Private A Brilliant Plume

[Song]

The tavern was busy. Several mercenary groups have just returned, fettered but unbroken, from a small border war between two cities. The braggadocios antics had an almost desperate edge to them - after all, when tales of heroics were recounted enough times, with enough booze, the horrors would seem a little less.

In the dim light, nobody looked when the doors swung open once again - no empty seats, and even the bannisters and some of the benches had to serve as tables to fit in the crowd. Then, one pair of eyes turned, another, yet another.
The sight bewildered and amazed, a young person looking vaguely Aetochan drifting into the dimly lit space like a purple smoke vision. The long, layered robes were just this close to sweeping the floor with every step, clouds and soaring cranes drifting up the embroidered patterns towards the radiance of peach from innermost shirt, and the pale delicate hands and face of a golden-ivory hue. He looked so young and careless that he just had to have some kind of company - lest he would not have made it this far down the darkening streets, where his garments alone could probably buy the entire building.

The princely attitude maintained as he made his way to the bar, and paid in bits of solid gold, oddly shaped, to get everyone a drink and get announced as benefactor, and then - another drink.
Most were looking with mild humor, taking what was offered without qualms and even warming up the attitude - for once, the rich fuck was paying for them to drink and not to die. Some, with frailer egos, stared daggers - who was this bitchson thinking that he was, showing off his daddy's coin and acting all high and mighty?

The young man, meanwhile, turned his back on the barkeep and eyed those present in assessment, toasting to the second drink with one of his with a bright smile that was bright like daylight sun emerging from behind a cloud, and as charming as a bird song.
"Another one? Let's drink like there's no tomorrow!" He offered, to the cheer of the crowd. "And those of you who have no fear of tomorrow - I'm looking for a bodyguard!"
Some followed up with laughter. Truly, what else it could be but a jest? And yet, the young man did not falter.
"If you think you have the mettle - you might as well come up to talk!"
And he reclined, it seemed, to wait. The laughter trailed off.
What an odd young man.

 

[Fray]

“He’s done for!”

A small crowd around the table roared as Fray slammed down Curly’s hand. It was a wee bit harder than she intended, no doubt adding a couple splinters amongst ginger hairs, but Curly was too drunk and too jovial to care, his face redder than a crab and an arm as thick as a small tree draped over Fray’s shoulders.

“The lass does it again!” he cheered, holding up a pint. Several patrons around him did the same, drinks sloshing, and they all took generous swigs before stumbling away to find their next source of amusement.

Fray felt her face turning purple as Curly lingered to empty the entire contents of his mug, a meaty arm wrapped around her neck in what he no doubt considered a genial hug. Mercifully, he chugged fast, and he let go just as the mercenary was considering reaching for the knife in her boot and stabbing her way free. She was fond of the old barkeep, but she wasn’t about to die by friendly strangulation. Her ghost would never live it down.

Curly belched and sighed. “Agh, tastes like piss.” He squinted at her, ruddy face lit up in his trademark good spirits. “Aye, well, always a pleasure, lass. You should visit Old Curl more often.” Then he nudged her arm and slipped her a fistful of coins. She accepted them wordlessly, still relishing the free flow of air one lungful at a time.

The barkeep chuckled as he swiped up several empty pints and returned to his station. Now that the show was over, he was ready to make use of that deep, belly laugh of his elsewhere. Letting Fray beat him was easy coin and a guaranteed way to get people in a drinking mood, but it was still a one trick pony that required fresh patrons. Do it too many times with the same crowd and, eventually, one of them would be sober enough to remember how one person always seemed to lose while the other always seemed to win. Today had been fortuitous, what with so many companies returning, looking for a much needed reinforcement of spirit. Plenty of new fish to reel in and take the bait. She and Curls had made twice as much as they normally did.

Fray pocketed the money and slumped back into her chair. Her table was, as usual, tucked away in a corner of the establishment and, without the presence of rowdy drunks, became quiet and overlooked. Just the way she liked it.

Moments later, a shadow darkened her sanctuary with tray and drink in tow. The cup was smaller and made of glass, its contents a golden, liquid amber. Fray, however, hardly had eyes for it, as she was too busy staring at the buxom barmaid leaning in. Strawberry blonde and blue eyed, buoyed by a frilled collar that left far too much to the imagination, Lena was a grade-A distraction. She set down the drink so carelessly it almost tipped, precious contents dribbling over the rim. Giving a feigned “oops!” she picked the glass up, licked the sides clean in slow, sensual motions, then deposited it back in front of Fray. She even lifted the edge of her skirt to dab away at the remaining drops, flashing a hint of garter. Then, as a parting gift, Curly’s youngest daughter gave the table a good bump with her generous hips, spilling more drink than ever before, and left.

Ye gods, her service was as terrible as she was lovely. Fray grinned. Just the way she liked it.

Leaning back, the Devahni took a contemplative sip of mead. It was surprisingly scrumptious (even with Lena's last minute touch.) Not premium reserves by any stretch, but Curly wasn’t holding out on her. It was part of the long-standing agreement between them, that she would come up with ways to bring him more patronage, and he would in turn make sure she was well watered and fed. She felt a surge of affection for the old man, taking in the fruity, honeyed aroma before savoring another taste.

The unspoken part of their deal, of course, was that she also steer clear of Curly’s daughters. Which was hard, but not impossible. Fray had a will to live, after all.

Not that it prevented them from tormenting her. And, truly, who was Fray to stop them?

Alas, the merc wished that three curvy, unruly tavern wenches were the worst of her problems. The one plaguing her today was new, and with new problems came new, uncharted feelings that she couldn’t seem to drink away, try as she might. For the first time that year, Fray was not short on coin. Nor was she exhausted beyond reason, fighting just to stay alive. Hell, she wasn’t even being sent on wild goose chases, shaking down one poor sod after another for information she could scarcely comprehend.

No, this problem was far worse. Fray was, of all things, bored.

It was a gray fug that nothing could pierce. Not good food or drink, or enticing company, or even the grimy pits of an unregulated fighting pit could tempt her out of it. She would consider the option, and then immediately think, what’s the point? What’s the point of any of it? And then doze off for half the day.

It was, frankly, starting to feel pathetic. Fray knew how to deal with a lot of things, but somehow this one continued to elude her. She’d spent her life taking turns between running and fighting, all the while wishing for respite. And now that she’d had a taste, she was trying to figuratively and discreetly spit it out into a potted plant, like a toddler who had begged to try adult food only to find it ghastly. It left her mystified and more than a little embarassed.

Fray was chasing down the bitterness of self-pity in her throat, when all of a sudden, bad news incarnate walked through the front doors.

Oh, what a sight it was to behold. Dewy, unblemished skin, silky clothes that cost more than Fray’s dreams, and hair that probably required its own team of servants, all held together by the unbothered airs of a nobleman in over his head. This newcomer had waltzed in on arguably the worst day possible. It was too crowded, too busy. The chaos that inevitably was about to ensue, fueled by free booze and the obvious flaunting of wealth, was going to be disastrous.

Frays eyes gleamed as she killed her drink in one go. Then she killed the second one, too, which Astra, Curly’s middle daughter, had brought over with a disapproving glare. “Behave,” she seethed, before collecting both glasses and sauntering away. Fray only blinked dumbly and shrugged.

She waited for the first sign. It appeared within moments, as if on cue, in the form of a bald headed and scar faced man absolutely bedecked in knives.

Pushing through the crowd, he was the first to answer the young noble’s call. And he did so with a leer, eyeing him up and down, teeth rotten and eyes shrewd. “Well, well, well,” he rasped, “look what we have here. A little princeling, come to find someone new to lord over. Isn’t that right?”

Behind the aforementioned princeling, two more men stalked forward, flanking him on either side. They had him surrounded. And Fray, feeling terribly itchy, watched with feline fascination.

What would the little prince do next?

 

[Song]

He was getting more graceful with these horrible brews, not a lock out of place, not a shade of a grimace. The young man's mind wandered, if only for a couple beats during the calm, to his sisters back home. Would Fang-jie get destroyed over the forbidden memorial tablet he'd gifted to her at the start of their bond? Would her wild and beastly progeny snap loose, at last, and try and unseat the world? Venture all the way to Sonshan, perhaps, and try to kill or bed the Divine, herself.
People in his position did well to remember, there was no divinity. Every step of the ladder was made of fault-ridden flesh and bone. Everyone had a key. Everyone, even him.
Suddenly, the ale was not so sour anymore.

His eyes tracked the beshadowed interior over the rim of the mug, a sharpness of broken jade to them. He'd been keeping the inner cauldron in balance, to prevent the claws and feathers from growing on his hands and feet. He liked them, his small vestiges of freedom, to fly and mock, untamed forevermore. But the locals did not see a messenger of Heavenly Queen Mother when he landed before them. Monster. Demon. How tragically narrow.
But not wrong.
The third tankard ran dry, and he wasn't yet feeling it.

A couple elves, here and there, exiles, he assumed. A few mixbloods of devahni. Eyes lingered on one, simply because of motion with the table being bumped by a flirty server who, no doubt. had her eye on the handsome gal at the table proper. A hint of amusement touched his lips. Despite Song's many grievances with Ilican service and overt acts of affection - simple, nice human things still did something for his sooted soul.
So much crimson soot. Fine ink. Few edicts.

He then switched to the next point of interest. The one, two, three that felt challenged by his act of charity. Perhaps, it hurt their egos. Perhaps, it sparked their greed.
The blue eyes lowered, then rose back up to the man's face, completing the count of weapons. Less than ten, but four too many. A lazy side glance was spared to one of the two pressing from the side.

"Yes, this wise one is correct!"
He beamed at the leader, as if it was in earnest the best assessment of his intent that could be expected. Hands dove under sleeves to rise in a polite little (tiny) bow. He had enough space for the dance, still.
Fingertips found feather-shaped blades, tugged them ever so slightly out the sheaths, preparing.
And then, like a good magician, he demonstrated his hands of golden ivory, pale and delicate and free of weaponry, head tilting with a mock grievance, long hair swaying behind his back like a sheet of black silk. When he shifted weight, no floorboard creaked, while the floor moaned with every heavy step of the others.

It was quieter now, around them, most eyes turned to the spectacle.
Watch me fill that sea with sticks.

"These delicate hands get very calloused when they hold a sword, and I have decided that I cannot be bothered in the same way a fish does not fly very long or very far. Are you and your men looking for work? I offer good pay, and terrible dangers, and learning about keeping a few steps' distance from your betters." His smile was showing great even teeth, no short of weaving them to this perfect state for sure. His eyes glittered with the innocent joy of youth and seeming air-headedness that had naught to do in here without being marred. That disposition in return for threat could disarm no worse than martial arts.

And oh, he would be out of anyone's grabbing reach, elusive like a whirl of wind.

 

[Fray]

Fray made a face. This guy was definitely going to get punched.

She inched closer, snaking her way through the tavern crowd. The princeling had responded with suspiciously good cheer. He even called the scarred man wise. Fray could not for the life of her tell whether this was said in earnest or jest. One could never be too sure with these rich, over educated types. Everything they said dripped with honeyed sarcasm. Everything they did, either a disguise or misdirection for their real agenda, which Fray learned the hard way was typically anything but altruistic.

Loathe as she was to admit it, the merc understood they were not so different, employer and employed. Both prioritized their own survival and self interest above all else. One just had a lot more money than the other. What even made rich boy over here any better than knife man? Better airs and deeper coffers, perhaps. A sharper tongue, too, no doubt, and a mind to match. But at the end of the day, there was only one little prince and a whole lot of knives pointed at his pretty face. Why this silken doll of a thing ever thought to set foot in here with such a bald faced proposition had Fray's mind lit up in a blaze of distrust.

He was too confident, too light on his feet. The other patrons might be drunk enough to overlook it, but something about the fop's decidedly unbothered demeanor set every hair on edge for the Devahni. Something wasn't adding up. She felt a prickle of unease creeping up her spine.

"See," the scarred man responded after some thought, "the good pay, we could certainly accept. And the terrible dangers, well, just another day on the job, ain't that right boys."

Thug one and thug two on either side nodded thickly in agreement.

"But, ah....see, that last part. About one's betters..." Ol' baldy scar faced dagger man unsheathed one of his many knives and pointed it lazily at the princeling. "What, exactly, I am curious to know...makes you better than us?"

Fray was close enough now that if she took a big enough step, she could grab either men by the collar. But she resisted acting on impulse, in spite of all that delicious mead warming her belly, and instead she watched. Waited. Deciding until the last possible second which side she would choose.

The boy might be able to pay, and handsomely at that. But would he be as advertised? Full of opportunities for fun, terrible times? Or, would he turn out to be just another stuffy entitled brat to be babysat when what they really needed was a thorough ass kicking. Fray had already sworn once to herself never to get tangled up again with the latter. She was not keen on a repeat situation, from which she would undoubtedly have to find yet another creative and humiliating way to terminate service.

One of the goons snickered. "I think he's caught the cat's tongue, boss."

 

[Song]

The smile faded some, but remained on the soft lips, the cheerful, relaxed squint to the eyes. Song knew how to hide any emotion ever so well when he felt like it. Pain, anger, fear, doubt. A false zen of perfect composure, a dance of misdirection with a sway of the hips as he shifted his foot back, eyeing the knife.

His restrained joy was sincere, a little delight in someone not knowing his darker streak until they learned. Oh, how sweet was the flight, but every now and then even the magpie lord would have to land onto this sinful, corrupt earth, full of misery, demons and disloyal servicemen.
"The price on your life is dropping the more you speak," he worded casually, adjusting his hair. "and when you beg my forgiveness, it will be worth nothing at all."

The gu, enchanted worms and bugs that slipped into nose, mouth and ears, and burrowed into skin to spread spells and poisons. Song remembered many of the people back home that delighted in almost causing his downfall. But ever since he'd broken the thing free of his shoulder, he was fascinated in the study of these little, round, black-shelled things. Not quite insects, not quite beads of medicine, far from animated golems. In-between, elegant and sinister.
He seemed to take a tiny bead from the ornate wide belt, and flicked it at the knife holding hand.

The bug stung soon as it landed, burrowing speedily into the thin membrane between the fingers, until it was a firm black bump the size of apple seed. When it tasted blood, it turned red.
Its gift, Song knew from first-hand experience - was pure agony, cold bristling sting spreading all over the body almost instantly, sapping strength from the limb while a pain worse than death blinded the afflicted.

He didn't watch the man collapse - full-bodied, desperate wails were quite enough to locate the squirming body.

A cold kind of look addressed to the two others, words flowing like honey once more.
"Don't be fools and help your friend." The smile resurfaced.
And even with that, one of them still made the choice for the both of them remaining, and swung.
Song stepped on their boss, his robes fluttering behind him, hair like a dark river, sleeves full of secrets. He flowed like water, turned fluidly as a dancer would, avoiding obstacles and letting the blades cut air ever so close behind the trail of his movement.
"Oh, would somebody, please save this unfortunate one! My life, my shiny gold, the delicate embroidery of my inner shirt, are all in peril if I'm cut!" he called out dramatically, making pauses for emphasis. Not out of breath, though not of many words further.

 

[Fray]

Fray was, in fact, quite glad she had thrown back two whole cups of mead in quick succession. Because what the actual fuck.

She was already beginning to distrust the momentary wrinkle in rich boy's relentless composure. A slight dip of the mouth, the frozen cheer on his youthful face. But then he spoke, and though the words were delivered with perfect mildness, it sent a sliver of warning up Fray's spine. The mercenary's shoulders tightened and arms flexed in preparation, even before a small, black speck of something was flicked at the upturned dagger.

She took a reflexive step back. It was...a bug of some kind? A fly? A wasp? Whatever it was, it dug its way into the offender's hand. Fray couldn't even see what exactly happened, as within seconds the scarred man was on the floor, faster than either of his goons could react. He was screaming and writhing like a madman. It sounded positively painful.

Not even sparing his victim a backward glance, the princeling went straight to taunting the other two. And of course, because they were idiots, they attacked.

Watching this ridiculously over dressed creature evade both henchmen like it was nothing at all gave the entire crowd serious pause. Beneath his unsullied shoes, dagger man let out a tortured oof! as he was used as a human step stool. Already, most of the onlookers had backed away, forming a large ring around the combatants. Only Fray had stayed put, too fixated on replaying the liquid grace with which the aristocrat had moved. It was the kind of finesse that had to be trained for. The hair, the clothes, the unblemished skin, all of that could be bought. But there was no shortcut to whatever the hell it was that he just did.

What a seriously unhinged matrimony of contradictions. Well spoken yet irreverent, honeyed yet cold, delicate in appearance yet deadly when underestimated. It was like someone had dangled before her a keg of mead on a giant hook and written the name "FRAY" all over it.

And, boy, did Fray bite.

The princeling was laying on thick globs of theatrics, appealing for aid. Fray didn't know whether to laugh or roll her eyes. Not that she got a chance to do either, as the goons were wheeling around, pivoting once they realized their prey had danced out of harm's way. There was the faintest suggestion of teamwork as one advanced while the other circled around. Their beady eyes never left their target, even as their leader sobbed miserably on the floor.

Fray waited until the one flanking passed right in front of her. He wasn't even paying her any mind, ignoring her as he would a chair or table. She let him get one step past before she tapped him on the shoulder.

The fellow jerked his head back, blinking at her in confusion. That was when she got down on one knee, upright leg held against the back of his, grabbed him around the waist, and yanked. Hard. Caught completely off guard, the man went flying over Fray's thigh before smashing into the floor, sword spinning away. Wasting no time, she moved to plant her knee in his back, grabbing hold of his wrist with one hand while she held his elbow with the other, and twisted.

A sickening squelch signaled that the thug's arm had been dislocated. Now there were two dummies on the floor, howling in sheer agony.

The third lackey evidently reabsorbed whatever good sense the first two had lost. He took one look at the state of his felled comrades and turned tail, lumbering through the tavern's double doors. Admittedly, Fray felt a little disappointed. She hadn't even gotten to draw a blade. It felt unfair, after the princeling had made a big show of his bug trick.

The tavern was awfully quiet by the time Fray turned to face the well dressed trouble maker.

"So..." she drawled, eyeing his belt with great suspicion. "How good is the pay exactly, and what kind of dangers are you offering?"

 

[Song]

They were all ghosts, in the fall of the power, living or dead. The least he could do is be beautiful as he faded, to experience the struggle against decay rather than a quick solution of a poisoned wine cup.
The people here, across the waters - were just like ones at home. Most didn't think that deep, embroiled in the grounding bond with everyday life's struggles. The narrower the range of opportunities - the less there was space for any deeper search in life. Didn't make their violence hurt any less if it did impact, however.

His light eyes fell onto the one that stayed sat, and watching, unafraid the violence would get to her, unbothered, fascinated. Song offered a charming smile back, a kind of smile one offers to a dear friend he is happy to see in town. That she'd caught on, by now, he had no doubt. He knew that acute sharpness in someone's eyes. How exciting!

He played the role of princeling in distress well enough, and his 'Stork Surrounded by Wild Dogs' dance had found one grateful viewer. He was finishing a low leap for distance, turning on the toes of the shoe that landed onto the floorboards.
As the long garments undulated in layers, coming to a stop around him as the princeling straightened up, a soft smile on his lips, empty hand drifting to his mouth as if to cover laughter - her applause came.

In rippling effort, shaken balance, in the thundering thud of a body upon the floor. In the hold, yank, and squelch that would make Moyuan a little hungry. Song's eyes sparkled with joy that held the same charm as a blizzard in the middle of summer, and he drifted over towards the sharp-toothed one in unhurried steps. The fight was over. Screams did not bother him much.
"I am looking for noteworthy individuals," he offered, serenely.
Reached into his sleeve, pulled out what seemed like an elongated oval bead. It was a whistle, sounding so high it was almost lost to the ear, including his own. But the bug, black and now a deep crimson, heard, and fell still. With that, the agonizing lug of a man passed out, and they could converse with a bit less distraction.

The next thing he procured was a fan that sticked out from behind his belt. It unfurled, a half-circle of painted pines and finger-mountains. The opposite hand emerged from behind it, holding a piece of gold shaped like a boat.
"Ten of these buy a mercenary for a year. A thousand - a small army. If it is only gold you wish for, you will have it. As for the dangers," he glanced at the body on the floor. "These are fish so small they barely make a splash in the pond. People will sail from the north, and people may come from the east. A certain district here in Crorefell would like to see me gone, while I would like to walk it freely - and so I will. There also may be a couple... the Aetochans call them Rakgui, I trust... demons, with whom I'm not on amiable terms. All of those who seek trouble with me know how to carve, spice and scorch. Unfortunately for them, I'm no spring fowl. You will help me ensure that I don't have to reach for the sword when I am in other pursuits. Does that seem like a fair offer?"

The handfan unfulated, its darkened steel frame catching the light dimly.

 

[Fray]

Fray watched the silk laden aristocrat pull out a strange, rounded object and blow it like a whistle. There was a very faint sound, so high pitched it was barely audible, and then suddenly the man on the floor fell still. His chest was still rising and falling, but he was mercifully not whining anymore. It was starting to grate on Fray’s nerves.

Everyone around them remained silent, unsure of what to do. Some patrons had gone back to their drinking, eyes still glued to the spectacle, while others quietly exited the building, wanting no more trouble in their day. Most, however, stayed frozen where they were, curious to see how things would play out.

There was a moment of tension as the young man reached behind to pull out a second object. Fray’s eyes narrowed a fraction, then relaxed as it turned out to be an ornate fan and…

…holy shroud, the biggest nugget of gold Fray had ever seen.

The mercenary had witnessed different kinds currencies, in varying quantities. But she’d never seen one quite so oddly shaped, or as concentrated in pure gold. Of course, it being solid gold all the way through was entirely an assumption on Fray’s part, as the mysterious princeling did not seem the type to do anything in halves. Why would he, when there was likely very little he couldn’t afford?

At the initial question, Fray pressed her mouth into a line. Of course she wanted gold. Who didn’t? Gold meant living another day, and the more of it she had, the longer and more comfortably she would survive.

But then the princeling mentioned demons. Rakgui, he had called them, a flavor of monster Fray had never heard of. A small voice of reason tried to suggest it was not a healthy sign that her hands twitched and heart leaped at the thought of taking down a new horror she’d never encountered before. It tried to insist that this utter lack of good sense and self preservation was going to be the death of her some day. Likely tomorrow, at this rate. That, surely, the more sane choice would be to walk away from this peculiar creature, who was too rich and too pretty and hoarding at least half a dozen nefarious schemes cooked up for the sole purpose of serving his own agendas.

Unfortunately, every nerve in Fray’s body lit up at the idea of facing down a new villain. Maybe it would be gruesome. Maybe it would be beautiful. But either way, she would dance with it, probing for its measure, reactions, and abilities. And then she would figure out a way to dispatch it, just like every other monster she had ever faced.

And with that much gold as compensation, well…Fray would be able to celebrate the highs of her conquests for months on end.

She cocked her head as the princeling nonchalantly fanned away. The thing was held together with metal. Odd, considering the only fans Fray had ever seen were framed with wood. She wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out to be yet another weapon within the aristocrat's arsenal.

Fray grinned, showing all of her top teeth. “Lucky for you, I’ve got a deep itch for a good fight that nothing has been able to scratch. If what you’re promising is gold and quality action, well…sounds plenty fair to me.”

She paused for a moment, then offered, “The name’s Fray. How soon can we start?”

Suddenly, Curly’s broad frame came into view, and Fray’s grin turned sheepish. He didn’t utter a word, as his expression said all that was needed. Fray wanted to bring up the fact that she had not, in fact, broken any furniture this time. But she knew it would be fruitless; their stay at the tavern was over.

Sighing, she handed over the small pouch of coins back to Curly. He accepted it, looking slightly mollified, and flicked his chin toward the door.

“Well boss, that’s our cue to leave,” she informed the princeling helpfully. “Thank you Curls for all your wonderful hospitality, as always. Say goodbye to the wenches for me.”

Curly, of course, would be doing no such thing. But Fray liked to try anyway, as tradition demanded.

She made a grotesquely elaborate bow, spinning her hands several times in the air, before saying, “After you, your lordship.”

 

[Song]

"Nothing?" the young man's lips curled with humor, and, almost pointedly, he looked about the quietened room. Perhaps to indicate the broad and vigorous choice of challenge. "Even in a city full of mercenaries, we have to remember the middling man prevalence. Oh, what?"

Her remark to the - keeper? - of the place made him look that way, too. A brief moment to ponder if he wanted to pay this one to stay, a scanning glance at the locale, a short heavenward glance, and his fan closed with a snap at the decision.
"I don't see what are you paying him for, when I should be asked not to call the guards for an attempt at robbery," a slightest wrinkle showed up at his nose and faded. "But, I'll let karma have this place, while we will pick a fine spot in the merchant quarters, what say you?"

He was already moving, the question more like a command, eager to step out on the street and begin the memory of violence to begin to fade from memory. As he did, he offered the gold piece to her.
"My name is Wen Xiansu, but I am known by a few. You can call me 'gongzi', it would be both polite and accurate. I am fond of late night walks, and I fully expect my local adversaries to have been watching me for some time by now, picking just the right moment to close in. What is your weapon of choice, Fray-mei? How well do you know the locale, aside from clearly not being a stranger to the local flirts and their favors?"
He paid attention to her, now, rather than the surroundings, in a collected way one might during a job negotiation.

 

[Fray]

It didn’t take long to realize her new employer was a bonafide chatterbox, but Fray found she didn’t mind. Not yet, anyway. It helped that the princeling's voice was smooth, melodic even, and therefore easy on the ears. He reminded her of a river, determined to go one direction whether you liked it or not But, like a river, he was neither forceful nor blunt. He simply went. It was up to everyone else to follow.

Fray found herself two parts amused and one part nostalgic as she let his cavalier momentum carry her out of the tavern. Gongzi, as the young lordling preferred, also reminded her of Mak. Except, of course, where Mak tended to drift away into far off lands, Lord Wen seemed decidedly fixated on the here and now.

Rubbing the hefty chunk of gold in her hand, Fray pondered at just how many local adversaries would bother to attack the lordling, late at night or no. She'd seen what he could do with just a speck of a bug. Even the three idiots back at Old Curly's tavern would think twice, no matter how much their egos smarted. She just hoped that these adversaries were not of the "I live, breath, eat Shroud" variety. They were infinitely more annoying to dispatch.

At the question, Fray grinned. "My weapon of choice are my swords, Longboy and Fang," she answered earnestly. "And don't knock on my flirting. It comes in handy, alright? You never know when you might need a busty tavern wench to hide you under her skirts."

They were fully back out on the streets now, only Gongzi seemed fully focused on this impromptu interrogation. Fair enough, Fray thought. He had to know what he was getting himself into.

"I know this place like the back of my hands," she continued. "Except, well, the obvious places. The fancier parts of town that I can't exactly waltz into. Other than that, I can get you anywhere you need to be. Might not be pleasant, but at least it'll be fast."

Suddenly, a thought occurred to the mercenary. "If I'm to be following you around from now on..." She trailed off for a moment, then clumsily added, "...Gongzi, then doesn't that mean I stay where ever you're staying?"

 

[Song]

He nodded, listening, and seemed to chuckle without a noise to the notion of hiding under the skirts.
"Of course, the busty tavern wenches, same as servers at the tea house, also often happen near curious conversations. We'll see how you wield soon," He said, with a lightness and urgency to his tone that seemed to imply 'soon' was going to come before the moons headed out of the sky.

Roofs wore a flat faint scattering of fading beige against the lilac-peach heavens, and while the city was alive under the rising moons, two to pass in the sky tonight where they'd be seen. The young lord's silks caught the shimmer from lanterns and a colder, muffled silvery tint from the sky. Like a brightly-plumed bird, he walked through the crowd, catching eyes by stature alone, then by the vivacity of his movement.

"We are about to waltz into the fancier parts," he assured with an easy smirk, glancing over his shoulder. "But we will travel, once I am done here, outward and where the winds roam. It will not matter much when it comes to my former brethren chasing me, you see. I'll wizen you to some of their wiles before long, Fang-shijie in particular. The locals, on the other hand, shall provide a good test for you. I've riled up a certain merchant of spice. Will he send an assassin? Try to poison my food? Send brutes after me?"

His laugh was quiet, almost swallowed by the street. Fan folded, pressed against the chest, and the other hand waved to the side broadly, inviting possibilities. Blue eyes twinkled with excitement.
"Of course, with this show taking to the crowds, I'll need you wherever I go! Now..." He paused when a tiny pebble hit the top of his head. Almost pouted, frowning in disapproval.

There was a scrawny kid bolting toward them, on collision course with the distracted Wen Xiansu, quick like a stray cat, hand half-moving to aim at the man's belt where a small purse hung beside an eight-sided bronze mirror.

 

[Fray]

They do, Fray thought to herself, and it is a double edged thing. But the Deva had a way with making it very, very worthwhile for said wenches to be discreet in her favor.

Fray did not miss the sliver of haste in the princeling’s tone. Of course, the scheming noble would be waltzing them straight into business, likely without her even realizing until they were knee deep in trouble. Time was money, after all.

As they walked, the sun setting at their backs to leave behind a fleeting masterpiece of dreamy hues, her conviction that all this frivolity and theater was intentional only deepened. And, she had to admit, rather effective. Everything Gongzi wore either gleamed or shimmered. And anything that didn’t, well, no one would be noticing anyway, as they were too busy taking in all of his artfully careless gesturing.

Lord Wen was always moving, flowing, chattering. Being anywhere near him was like being near a pond filled with colorful fish, or perhaps an aviary of exotic birds. Or both. Even if you made the pointed effort of looking away, there was a constant flash of color in motion at your peripheral, as well as much splashing and chirping. Sooner or later, you would look again. And once you did, it was hard to stop, what with there being just so gods damned much to look at.

The danger of it, of course, was not in the distraction itself, but the shadows your gaze was being drawn from.

Fray was half listening (it was going to take some getting used to, parsing fluff from meat in Gongzi’s words while her eyes suffered merciless bombardment) until her new employer mentioned the locals. Her focus suddenly narrowed. A spark of something zapped through her blood as her mind rose to meet the promise of a challenge. There were only a handful of spice merchants known to Fray. On arrival, she had made it her business to understand the lay of the land, as was her ritual upon entering any city, whether for the first or hundredth time.

One merchant had just started their business endeavors and would rather take a financial loss than offend or let slip that they were vulnerable. Two were not wealthy enough to even bother with assassins. The fourth was on his sick bed after a bad batch of cinnamon. The fifth…

Dark brows creased as the merc began adding two and two to make four a potential victim of–

Something small and dark bounced off of Gongzi’s head. For a second, Fray thought he had loosed another murder bug without her noticing. But the unhappy look on his face mirrored her own, and it wasn’t long before the mystery unraveled itself in the form of one very determined street urchin barreling their way.

Another benefit of traveling with a human sized peacock: people tended to forget about the tall, black horned killer right behind him.

Fray, having spent the last quarter of her life being churned along with the rest of mortality’s lowliest offerings, in this sad barrel of shit called existence, moved before a single thought finished forming. She saw that skinny, dirty arm and caught it like a frog would a fly. Her calloused fingers wrapped round a malnourished wrist and yanked. It was a testament to Fray’s self control, as well as her vastly improved mood upon finding employment, that she did not break that wrist immediately on contact. Thieves, after all, tended not to repeat their offense when they no longer had use of their best tools.

Instead, she drew the child up off their feet and held them in the air. The feisty thing kicked and screamed to absolutely no effect. Fray simply held them steady–a sorry looking kid to be sure, more bone than flesh, though they had been spidery fast.

She looked over to the princeling in wry amusement. “Well, boss. What should we do with this little rat I’ve caught?”

 

[Song]

There was a thoughtful expression on the lordling's face, hollow and curious. A little like an owl measuring prey caught, so small that it would barely take any effort to make its bones snap. The blue eyes turned to the alleyway, where the older kids were just a moment ago, empty now. No loyalty among petty thieves, he guessed.
Perhaps, the kid didn't expect the tall, intimidating fiend to strike so swiftly, or to not direct the retribution at where the rock came from. Perhaps, he thought that the lordling would move into his maneuver, and that move simply did not come, making the street rat lose his footing.
"Good enough speed and sleight of hand," Song mused. "But the poor rat is getting slow. I'll let the locals punish him when they catch him doing so to them. Let him go, he's not even half a bite for you."

Delicate fingers moved up to his head, touched where he got struck. He lowered that hand, studying the fingertips. No blood. Fingers curled to the palm, then, and another beat passed before the sunshine radiance returned to Song's expression.
"I think coral orange would suit you well, don't you? What about magnolia pink? Forget-me-not blue? In clothing, I mean. Now that you work for me and will be in the same spaces - I mean, if you have to be in peril, why not be resplendent just as well?"
Flick, the fan opened. Lord Wen seemed to like playing with that thing, and the more he handled it the more its weight became apparent in his hand.

Meanwhile, the garlands of lights and darkening skies took them further, streets flowing into one another. The streets were certainly turning nicer, cleaner, with the facades of the buildings sporting less cracks and more color and decorum with the change of the district.
At one of the inner gates splitting those from one another, a few men measured the human peacock and posited no questions. Then, their attention shifted to the large woman stalking behind him, and one of them was quick enough to take half a step forward before the fan indicated, "This one is with me."

And yet, the air was off a little. Song wondered if it was because this part of merchant quarter didn't prefer people of a certain spending caliber... or if they didn't want Fray there, in the perimeter or beside him, for some odd reason, or the brawn, or reputation. Half a beat passed.
If the group chose to stop them - he'd have time to observe.

 

[Fray]

Fray watched Lord Wen as he considered the child. What specifically he was looking for, she hadn’t the faintest clue. But for herself, she searched for signs, any signs. Signs of compassion, cruelty, cunning, or worse. She’d figured out over the years that you could learn a lot about someone based on how they treated those they considered inferior. Animals were a common example. Children, especially the poor and orphaned ones, even more so.

For better or worse, the noble’s face remained largely unchanged. He considered the thief with about as much weight as he would an old pair of shoes, before dismissing him entirely as unworthy of even the likes of Fray.

The merc glared at the child, squeezing his wrist hard enough to leave a bruise. That got the little pest to stop squirming and whimper in pain instead. Fray did not particularly enjoy hurting children, but she was also of the mindset that it was better to hurt now and learn a lesson, than to be spared and lose your head idiotically somewhere down the line.

“Don’t let me catch you a second time,” she growled before releasing the urchin. He dropped on all threes, bruised wrist held against his skinny chest, and then bolted back towards whatever stinking alley he had crawled out from.

By the time she refocused her attention back on her employer, he was already moving onto the next order of business, elegant hands flicking open his fan.

Fray stared at him with something close to open horror. It took her a solid handful of seconds to even process what he was even suggesting. “You want me to look like a pissed off persimmon?” she blurted, expression disturbed, “because you can fucking forget the other two, unless you want us to be laughed out of the city.”

But then she thought about it—like, really thought about it—mid sulk, and Fray had to admit it made a frustrating amount of sense. If she was to share elevated spaces with the princeling and expect to get anything done, she would have to look the part, or risk becoming such a distraction that she would be rendered useless. Already, they drew strange looks as they walked through the streets. The Deva imagined they could not have made for a more jarring picture. One polished to eye-searing, rainbow gleam, the other like a rusting powder keg strapped with knives.

Fray let loose a harsh breath. “Alright, fine. I can dress better for the job. But I prefer darker colors, so I can be less…obvious.” She thought for a moment, and added with some difficulty, “Please.”

The longer they walked, the more luxurious everything around them became. Folks ambled rather than hurried, their clothes fine even to Fray’s undiscerning eyes. The streets themselves were cleaner, the shops more often proper buildings instead of stalls and wagons. There were far more valuables to look at, things glistening and glimmering at the corners of her eyes, and all the while Fray could feel how out of place she was quickly becoming.

Suddenly, the idea of new clothes seemed much more appealing.

The odd pair stopped at what looked to be some kind of gate. Fray eyed it up and down in suspicion, then the guards in similar fashion. They were well dressed and armed, professional, the real no-nonsense type. They took one look at the mercenary and immediately attempted to deny her entry.

Gongzi spoke in that smooth, melodic way of his to claim association. But even before the guard responded, Fray’s face had split into a wolfish grin, eyes alight with recognition.

“You must forgive us, my lord,” the captain apologized, all courtesy and deference. Fray was pretty sure none of them actually knew what status or titles Lord Wen held (and neither did she,) but what they did know was that it was always better to be safe than sorry. “We do not doubt your word. It is just that this one is known to us. And not, I am sorry to admit, in a good way.”

“Ahh, Ren,” Fray interjected cheerfully. “I can call you Ren, yes? Old reliable Ren, Renny Boy, Rennifer. A good man this one, through and through.”

She would have clapped him on the shoulder, if not for the pointed look on his face that suggested she might lose a hand for trying. “Look, I’m not here to make trouble. I swear on my own, undug grave. I’ve been employed by this fine gentleman you see here, who I can assure you is the most upstanding of citizens with a reputation purer than snow itself.”

Fray was, of course, talking directly out of her ass. But such was her nature that once she started she found it rather hard to stop. She leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice to a half whisper.

“Look, it’s my first day on the job, alright? Trying to turn a new leaf and all. Be a hero and let me make a good impression, and maybe I’ll even buy you a pint or two after, with coin cleaner than your own well washed back side. What say you?”

Ren visibly recoiled at her suggestion, but his training and good manners eventually won out.

“You will be on your best behavior, Fray. Or Shroud help me I will put you down like the cur you are.”

Fray laughed and capitalized on his distracted state, punching him playfully in the shoulder. Behind Ren, three of the other guards moved to unsheathe their weapons, but he held up a hand, signalling them to stand down—his way of showing he was not afraid of her. Brave, but foolish.

One should always save a little fear for those who don’t fight fair.

A command was issued. With as much distaste as decorum would allow, two of the guards obeyed Captain Ren’s orders to open the gates.

“After you, Gongzi,” Fray announced with a ludicrous flourish and bow.

 

[Song]

He seemed amused by the request of darker color, for some reason, but offered a gesture of the hand that had to mean he supported the idea. And yet, on his face, as pretty as a sculpture of some artisan deity, there was a short confusion - eyebrows rose, lips pursed slightly.
"Why not? Is blue or pink particularly offensive? Hmph." There was probably something to be said about Fray being paid to punch the problems away if they dared disrespect him by laughing at her, but Song didn't think he'd need to say it twice.

He caught her looking at him, back with the boy. A study through proxies. She had wit about her, a good beginning. Her skill outweighed her wit, of course, and that was a hazard. Overconfidence was five steps ahead.
Good potential. Smart, to observe him. If only this was not all theatre, and he could be in earnest with a stranger.

"Any colors. Won't do for you to be restricted, if I want to ruin fewer of my garments," he mused, steps steadily shortening the distance to a local smoking parlor. "But I'll get someone who can replicate home fashions. I do not like the local shapes."

The altercation at the gate was a case study in reverse. Now it was his turn to observe Fray, gather cues of her reputation and relationships with others who would serve as local enforcement. Even if they were from small private armies, a whole city would hardly run without unified law and grow this large. Clan wars were a hassle, after all.
The man apologizing caught not more than an immolating glare, lord Wen's entire posture unfolding a little, chin rising in quiet indignation. He did not speak a word, however, averting his gaze in utter disinterest.
Servants of the people were supposed to do their job, of course - but this one making stipulations had been wise. And, just as it was expected of his role, the very moment the altercation was resolved, the lord continued on his path as if the obstacle never existed.

He did note quite a few thoughts, however. No opportunity to summon another 'lordship', not just yet.
"They make fine, dark spirits with an apple of aroma peel and sweet plum where we are going," Xiansu mused. "You said you haven't been to the district, didn't you?" One question asked, several shadows of things unsaid stretching from it all the way back to the gate.

He slowed the pace, to fall in step with the brutish bodyguard, and ponder her silhouette in periphery. What contrast, what circumstance, what comedy! The humor faded somewhat, though, just as the daylight in the shades of rooftops.

Cobblestone was underfoot, now, polished and scuffed by feet, dented by shoed horse hooves. Better lit, though the lurid patterns of facades and decorations mixing with stained glass and painted signs had a disorienting quality to them, no better than a street of a dozen faceless doors.
"We are going to lounge until we get the attention of a local boss, tonight. You don't have to fear my judgement for past crimes. Only be ready to do what must be done."
After all, if he was any better, he would have been home.