Dare So. Come Here Often?

Free City of Karzanth, close to the Altalusian border
Year 349 E.O.D
Spring has sprung...

It was a day of celebration in Karzanth. The Sun hung high in the sky, tottering along at its own steady pace, ignorant to the whims and wants of those who basked in its warmth. Drinking. Laughing. Celebrating a decision they had played no part in making. War was on the cards, but not for them.

There had been parades, earlier in the day. Two thousand freshly-raised soldiers, due for the front down South. Sons, daughters, fathers. There were few veterans in Karzanth. So far removed from their past, the city of today was practically an entirely different entity. Razed, and risen anew from the ashes.

Like a phoenix, thought Xenovia, navigating the crowds outside the Seraph and Sable, one hand making way whilst the other guarded her purse. The greatsword slung over her shoulder did most of the work. One glimpse was all it took for someone to mistake her for a soldier. Bodies parted before her of their own free will. Some raised cups and salutations. Others reached out to brush her arms and shoulders, like she was some kind of departing hero. The burnished chest plate and gilded torcs certainly made her look like one.

Still, hero or not, drinks did not come cheap, as the bartender inside the Sable was swift to remind her upon reaching the bar.

'Y'pay like everyone else!' His words, every last one. 'The Hetmen have have bought up half the wine in the city. Ale, too. You wanna drink, you fork over the scratch,' he said, like she had planned on fleecing the place. She hadn't, though, she was seriously starting to consider it. 'I've the coin,' she replied.

'Good! Today's a day of celebration, and I ain't in the mood for any funny business.'

Funny business? Xen snorted. Who is this clown? 'Trust me, I only want a drink or two. To celebrate.' It was true enough. Sounded like it, too. The barman nodded, appeased, if only til the next fool stumbled in. 'Alright then,' he grumbled, and Xen suddenly realised how tired he looked. Perhaps she would have to revise her opinion of him. Though, probably not.

'What'll it be?'

The three fuckers that stumbled into the drinking place seemed unsober enough to upturn furniture as they'd make their path in whatever line they managed, and the exhausted barman turned just a little sharper.

One of them, a dark, lean man with tattoos all over the side of his scarred skull, barking with laughter, ran a hip into one of the chairs and only prevented it from dropping by an equally absent-minded swat of a hand, on the way to grab onto the table for balance.

The other one, horned, the tallest, swayed, leaning onto his buddy, and just so happened to catch some passerby by the hand ever so briefly and twist it before seeing the would-be thief off with a smirk and a leer that could cut a throat. Didn't, because they've been told to play nice.

Their leader, however, slapped the unsure-footed buddy on the chest without looking as he swaggered towards the barman whose exhaustion was being replaced with the rapidly rising blood pressure.
They knew each other.
And these strays always traveled in the packs of three.

"You vant to sell zat ozer' 'alf?" the rusty-haired man spoke through the grin. "My boys ar'e par'ched, and ve'll 'ave ale r'ight now."
Three emotions passed over the barman's face. Irritation, hesitation, a glimpse of fear that was not remedied by a stack of coin landing onto the table and toppling - between Xenovia and the man.

There was no threat, per se. But the laughter from the two others quietened when the rusty-haired man spoke, even though his men didn't stop moving, each finding himself a seat within reach. They were just quiet now, one leaning onto the back of the chair, the other smirking at Xenovia and seemingly still swallowing some stray cackling.

Vincent could smell a sharp one from a mile away. This one was sharp. Square. Had a good punch in her, he hoped. The very thought got his cogs turning in a whole different direction from where he'd thought the evening was going.
Infuriating, almost, how the lot of good ones put themselves on a leash. From a leash, bare teeth meant nothing.
Wouldn't it be so... relieving, to have that leash snap?
"Could be better' vonce ve 'ave vat ve came for'," he responded. A side glance to the barman. "Hogblood for' me." Vile, bitter, strong drink that made all the little passageways in the head open to terrible ideas.

No doubt she'd noticed the accent. Would be odd if all of Khurun spoke the Tradespeak with the same inflection, wouldn't it - but the pizzazz was at best rural Altalusian and at worst completely improvised. And yet, memorable. It almost invited to speak through a smirk, the way he'd do it.

Literally nothing else about him stood out. Just a middle-aged man, not too built and not too lean, in common merc leathers, even less notable without them. No eyes glowing in the dark, no fangs, no strange and unusual trinkets at his belt. Even his face was perfectly ordinary, weathered and hard to place in age, with a mess of hair that looked like he'd been cutting it with his large sword, mostly contained in a ponytail, some stray strands hanging loose in the front.

'What's on your mind, 'friend'?'
"Fun." He didn't growl it, just said it looking directly into her eyes. "Maybe ve von't find it 'ere, just some dr'inks," it was almost like he was aware that the other unhappy would-be patrons weren't going to walk the walk for the noise they were making, "but last day befor'e ze mar'ch? Liveeng eet, fr'iend. Are you?"

He had a sword with him, sure. But this kind of fun didn't call for steel. Steel was for business. Then again, he loved his job, never worked a day in his life. Other than the whole ledgerworking part that was worse than death.

The smirk didn't move from his face. Horned Gal kept that leash well in grip. Made him want to push her buttons. See if she would walk the walk, throw that nice bitter brown into his face and try to do his head in with the tankard. Ohoho, would he be fast enough to meet it with the armguard? Would they trade blows, or get right down to business?

He had two lads with him. One that was closer to Horned Gal in ancestry - appeared on his right in periphery. He passed Vincent the Hogblood. It sloshed like some congealed regrets, edge transparent and quickly fading into the unfiltered brackish murk. Smelled like a week-old Blighter, with a side of blue cheese and fermented in the hottest spice in the world, made his eyes sting. It was perfect. Just like his Dame used to make, without the extra.

"Ze vones too zealous to get mar'cheeng 'ave bought us ze fir'st few - in ze pits," he rocked his tankard to indicate zeal. Leather shoulder pad creaked. "Zat's good. Zey von't die in ze fir'st skir'meesh." He drifted a bit closer, just an inch, half a lean. A civvie might flinch from the breach of their comfortable little space bubble. A fighter would know it was a bit too close to possibly throw a good sudden punch, and, by the glint in his eye, he knew it too. "Zis or' zat, who's askeeng?"

A lean back, he brushed back the hair strands that kept getting in his face. They fell back down, immediately, but so long as they weren't all directly in his eyes, it was fine.
"Don't see much ov ze good life your'self, eh? I kno' ze face," he snickered.

The leash held. On both of them, he had to admit almost with exhasperation.
No stifling a flinch, though - no fear, no unnecessary movement.
Good sense.

"No sheet, you still got both eyes," the man snickered. "And a thick for'ead." Their line of job? Abject flattery. Might have come up with a bouquet of goblin seads tied together by the hair. The look wasn't one of lechery, though.

He watched Horned Gal take that draw, made no move.
Took his, while she was saying her bit, dirty sleet-colored eyes sly over the metal rim of the tankard.
Something in those eyes was alive just the wrong way.
Nothing shut the song of violence up. Just the singer changed, sometimes.

In response to her musings, the ruddy-headed bastard cackled, still not admitting either or, a non-committal spread of his free hand and an 'eh' meant to mark that most of the patrons, furniture and possibly whatever stood for guards did not look worth the stretch.
Else I'd have already started, no?

The grip that landed into hers with a dulled clap wasn't overly strong in the shake, but the hand itself might have as well been made of woven steel wire, just as hard and coarse to the touch.
She had a very formidable horn set, but an equally jab-able throat, an idle throat slipped by.
"Vincent Br'ezat, zese Dogs ov mine kall me Ze Captain," he offered.

The next heartbeat would decide whether they'd drink over it or if he'd have to consider the finger punch to the jugular.

A lazy shrug with one shoulder was all she got in response for that tease. She was sharp enough. Could certainly do better with the disses. His head turned, too, keeping her in periphery. There was no point, other than pulling a stunt, of course - crowded for drawing a knife with no reason, but hey, he could always find a reason if he needed.

An armistice reigned between them, for now, blades not buried but retracted back without a strike draw.
A glance to the two others, a nod, and their asses started moving first, lingering just enough to make sure they had four seats exactly - by giving the current lingering occupant a glare, a laugh and a shove under the arse to find somewhere else.

"I under'estimated ze sickness ov ze 'orns, deed you for'get your's or' mine?" the Captain chuckled. "Mer'cenar'ees, our' bizness is vat you can imageen. You, though. You 'ave ze biteeng tongue, I saw your' eyes look for' a str'ike angle. Vhy not?"
As if to test her on that, he brought the mug with his hellish brew up for a short swig. Swallowed it before it scorched his mouth or throat, felt it explode along the trachea and ignite the stomach.

A bit of a guardian streak in that one, was there? The ruddy bastard's eyes were sharp with curiosity.

He sat opposite her. The leather creaked, the makeshift bench did not, even as the mercenary made himself comfortable. The lack of armrest was well compensated for by his sword's guard, his right arm draping idly around it. He'd prefer it to any maid's waistline. Mostly because its blade, in his hands, could cleave through any waistline, and the spilling anguish of the last rasp and bloody bits tickled his senses far more tantalizing than a flirt.

He'd been like that long before his Dame, and she was not the first to appreciate his proclivity and aptitude for cruelty. First to elevate it, though, direct it, tame it like a flame in a kiln. He soared, whipped up into shape by her guidance, and now spread the same dogmas to each one of his, their every scar and marking - an effigy of Her fine work that had once begun with him. And, he never fucked with she-witches and night stalkers too much, in her memory.

"I've 'ad vorse sings said about me by vones I liked less," he shrugged, grin idle but never gone, always just so close to showing the edge of the upper fangs, and let the implication hang as they moved on.

He glanced about the table, and hitched the chin a bit, a sort of nod inviting his quiet companions to speak up while he savored the shroud fiend armpit tar of his favorite drink.

The bald one of a northern Ilican complexion but with a southerner face, pointed to screaming faces meticulously tattooed over the burn scar that took from the chest and sent through the side of the neck and the skull. His lips parted in a lopsided yellow-toothed sneer, perhaps necessary to move that part of the disfigured face. He was, in fact, 'Faces' for his packmates and the beast in their lead. To Xenovia, however, he merely said, fingertip touching to the inked temple in scratching a pretend itch,
"Call me Omar."

The other dehva glanced to Xenovia, then to Vincent. The rusty-headed man's eyes narrowed, gathering even more lines at his eyes and sides of the cheeks.
He was a shieldwall in and of himself, towering and seemingly more lightweight than the rest of them. He wasn't. He was just still walking off drinking one of the fancier folks under the table. A frustrated snort through his nose followed, wide nostrils flaring, reddish-brown charcoals of the eyes fixating on Xenovia again. Leaned on his own knees instead of the table. He didn't care for his name before the Dogs at all, to return it would be to return to the time before the honor scars, ridges of them disrupting the relief of intricate, self-painted from the placement of them, cinnabar-colored warpaint ornaments on the charcoal skin.
"Name's Mercy. Got a problem with cracking wise?"

"Tired of mincing words like whores with coins," Mercy snarled. His horns were long, s-shaped and polished, but not engraved or decorated, save for the chinks in them that seemed to have come from the fighting.
He'd caught the Captain's look, inhaled sharply, and sat back, piping down.

But, just like that, the atmosphere of enduring pleasantries had begun to shift. A snap was a snap, but the group took up the flow immediately, if subtly. The tender was looking over to them, now and again.

"I like your name, too," Omar smiled back, halved his ale, quick on the uptake. One of his front teeth was chipped, another - replaced with a shiny metal one. "Sounds like one of those Ilican royalty names. Couple cropped up recently south, heard a king died north, though. A hand in either, Xenovia?"

Vincent stared her down, a shrug more like a tilt of the head.
"You 'ave a lot ov kveshons I 'ave ansver's to, but I don't ansver to lapdogs sitteeng pr'ettee. Ar'e you mar'cheeng tomorrow?" He leaned just nominally closer. "Ve ar'e goeeng to collect our' pit vinnings fr'om zat man over' zer'e. If you 'ave no guts unshr'iveled, zat's all you need to know. Or' ar'e you in for' a little beet mor'e fun zan sitteeng and yappeeng until ve're both bor'ed to ear'ly death? Want to test ze veapons ov choice, fr'iendly like?"

Eyes in a devil's leer, an unspoken offering of just a taste of war. Unless, of course, she was content to drink, maintain that caution until the words and tankards ran dry. Keep the leash on.