Brown eyes held fast to the honchos butting heads. Despite all the posturing, the dawnling sensed that Kilhara was no stranger to reason, assuming the reasoning came from a friendly face. Cyd had removed herself from the situation already, if her conversation with Sverod was anything to pay attention to. As to Hector, well, he was busy saving lives. A job for a dawnling, and all the best ones were preoccupied.

Lucky me, thought the Mund, stepping forward.

'Come now, saers, surely there's no need for further violence!' Gloved fingers swept blood from blade as Faramund returned sword to scabbard. Kilhara studied him as he moved closer. Rimebol remained hyperfixated on his quarry. Well, until the dawnling nudged him aside. The cat-kin growled warningly. Faramund ignored him, resigning himself to a future bollocking.

'Drinks 'ere, too, Sverod. Preferably without anythin' in 'em.'

Kilhara glared at the barkeep as the devahni went about pouring. Ladies first, of course. He was nothing if not a gentleman. 'To your health, saer,' said the knight, raising a glass of amber. The mercenary relaxed some as he watched Faramund drink. 'Tryin' to win me trust, is ye?' Kilhara sank his shot. Glass knocked against redwood. 'Thinkin' of takin' what's ours, hmm?' He dabbed his lips with thick fingers, paused to examine the dirt under his fingernails. Blood, too.

'We found your men,' Faramund spoke into the silence that followed. 'The ones y'all left behind.'

Something like surprise passed over the brute's face. Hurt, too. The prisoners grew quiet. 'You burn 'em?' One of the other mercenaries asked. Lethram let it slide. 'Yes.' Rimebol tried to keep the venom from his voice. 'Venturing into the Vayd... A dangerous undertaking.'

'Was it worth it?'

Kilhara's hands folded into fists atop the counter. 'They knew the risks,' he grumbled, though he didn't sound convinced. 'Dyin's part o' the job. Y' can dance with it all y'like, but y'can't dance 'round it.' True enough, the dawnling nodded. 'Who'd you give the "stone" to?' Faramund inquired. No point beating around the bush when the bush had arms strong enough to crush you.

'Don't see how that's any o' yer business.'

'It became our business when you opened the tomb,' replied Faramund. 'Bet your employer didn't mention there would be somethin' waiting inside. Only the stone.'

Kilhara grumbled, but didn't disagree. 'It was some toffee-nosed servant what brought the job t' our attention,' he said, after a time spent deliberating. 'Dressed poor. Even rags couldn't hide t' silver spoon wedged up 'is arse, though.' The mercenaries shared a chuckle. 'Gave us a marker, told us where t' go. For what he was offerin', I expected we'd 'ave t' march halfway to Arshaka,' he grinned, sinking another shot. Now, it was Faramund's turn to watch him closely.

'Know who this servant fellah worked for?'
 
Of course Sverod didn't give up his prized possession, the Aembra's Kiss. Instead he pulled out a nice brandy and poured three glasses. One for herself, and the others for the two hulking men who were now invading her personal space at the bar. Cyd swirled her glass and watched the tears roll down the side. Not poisoned, and not watered down. A bit of graciousness from their host.

'Know who this servant fellah worked for?' ​

"Again," Kilhara said, and the whole word was a sentence with how it rumbled out of him. "Don't see how that's yer business."

Fine. She would help a dawnling out. "Well, Ser," Cyd said sweetly, leaning her elbow on the table and tilting around Faramund to look at the giant. "Can't you see we're mercenaries, too? I imagine you were only hired to find the stone and turn it over, not to protect it. The way I see it, you've done your job, and been paid for it. Now help us do ours, and mayhaps we can negotiate a finder's fee."

---​

What a commotion, happening on the floor of the inn's parlor. The defeated mercs were gathered mostly in one spot, guarded by Rimebol and Lethram. And Hector in the middle of them, stopping the swelling of a cracked skull from overcoming one of the poor fools. It would have been a smooth repair, too, if the fool's friend would just stop wailing in Hector's ear. The misguided man jostled hector, knocking him off balance. Hands that were tempered with shroud threatened to slip and burn.

Innis reached out and caught those fraying threads. Kept the spell from sizzling and snapping, cooled it to equilibrium once more, and then to stillness. And with the other hand, she grabbed that idiot by the scruff and pulled him away.

"You want to help, go fetch some clean linens from the closet," she gave the young man a job, and like that his wits came back to him. He nodded sheepishly, scrambed to his feet, and hurried to the far end of the room. Yellow gleam of cat's eyes watched him go, but if Rimebol disapproved he didn't say anything.

"The wound's closed, Hector," Innis assured him, settling in next to the patient. "We can do the rest without shroud."

She undid the clasp on a pouch at her side, and pulled out a small vial of liquid. A tincture of white willow bark, common medicine that slowed fever and reduced swelling.
 
Embers bright in his eyes dashed out from his hands. All that fire there within the twines of live, frayed and spilled and would go on spilling, gush after pumping gush if he did not-

A cool hand came against his. Cupped. Steadied. Breath found again. Bones aligned with nerves and flesh and weave.

"The wound's closed, Hector,"
​
So it was. A breath poured out of him. His eyes, burned open and alight with flame, came shut. "Thanks, Innis," eyes opened their natural brown again, looked to his fellow knight. Counterpart in Dusk.

"We can do the rest without shroud,"​

A nod. "Glad to have you at my side again," he said easy enough as all the voices rumbled about them. He would raise, and look to the other mercenaries that seemed worse for ware. "Alright," he said to the one with the shallow slash about his face. "Lucky you are still breathing," he said as he approached. The man grumbled. Tied up as he was by Syr Lethram, who still bore naked steel. Nod him forward. "Step over, and might save you from an infection,"

The bloody grit softened some. "I've been through worse,"

"Aye, no doubt in that," Hector assured, grabbing the bound man's crown with broad fingers and working him down to the ground. "And you'll go through it again if you keep that up, now, stay still a moment," fingers worked loose pouch at belt and procured vial there in. Thumb and fore popped cork, and steady was the measured pour. Just a drop and two.

Breath sucked in through teeth and twitch came violent from the merc. "That stings!"

Hector laughed. Hand steady enough in its practice to have predicted the flinch. Digits worked the cork back up, and snugged it. "That's not even the worse of it," Hector said with a warm delight.

"Say what now?" Eyes went wide. Tears welled.

"Easy now," as clothed thumb dab dabbed over wound. Firm and sure in its pace.

"Easy?!" voice wound up tight enough to break.
 
Stubborn fucker. If Faramund had wanted to stare into a mirror, he would have. Obstinance did Kilhara no favours. Maybe brandy and a pretty face would serve to loosen him up. And no, I'm not thinking about you, Rimebol, mused the Dawnling, entertaining himself whilst Cyd worked her charms, weaving a lie in place of the truth. I'm good at those.

'Mercenaries?' Kilhara felt the wool being pulled over his eyes. A glance at Cydonia was all it took to let it slip the rest of the way. 'Finder's fee?'

'Oh, aye,' said Mund, taking up the slack. 'You were paid to find and deliver the prize. Job done, payment made. Ain't nothing keepin' you from helpin' us,' a swig of brandy to ease the notion along. Faramund could see the gears turning behind Kilhara's eyes. They hardened slightly when he caught Rimebol and Lethram corralling his men, but then none of them had been put to the sword, and with Hector and Innis actively working to render them aid, well...

Gears turned. Big brows unfurrowed as a sun elf peeked from behind Mount Mund. Click, click, click!

Trap, disarmed. 'Okay.' The bruiser leaned atop the bar like it was the only thing capable of keeping him afoot. 'There's a place inside the walls, big place, hewn from redbrick. Has these... gargoyles. Stone faces meant t' resemble... fuck-knows-what. Humans, I guess, though t'ain't a human in Akkelon what looks like them there 'goyles,' he glanced at Faramund. 'Cept maybe you, heh!'

Ouch.

'Dunno who t' buildin' belongs t'. Didn't care. Place stank of old money an' I wanted me some. Heh.' Kil's empty glass tapped the bar. It sounded like progress. 'Mighten be I 'member just where t' building's located. For a fee.'

Kilhara tried leaning around Faramund to catch a glimpse of Cydonia. The Dawnling suspected he would have had an easier time standing on his tiptoes. How would tight-fisted mercenaries react to being extorted? He wondered, nursing his drink, a small smirk creasing his lips as he handed the reins to back to Cyd. He shrugged.

What? You started it.
 
Well, what a pair of swindlers they made! Maybe Faramund had missed his calling - he could have gone door to door selling copper pots instead of killing people for a living. The man picked up her lie and stuck it fast in Kilhara's mind. Keep going...!

Cyd laughed on cue with the mercenary's crude joke. It was a natural little chortle which she hid expertly behind her whiskey glass. She leaned into the the table ever so, just out of leering range. Even their dear old Sverod chipped in, refilling the glass soon as a meaty hand clunked it down empty. A quiet tip of the bottle's neck, with barely a glug, in that expert way of bartenders who didn't like to be noticed.

It was all going swimmingly, until Kilhara asked for the thing which Cyd had promised him. The idea of giving these blackguards any more than what they had already taken from the Vayde made her skin crawl. But restoring the tomb was more important than any worldly sum, and besides they could find a way to get it back once the mission was secured. Cyd loosed the coin purse at her side, jingling with the weight of a journey just begun. Good thing she was usually the one to manage the finances, otherwise she wouldn't of had a flashy enough amount.

She strode round Faramund, and past the giant with slow, sure steps, shaking the bag a bit as she did so. Kilhara shift his shoulders and tilted his block of a head round to watch her go. Unsubtle. The coin was set down on the table next to his glass.

"That should be enough to jog your memory."

Something was off. Kilhara didn't reach for the bag. He was still looking at her.

"Might be, but lesee 'ere... I'm still feelin' tight-lipped," he grinned an ugly grin behind his big moustache, which now stank of whiskey. "But y' can 'elp me loosen 'em up, sunshine,"

Those big, meaty hands grabbed at her waist and pulled her in. Sheer gross bulk had her turned round, back to belly, before she could react with more than a startled squeak. Pinned her arms tight with one trunk of an arm. Something cold pressed underneath Cyd's chin. She peered down to see a flash of sliver there. The other hand held a knife against her throat.

"Thought y' could fool me, huh? Bet yer thinkin' ol' Kilhara got into this business 'cause 'e can't tell cheap whiskey apart from 'is own piss, huh? Well I can tell a damned witch when I sees one." He hefted Cyd up onto her tiptoes and spun her round to face the other knights. "Now, no more magic, and no more lies. Stay right where you are, an' this 'un stays pretty."
 
A long daggerous claw gleamed with the fire light there behind Kilhara. Eyes so dilated they looked to be a pair of eclipsed moons, wide and all seeing. So conspicuous was the site, a whole ass man seemingly manifested behind the big brute, that even the mercenaries, bound and bundled there as they were, lost their breath. As well as their own thoughts.

"Is that a cat?"​

"What's everyone got that look on their faces for?" Kilhara rumbled. Brow scrunched and big arm laxing just a smidge.

Rimebol's tail flicked. One side, then the other. He grinned. Fangs poking out from his under his fluffy lips. "Because I got you," he purred.

"Wha?"

Hypodermic clawpoints already dug into the skin of the neck. "Nighty night," the felonin Knight taunted.

Kilhara tried to whirl about. Forgetting, for a moment, the knife in his hand. But his side went limp. Knife clattered to the floor. "Wha" he slurred. "Whatcha," stumbled. "Do," Fell into a heap. Snored. "To mee-mee-mee"
 
The big Dawnling went deathly still the moment he saw the knife pressed against Cyd's throat. A mean bit of iron, so sharp it could shave a gnat's arse. Enough to open a second mouth in the pale curl of the sun elf's neck.

"Now, no more magic, and no more lies. Stay right where you are, an' this 'un stays pretty."
​
Kilhara's threat fell on deaf ears, his features morphing, twisting, changing before Faramund's eyes into something much more hideous. The fleshy nose flattened. Pig's wings pulled shrunk tight against his skull. Ruddy complexion reddened, went smooth. A lacquered mask covered the mercenary's face entirely, all but the lone eye peering back at them, vessels stark about the edges. Faramund felt the Passenger revel in delight, even as his own mind went dark with hate.

"Dun' you think about it!"
​
Blinking, the Knight removed his hand from the dagger tucked through his belt. It was enough of a distraction for the shadows to realign themselves. Rimebol's eyes practically glowed when he got to stick it to the big merc.

Faramund was halfway across the bar by the time Kilhara hit the deck. The mercs gasped in awe. Even Lethram seemed impressed. And relieved, which was saying something. 'Well, that was close.' Glancing to the Pursuant, Faramund grimaced, nodded. 'Too close,' the felonin agreed, staring down at Kilhara, as if he was contemplating something sinister. 'Drag this sack of shit over to the others. They can tend to him,' said Rimebol, glancing meaningfully towards the younger of their companions.

'Righto.' Turning, the Dawnling regarded Cyd a moment. There was a bead of crimson trailing its way down her slender neck from where Kilhara's knife had touched it. Sack of shit, indeed. 'You okay?' He asked, pressing a wad of gauze into her hand, before bowing to the task Rimebol had set him, only to find the mask had disappeared.

In its place, a human face, flawed by the fall.
 
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