys, people lookin' t treat wiv' 'im." He grunted, almost nostalgically. "These ganger lords, they always like t'have a place they can feel like kings. Need t'find out when he'll be there, an' where he'll be. Then we can pay 'im a visit. Problem is, s'inna Glass Quarter. Lot more guards and Knights than out in the Dust an' Earth, ken? We get too loud in there, they'll come down fast an' hard, maybe too much a' both a'fore we get our answers."
We. Our. Nothing the Old Man did or said was without purpose. She remembered that, too.
"Been at this fer a whole fuckin' season, an' ain't heard shite about Syroa or her slaves. Jus' this... Dream Killer, Mars. Maybe he'll be wiv' 'im. Maybe Venger'll know where he is. Either way..." he sighed, angrily expelling a pillar of smoke "s'the only lead we got, only trail we can walk. So we need to talk to Venger, an' have 'im spill all he knows... an' hope he gives us enough t'end this. Cuz frankly, girl? I dun' wanna be doin' this shite the rest a' the season, cutting up Shadow boys wiv' fuck all t'show fer it. We find the Dream Killer, an' maybe that'll be enough fer Timur an' the Kingpin cunts who set him on this."
It wasn't even a plan. It was the lack of one. He had no plays, no options, no alternatives, and the sheer fucking annoyance he felt at that was palpable. But he'd done too much to turn back now, come to Timur empty-handed. Part of him said that's exactly what he should do. Cut this short, go back to Timur and tell him whoever these Syroa-loving wankers were, they were buried so deep in the Shadow Quarter that even their own people had no idea who they really were. He could torture and butcher all he wanted, and still not find them unless he happened by sheer chance to put his blade through one. But the Dream Killer... well... that was everywhere. On the lips of all. A big fish... and maybe a good enough catch.
"So... wada youse think, Wee Monster?"
