A low whistle left Maria's lips, mulling over Tusk's words as if tasting wine for the first time and trying to find those plum and pepper notes snobs gushed over. She rubbed a gloved finger over her bottom lip that her teeth had worked towards splitting skin. The drawing of the creature didn't look terrifying, it's body looked slender and sharp, but it's form didn't have the sort of mass that made her question how deep Aysel's claws could cut through. It did look like something that would lurk in shadows. It also looked like nothing she had ever seen before and for a good chunk of her life she had always had her nose in a book, her ear to a village singing about their folklore.

"The sketch could be nothing but the figment of imagination," Maria conceded with Tusk's worries. "Limbs are insect-like and there is a mask, whether that's a cloak or shadows... sure looks like someone's nightmare but a Malcazadores? After all the shit we've seen, much less an entire Den?" The mage shook her head. Aysel had finally come round to the table, looking at the sketch, dark brows furrowing together.

"I think," Maria said with a smile, "The eyewitness accounts might not necessarily be useless. Perhaps we do not worry about what it looks like, we worry about what it does." She glanced around the table. "What are the tells of a hallucination, how to fend ourselves from a fate of turning on each other or disappearing into the dark. Are they auditory, do they affect both the eyes and ears? Is smell a factor, taste?"

She pointed right at that monster, straight towards the mask. It had caught her eyes before, it caught them now.

"Glasses is right, making a plan is the way to go. This might be a beast that is successful as long as it catches you by surprise, a stalker of sorts." Then again, the thing could also be just as deadly as it was if it were unannounced. It was hard to think that there wasn't a single hunter who could have realized what was going on, protected themselves or hid long enough to get the upper hand. The eyewitness sounded like someone had decided the beast was to strong, to survive meant that they had to run, that the only option was running.
 
While the old foggies went on talking. Brinda played with her new knife. Tossing it up and down. Up and down. Watching the handle tumble end over end. Blade glinting as it caught the light of candles and lamps flickering and waning along its patterned steel. Wave steel, she thinks he had called it. Looked more liked crackles of lightning to her.

Garrod made a grunt.

Hallucinations. Auditory cues. The eyes.

He could hear the whispers, oh so faintly. You wont survive without me, Oh Bearer Mine. But I can't decide. Do I like it more when you try and resist me? The laughter crackled and chimed so bright with its crunch. Like so much crystal ground into dust. Isn't that why you still carry me around, in that stars damned box.

His right hand curled tight into fist to the point of leather's squeak.

"You've any leads on who penned the Caza Script?" he asked flatly.

Got up from his chair with nary a sound, for all the weight of his kit.

Up. down. Up. down. Snatch.

"Hey!" Brinda barked, near jumping back, whilst her own mechanical right limb snatched for the blade. Found the meat of left's palm there instead, and Garrod's green eye glowering down at her.

"It's a good find," he smoked out of his throat. "Now put it away, and have yourself a seat, Mouse."

Brinda's eyes narrowed. She let go. Garrod let go. He gave the blade one last half flip, that had the light catch against all the patterned work that went into the steel's heart, and handed her its dark wood handle. She took it. Sheathed it. Stashed it away under the bind of her braises. Huffed, and sat beside the stickbug.
 
With a sigh, Rowan dropped her glasses against her chest and leaned back in her chair. She was disappointed in the explanation that followed the presentation of the sketch. Even though she'd been the one to pitch making a plan, the nature of the beast, as Tusk put it, would make that next to impossible. Something that had misdirection and illusion as its bread and butter couldn't be relied upon. Even with the biggest grain that salt came in. Like those snowy flakes they sprinkled on the truffles in Panier. Or the hail stones dotting the twisty pretzels. Moons above, she was hungry. And tired.

Would The Soulkeeper notice if she slid his soup over to her side of the table?

Brinda plopping moodily down next to her dashed away the desperate thought. The glasses were off, but Rowan still maintained the look of glaring through them, her ire directed at the young hunter's guardian across the way.

"It's not going to hurt her, Garrod," she scolded the man. "Besides, she should get used to the weight of the new arm."

Rowan did have an idea about the amalgam of Elenhage. But she wouldn't say it yet. Waiting instead, for all the pieces to be put on the board.
 
"You've any leads on who penned the Caza Script?"

'None,' replied the orkin, shrugging, 'though they appear adamant that I should be the one to hunt the beast.' Tusk thumbed the obsidian mark burning a hole in his pocket. Whomever had penned the letter -or had it penned for them- had given him no choice in the matter. Rules were rules. Without them, the Malcazadores were no better than the creatures they hunted.

Tusk had encountered many monsters in his lifetime. Some walked on two feet, and laughed when you joked. Others didn't even realise what they were until the truth came and killed 'em. Sometimes, they even stole your soup.

What's left, anyhow, thought the 'Keeper, listening as Garrod disciplined his apprentice, only for Rowan to tell him off a moment later. The new arm, Tusk's gaze drifted to the limb in question, though it didn't linger. He had seen such wounds before. After awhile, the horror stopped registering the way it was supposed to. And pity would only serve to poison Brinda against him.

She would have to get used to the arm. Until then, she would remain the Bearer's weakness, which wasn't such a bad thing. He has a heart, after all, it seems. It was almost enough to make an old man smile.

'There's a reclamation bounty still open, last I checked.' Glancing about the table, Tusk continued, saying, 'Ain't much I can give you 'cept gratitude. Doesn't spend the way glint does, but it still holds value,' he huffed, grinning slightly. 'Den Lionell hasn't been explored since the Happening, so the place should still be full of matériel.' Camaraderie was good and all but rarely did it pay; most hunters believed they needed an excuse in order to aid their brothers and sisters.
 
There was a glance towards Garrod and his apprentice from Maria, a look that was smug and knowing. She had trained Aysel well, clearly, look at how well Aysel listened to her while Garrod's little rat pouted and ran to someone else. It was the sort of knowledge that brought pleasure to Maria, had her smile all the wider, her eyes crinkling up with glee. Aysel would always obey her, always trust her, and always go back to her.

"There must be a lot of meat left behind," Aysel mumbled to herself, licking her thin lips. Her patience was thinner than that, all this talking, blah blah blah. She wanted to get going, not standing around smelling everybody. Why did they always have to talk and plan and never just go out and get them? Maria knew her well enough to go to her side and lay a heavy hand on her shoulder, keeping Aysel in check.

"You can go 'round snacking but don't eat anything rotten this time." Maria reminded her. "Or inedible." Maria had never bothered to learn any medical knowledge or healing spells, and paying for a healer to fix her Aysel was expensive. Aysel huffed, began biting at her nails and tapping her foot impatiently. She was staring at Rowan and Brinda as she gnawed her long nails, incisor clinking them.

"So," Maria ventured, "Monster hunting, reclamation bounty... anything else anyone would want to share?" Not something like soup, though, something more like who would be getting the monster parts and what about instead of gratitude could it be a favor?
 
"That's what I've always liked about you, Maria," Garrod grinned at the mage come Cazadore. "Straight to the real business,"

Brinda was staring at the weird lady in her huge dress and chains. "What the hell are you?" The girl with the mechanical arm, and scars across her face squint. "Some kind of dog?"

Garrod looked down at his protege. "Hey now, don't be rude,"

Brinda sucked at her teeth. "How was that rude?" crossed her arms and huffed. "I'm just curious is all."

A one eyed squinty stare was met by a scrunched up, lightning scarred glare. "You could do with some tact,"

The girl sunk in her seat and stuck her tongue out. A little sound there too before she snapped her eyes away. Narrowly eyed the big girl in her weird outfit.

Garrod measured the moment. Then looked back to the others. "I'll take the thing's heart," he staked his claim upfront. Lips twitched up to show his teeth. One eye's green gaze drifting betwixt those gathered.
 
Hearty, delicious soup, still warm despite its long life on the table top and the not-so-stealthy changing of hands. When she met no resistance Rowan reached across the way and took the heavy wooden spoon, too. She wasted no time in slorping up a mouthful - daintily, of course. It was spiced with mostly just pepper, and contained an unaccounted for monster meat that seemed beef-adjacent, but the broth was really decent and there were big chunks of carrots that added a pleasant sweetness to the undercurrent of flavors. So she kept eating.

She should probably stake her claim on the magitech in the place, but no room for words was left in her mouth. It was too full of soup and spoon and then soup again as the bowl got emptier and Rowan got an ever more contented look on her face.
 
The real business was what drew folk to the Malcazadores in the first place. Monsters were worth their weight in coin - all you had to do was slay 'em, flay 'em, and not wind up dead or devoured in the process. Simple, right? Just grab an axe, pick up a contract and get tracking.

Smiling to himself, the old hunter watched his fellows bicker and bite. The wolfgirl had her priorities straight, just like the rest of them. A hunger she shared with the bespectacled soup thief sitting next to him, it seemed.

"... curious is all."
"You could do with some tact."

So says the man with the cursed eye, mechanical arm and fuck-off great big sword strapped to his back. 'The heart's yours,' Tusk answered with a nod. 'If you wish to accompany me, fair warning: I'll be keeping the head. After all these years, you'd think the Handlers would take me for my word, but, no,' he gruffed. 'Proof before payment.'

He could sense what Maria was fishing for. Perhaps she had used the wrong bait, or perhaps the Keeper just wasn't given to offering favours to those he didn't really know. Or trust.

'I'll be setting out in the morning,' he told them, eyeing Maria and her ward, Garrod and Brinda.

Rowan he left to it. After all, watching someone eat was uncomfortable for all parties involved. And the soup really was top notch. 'If we happen to encounter each other along the way, well, I won't refuse the company.'

Lifting himself up out of his chair, the orkin swiped up the contract paper and slipped it inside his shirt pocket.

'I've some inquiries to make,' he rumbled, palming the obsidian mark, wondering who had sent it, and why? So many questions, so few answers. Bowing his head, Tusk sauntered away as the Den woke to a new day.
 
"What the hell are you? Some kind of WEAKLING?" Aysel thundered, pointing at Brinda and her mechanical arm. She was grinning wildly as if her comeback was the ultimate offense. "I've never lost a limb because I'm a winner, ahaha-ack." Maria made a motion with her hands and the brightly colored ascot tightened like a noose around Aysel's slender neck. It didn't matter if Aysel clawed at it, the long curve of her strong nails wouldn't be able to snag a thread loose no matter how hard she tried. With a gaping fish mouth, the werewolf worried less about bragging and more about breathing.

"Ignore her, little..." Maria trailed off, unable to find a word. Little one? Too doting. Little girl? Too condescending. Little hunter? Maria didn't want to use that, that was what she had first called Aysel in the beginning and it would only be for the cute child who had been so eager to please. Little bitch was used in the stubborn teenage years. "She is very much my loyal dog, you are correct. Smart girl." She said instead, glossing over that there was no term of endearment that worked for a person she didn't really care about to begin with.

The heart and the head were claimed. Maria considered what could be left. Most organs often got damaged, especially with Aysel's carelessness when it came to hunts. She was no better than a pig fighting for slop. The maungy woman shrugged her shoulders. She'd find something of value there.

"Can't..." Aysel's face was a little too red now. Maria snapped her fingers and the ascot returned to normal, no longer constricting the neck like a hungry snake. The first gasp of air was always painful, her throat tender, her lungs burning. It was enough to make her cough and her eyes water. Aysel wiped at the tears sticking to her spiky bottom lashes like dew caught of spiderwebs.

"We'll be seeing you all around. Come Aysel, I need to see if there's anyone with some papu tree seeds." Maria felt very good about how their party formed and the thought of the future hunt was enough to put her in a mood good enough that she didn't snap her fingers at Aysel to follow after her. The lonely werewolf girl was quick to stick near her master's heel but did turn her head over her shoulder to shoot daggers at Brinda, unable to swallow the lump of jealousy in her throat. Smart girl was practically the same as good girl... not fair.
 
Garrod blinked at the show of it all. Scratched his chin with his gloved right hand. Could still feel the claws about him. Their weight. The flex and give. Knew they were gone. Not there in his bones. Not scratching against his skin. Not ripping through to red so good.

Stopped scratching. Right twitched.

Wasn't his business, was it? Whatever the ol' Maungy did to that girl. Or whatever that girl really was. Cazadores were Cazadores. And with a job like this. Well. They needed all the help they could get. But he had heard the stories of the young Shewolf. Maungy's dreaded pet. Could rip you limb from limb faster than you could say ouch.

Black gloved hand thumped the table. Startled Brinda near out of her seat. "Well," he said. Got up. "See you lot in the morning," looked to Brinda. "Bright and early, or you are getting left behind,"

The girl clicked her teeth. "Like I would care then, One Eye,"

A grin from Garrod. "You'll miss out on the loot,"

"What, loot? It didn't SOUND like there was going to be any loot sides your nasty heart you want!"

"Whole den full of dead Dores, lil Buzzard," he grinned wider. Greasier. Grabbed up his things. "You forget about that?"

Brinda's jaw dropped. Eyes huge. "Whole Den?!"

A cruel little laugh fell out of the white haired hunter. "Loot." he stepped toward the staircase and the rooms.

"Loot?!" she cried out, popping up straight in her seat and turning about.

Garrod wasn't grinning anymore. Heard some rumors about Den Lionell. How their rivals, Den Pantero, wanted them gone.

That was years ago. Back when he was still Matando. No way the two were related. Sending a monster to do a Matador's work. Even the butchery had codes to it. Would it even matter in the end?

A sharp whistle to Rowan. "You gonna join us on this one, by the by?" he asked at the base of the stairs. Seashell laden box, rattling soft hiss against him. "Or you gonna wise up, and fuck off for the affair?"

"Oh Rowan! Think about the loot!" Brinda said as her chair tipped over. Kid crashed face first onto the floor. "Fucking ouch," she groaned from the dusty floorboards.
 
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The conversation wrapped up and everyone left the table right when Rowan had scraped the last bite of soup out from the bottom of the bowl. And that was what they called Serendipity...!

It took a moment longer than the others for Rowan to get out of her chair. Her leg was stiff from riding, and the standing from sitting down always caused her to twist around strangely to find the right angle up. But she didn't fare nearly as badly as Brinda, whose foot hooked the table wrong and caused the girl to eat dust. The knife she had so proudly been brandishing earlier fell out of her belt loop and skittered away from her.

"Oh, look at this lovely knife someone has dropped," Rowan announced as she bent down to claim her prize. "They must not care much about it. Guess it's mine, now."

"Hey!" Brinda scrambled up on all fours. "Give it back!"

Doing no such thing, Rowan stepped away, humming lightly to herself as she pretended to admire the knife. But really she was watching how the girl used the arm to get up, how metal fingers struggled to distribute her weight, how it clunked heavy against her side when she picked up enough momentum to finally run after Rowan.

Garrod was waiting for them at the base of the stairs. "...you gonna wise up, and fuck off for the affair?"

"Really?" Rowan gave him an unimpressed look, something she had learned to do very well in her time studying at the Tower. "I ride out with you all the way to the ass-end of nowhere, spend days killing stinky little critters for pocket change, and now you'd like me to ride alll the way back with no -- as Brinda astutely put it -- loot?"

A coy little smile graced her lips. That was not at all why Rowan was coming, but it was fun to play along. Soon as everyone seemed out of earshot though, she sobered up.

"I'm good for my work, Garrod," she said in a lower voice, before the girl could catch up with them. "If Brinda's going, then so am I. She hasn't grown into that arm, yet."
 
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