Trevor always had a knack for languages. Tongues of door opening and windows ajar. Secret speech of passing unheard and unseen. Accent of feet quiet on the stone floor. Whispers of convenient distractions. And he spoke them all as he slid past the guards. Climbed a window and looted the kitchen stock. Just a bit. Luck was quite nifty when she worked well, but he hesitated. Winning streaks led to those other ones... and he'd rather not. So he threw some of his loot out the kitchen window, producing a lucky dog in turn. Luck had no sense of balance, only momentum. He had learned that long ago. Unfortunately, he wasn't the best pupil.
Some days it was hard to separate what came through knowing and what he affected by doing. Either way, he couldn't deny his luck. Wouldn't. No time wasted on questions he mulled a thousand times over, he'd continue gliding down the hallways. Dancer was within these walls somewhere. It felt right. Even without seeing the man, it was evident he'd done well since last they met. Look at this place! He heard talk of him in the streets. Sixth. It was hard to recall if that's what they called him back when they last saw each other. It had been years. Back when lives were cheaper, and the world knew it.
Just another step in another hall and an open door. Not uncommon in a place as confident as this. But the smell reminded him of the east. It had been some time since he'd been to Suldaza. Stopping in his tracks, it didn't have to mean anything, but it was in his nature to follow all signs however small. He didn't know what they called it, but he remembered it being put into drink. Remembered how it hung above night fires of the poor. The time they wrapped it to his wounded leg a long time ago. It was funny how he never cared to remember the name of the thing that had helped him live. But people were meant to be funny, else life wouldn't be.
He toed the door open fully and it took but a breath to know he was in the right place. The brass on the handle was carved. Not ornate, but stylized. A wave pattern that flowed like wind over dunes. Miraj'Dah. He’d seen the Dancer wear it once, not on steel but on cloth. A family symbol, perhaps, or just the sort of thing a boy clings to when far from home. The room itself was disciplined. No clutter or distraction. A blade by the covered window, and another by the bed used more recently. He knew better than to touch either.
Not waiting for an invitation, he grabbed one of the few pieces of comfort in the room and carried it with him. Went back to the door and counted five paces before setting it down. He had once seen Dancer cut a man clean just shy of that distance. The legendary mercenary was older now, but he doubted he was slower. The yellow pillow settled under him as he sat on the floor. He'd have made it six paces, but the room wasn't deep enough from the door. So he did the next best thing, pulled out a chair slightly. If he was charged upon, he'd have time to react. And if he had time, it was no longer important what Dancer did. Still, that first moment prevented him from relaxing fully.
As he nested into the pillow like an awkward ginger bird, memories flowed back. This was a familiar rhythm. Trevor was always first. Always waiting. Dancer always dancing on some edge somewhere. Times change. Men don't.
Some days it was hard to separate what came through knowing and what he affected by doing. Either way, he couldn't deny his luck. Wouldn't. No time wasted on questions he mulled a thousand times over, he'd continue gliding down the hallways. Dancer was within these walls somewhere. It felt right. Even without seeing the man, it was evident he'd done well since last they met. Look at this place! He heard talk of him in the streets. Sixth. It was hard to recall if that's what they called him back when they last saw each other. It had been years. Back when lives were cheaper, and the world knew it.
Just another step in another hall and an open door. Not uncommon in a place as confident as this. But the smell reminded him of the east. It had been some time since he'd been to Suldaza. Stopping in his tracks, it didn't have to mean anything, but it was in his nature to follow all signs however small. He didn't know what they called it, but he remembered it being put into drink. Remembered how it hung above night fires of the poor. The time they wrapped it to his wounded leg a long time ago. It was funny how he never cared to remember the name of the thing that had helped him live. But people were meant to be funny, else life wouldn't be.
He toed the door open fully and it took but a breath to know he was in the right place. The brass on the handle was carved. Not ornate, but stylized. A wave pattern that flowed like wind over dunes. Miraj'Dah. He’d seen the Dancer wear it once, not on steel but on cloth. A family symbol, perhaps, or just the sort of thing a boy clings to when far from home. The room itself was disciplined. No clutter or distraction. A blade by the covered window, and another by the bed used more recently. He knew better than to touch either.
Not waiting for an invitation, he grabbed one of the few pieces of comfort in the room and carried it with him. Went back to the door and counted five paces before setting it down. He had once seen Dancer cut a man clean just shy of that distance. The legendary mercenary was older now, but he doubted he was slower. The yellow pillow settled under him as he sat on the floor. He'd have made it six paces, but the room wasn't deep enough from the door. So he did the next best thing, pulled out a chair slightly. If he was charged upon, he'd have time to react. And if he had time, it was no longer important what Dancer did. Still, that first moment prevented him from relaxing fully.
As he nested into the pillow like an awkward ginger bird, memories flowed back. This was a familiar rhythm. Trevor was always first. Always waiting. Dancer always dancing on some edge somewhere. Times change. Men don't.
