Private Dysphoria

[Silk]

The last haunting chord of the elf’s lute faded like breath on glass. For a moment, the tavern was quiet, which was unusual for an inn like the Bleeding Crown. Applause was muted, a few hands slapping the tables, but most patrons just went back to their drinks, and the murmurs resumed, tankards clinked, and a toothless man coughed blood into his sleeve.

Silk leaned against a support beam, one leg folded lazily over the other. The thief watched him over the rim of her tankard. He was too clean for this place. Too perfect. Pale skin like candle wax, hair silver-white. His fingers were long and soft-looking. She thought he moved through the crowd like he didn’t quite touch the floor. He did not belong here, nor did the little shinies around his fingers. And especially not the chain glinting just beneath the collar of his tunic. She let him pass, then slid from her place like smoke.

She circled the patrons, past a deva vomiting into the fireplace, and came up on the bard’s blind side. Her fingers itched. She moved closer without making it look like movement. From leaning to walking. From walking to standing behind someone, half-laughing at nothing. Then a hand on a stranger’s shoulder, leaning to whisper a lie with a borrowed smirk on her lips. All the while, her eyes stayed on that white hair.

 

[Elijah Adfaren]

Elijah stopped strumming his lute and bowed to a sleepy audience. It was his last song for the evening. He smiled. He had already prepared for what he was going to do next. There was a group of what seemed like rich nobles. They were not alone though and even flirting wouldn't make their knight, or whatever they were, leave. But... he could still aim for the knight. Maybe he knew what happened to his father... After all, this world was quite small.

He got closer to the group and started talking to them. He was always told that what he did when he flirted was like magic. Rivers of words. It was so easy to lie to them. The bodyguard or knight, Elijah knew avoiding the topic of his work would be for the best, was letting his guard down and started to smile dumbly.

That's when he saw her. He had felt that a pair of eyes was on him but he never thought much of it. Most people weren't used to his hair color or to the color of his pupils. When he saw her though, he knew it wasn't about that. She was busy talking to other people but he knew something wasn't right. She was probably a thief. I mean, we were in Crorefell. That was nothing unusual. Erik, or whatever his name was, Elijah didn't really care, brought his attention back to him and asked if everything was alright. Elijah smiled, faking shyness. He asked him if they could go somewhere more... private ? The man agreed and they walked up a few steps of nearby stairs.

 

[Silk]

He saw me!
Gods-damned saw me.

She froze, halfway into her little act, fingers still ghosting over a drunk’s pouch she didn’t even want. The elf’s gaze had cut across the tavern like a thrown knife. It wasn’t a long look. Wasn’t even certain. But Silk had spent most of her life spotting the moment someone clocked her. This wasn’t a guess anymore. It was instinct. Her eyes followed the elf.

He should’ve been easy. Flashy. Soft. An artist in a den of bastards. But then his gaze found hers, people that sharp were usually playing the same game. The bard turned back to his prey, some noble’s mutt, with a face like dough and enough coin on his belt.

Somewhere more private, the someone had said. A private room. Of course. And up they went. Silk waited two beats. Three. Then she moved. Silk counted the creaks in the wood, pressing her weight just right to silence them. She waited at the turn of the landing until she heard the soft click of one shutting.

Then she crept. Soft boots silent on crooked floorboards.

Room by room, leaning slowly toward the doors, ear near the keyholes, ignoring the groans and grunts behind the others. Ear to each door. One was snoring. One was silent, cold. Another two women laughing. Drunk, low voices.Then, a voice. Musical. Silk’s lip curled. Got you.

Her eye dropped to the keyhole. She crouched, pressed close. The metal was cold against her cheek, but through that sliver of brass, she saw: the knight, no, not a knight, not really, shuffling in the half-gloom. His fingers fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, stiff from too much drink. He laughed nervously at something Elijah said, voice too low for Silk to catch.

She shifted slightly, gaze flicking from the keyhole to the edge of the doorframe, there, a thin sliver of darkness where the door didn’t quite sit flush in the jamb. A narrow gap, enough for someone like her to see the bolt.

Locked.

A simple twist latch. She could open it. She’d done harder with worse tools. But not now. Silk eased back from the door, quiet as breath. She didn’t need to watch more. The bard wasn’t from here. This place had rules. Lines you didn’t cross unless you were ready to bleed for it. And he’d crossed one. This was her ground. And some fuck boy with silver hair didn’t get to work her streets without paying for it.

She leaned back against the wall and waited.

 

[Elijah Adfaren]

The guy was really repulsive. He was as filthy as a rat found in the dirtiest sewer possible. Elijah hid his repulsed expression as if it was nothing. This idiot was busy trying to take off his clothes and Elijah saw a possibility. He got up, pretending that he wanted to see more, and cuddled him from behind.

"You're really naive for a knight."

In a swift movement, Elijah took out a dagger from its scabbard and pointed it towards the guy's carotid artery. He smiled softly.

"Do not doubt me sir. I will slit your throat."

He laughed at the knight's terrified face. He was ready for his questions.

 

[Silk]

Steel on skin, sharp and sure. So close the knight could feel the pulse in his neck hammer against the edge. The bard's voice, so sweet a moment ago, coiled now like a snake in his ear. The softness and the flirt was gone. The illusion shattered like glass.

All that was left was threat.

The knight didn’t move. Not stupid enough for that. Not with steel this close and his boots still half-off. He grunted and let out a low, bitter chuckle. "Well,” he said hoarsely, “guess I am naive.” His lip curled, revealing a broken tooth and no humor, only rage.

Humiliation burned deeper than fear ever would.

“Go on, then. Cut me. See how far you get, songbird.”

@Elijah Adfaren