The moment the woman starts coughing a clawed hand raises as if he was about to snatch it from her; to spare her, or to spare the wasting of the precious substance…? But the next time comes smoother, quieter, and he disregards the notion that Osytha is a child playing with a toy that doesn’t belong within her curious clutches. And it does not taste good, but the smoke forces a warmth within the lungs that is almost soothing, a little prickly here and there-- and its harshness against the throat is a touch unforgivable-- but one could envision a gentle mist rolling about behind their ribs coming to slowly warm tired bones. And the more she smokes it, the more the nicotine high comes to greet her, a slight dizziness in the skull, just enough to be felt as a spell of minor light-headedness that makes the body feel a little weightless, pulse-rate rises, her heart does little skips in merriment, how could something that tasted essentially like dirt and ash cause such a bout of giddiness? It was a magic spell smokers knew too well, these fuzzy feelings were too soft, the lesser effect it was having upon the knight was too small, they wanted more and more and more-- to burn within, to feel spun about, to feel alive.

Such was the well-known trap of the cigarette.

“All… us? Who is Nick?” Rois asks in perplexity, it was funny that whenever she slipped back into her old mannerisms of speech he always briefly spoke with a hint of an accent himself, the curling of Suldazan like paint coming to colour the water of speech. Admitted with squinted eyes, as if the action would cause sound to become clearer, “I am… having trouble understanding you. I do not know ‘Nick’.”

And his common-tongue is excellent, bilingual to an expert degree, but when accents became a thing and words twisted in the mouths of people he did not quite know what he heard, not one hundred percent. The idiot has not connected the dots to ‘be yourself’ and her speech patterns just yet, but thankfully Osytha’s hacked up phrases are not as twisted as they had been upon their first meeting. The gist is sort of gotten. Sort of.

Only the good Lords themselves knew who Nick was, however.

“... You understand my intent, however. Because I walk around unarmed always, some people take it as a challenge that they can try to intimidate me, and then if a fight breaks out, well…”

… Self defence!

“My plan is, if someone that looks like me is seen with a sword it will never get to that level; it’ll be frightening in itself. The problem is, I have not only never been trained to use one but I also do not know a thing about them-- if I go around asking questions then I am going to be ripped off. They will scam me into buying whatever, because I do not know any different. So I needed an expert with no connections to this place. And that is you.”

Because running off to sword masters in a town stuffed with both mercenaries and blacksmiths alike whilst calling every differing shaped sword ‘a sword’ would cause them to palm him off to whoever they had connections with, buy my things, they are better than the man’s around the corners! He won’t know if they are, all he knew was that the best place to buy a weapon would be in a location that specialized in making them. Filly had gone to knights school or wherever, surely she’d know! Surely she’d be able to tell when something is badly made or not right for him or costs far too much for what it is! The first question is the harder one to answer, the butcher hadn’t drunk a lick all this time and takes a moment to gulp down the contents of his own glass like an animal from the desert finally upon the brink of an oasis,

“I want… a sword that is long, the kind you use two hands for.” Commented with a pleased sigh at the coolness in his belly, the childish thoughts of how cool the man would look with a greatsword of some imagined type makes Rois sound a little chipper, “And I want it to be silver, not with gold or jewels or anything like that, so that enemies know it is not a prop. And then people will not be eager to start fights with me, because they will fear the fact that I might actually use it.”

Fingers tentatively to lips, an upward look,

“A pretty thing… the thing, a sheath, maybe I’d get it custom made after a while…”

… The half-beast doesn’t know anything at all. Not about balance or sword play or swinging the damned thing and definitely not about Nick, he seems more concerned about the sword looking good than actually using it. His staff had weapons but the red-head did not fancy the appearance of Rakkar’s oversized scimitar or whatever Vitri’s curved shotels were called (Rois could not conjure up a word for them if he tried his hardest). It has become quickly clear why the butcher, who was great with a cleaver upon the dead, would need someone who knew things to help him buy babies very first weapon…!
 
“Ee… beg pardon.” The knight takes a sheepish toke, still mostly working it with her mouth than her diaphragm. “By ‘allus’ I mean to say ‘always’,” she explains, smoke semaphoring out to ride the shapes of her words. “As for ‘Owd Nick’, that’s, er— you know what, maybe let’s unpack that one later. It en’t important right now.”

Osytha doesn’t know how prevalent the concept of ‘the Devil’ is beyond Hræfn Leah, and it would be a lot more comparative theology than it’s worth wading through just to explain a silly euphemism.

“A pretty thing… the thing, a sheath, maybe I’d get it custom made after a while…”​

He sits there, his pitch-black nails light to his lips as he stares off through the window of imagination. Osytha knows that look. She wore it herself quite often, from around the ages of, oh, five to ten. Back when swords were reight grand and she couldn’t wait to ride around on a big old horse and belt ne’er-do-wells upside the noggin with one.¹

“Alright. Aye, I already have some ideas. But I have to warn you: showin’ off a sword can just invite a different kind of trouble instead — hence my get-up for this mission, in fact. Bein’ armed makes you a more obvious threat, which encourages folks to skip the whole “stand and deliver” bit and jump straight into tryin’ to kill you. Never mind all the laws and mandates about who can carry what sorts of arms and where…”

While she talks, Osytha’s gaze wanders over to the window. Light from a couple of moons is strong enough to turn its ledge into a ghostly, silver-bright stripe against the darkness, but thereafter it diverges to throw two overlapping squares of color into the foyer. It’s an odd effect to look at, like the double image of an out-of-focus shape which refuses to resolve itself, no matter how hard you squint.

“I’ll help you pick out a blade,” she confirms, nodding. “You don’t even have to pay me, but I understand if that would make you feel…” less indebted to me “… better about it. Either way, though, you have to promise you will learn how to use it. So that when your deterrent fails — and sooner or later, it will fail — then you can actually back up the threat.”

So you can hopefully protect yourself, and Safya, and Vitri, and Feliene, and all the other names I don’t yet know, she adds to herself. A sword you don’t know how to use is even more dangerous than the one you do.

The hiss of tobacco cinders is almost too quiet to hear. Osytha isn’t getting any more used to wilfully filling her chest with acrid smoke, exactly, but the louder noises of coughing and throat clearing have lessened now she at least has a better idea of her limits for it. Limits which are admittedly meagre, to look at the modest progress she’s made on the cigarette.

Osytha looks back over to Rois instead. “What do you say?” she asks. “That sound acceptable to you?”


¹ Which is technically still in the job description, but composes a much smaller portion of a Knight’s workload than young Osytha had pictured, and nor had she known it would instigate as much paperwork as it does, either.
 
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“Oh, Filly. I am a criminal working in the black market,” A pleasured smile, arms stretched long against the table with a quiet shiver rolling up his spine from the release of pressure, a soft 'hmm' of contentment, “I do not care about petty laws or mandates or trouble. Trouble finds me. There are a lot of men with a lot of things to prove… and there is nothing more dangerous than a dog with his pride on the line.”

Of course he was not going to back down from threats, everything about Rois’s being screamed escalation, if others were not willing to put muscle behind their words then he would. The man was an outsider, especially the further north he went. Visibly foreign, strike one, humanities greatest problem was finding ways to ostracize others based on the most minor of differing traits-- strike two, there were plenty of big men around and their egos were as sizeable as their muscles. Every woman knew at least one, some meathead ever-eager to swing to prove they were top-dog, to flaunt themselves before the masses as the king in some imaginary competition; and he was the same. There was however a critical difference between big headed males throwing themselves against each other like beasts vying for power over lovers.

“But… I do swear that this is an attempt to stop the path of violence I walk so often.”

They knew when to stop.

They were always so shocked when the butcher kept on going, it was supposed to be a squabble, not an actual fight with consequences. Bloodied noses and broken bones were not enough, strike three, with his barbed tongue and inflammatory nature and the inability to let things slide and assumed enemies everywhere it became critical to know how to back up the nasty things you could say to people with action. And action came indeed, traumatic, unfixable injuries or death swiftly followed, the mania of the kill and the frenzied scent of blood and the screaming of on-lookers fleeing, he was top dog! And just like a canine he sits before the woman and her determined attempt to finish the flickering stick betwixt her fingers with the puppyish glee of a mutt about to gain a new toy, but it is not so simple. Rois knows it isn’t, it is why ‘morals’ were mentioned, arming him could swing both ways… and there was no way to know which way it’d swing until the idea was carried out.

“If threats come… then they come. If they don’t, then all the better for it. I feel like people see an unarmed man and figure he’s easier to jump than an armed one, I would not even have to unsheath it, hm?” It is almost like he is searching her for reassurance with those questioning eyes, she is the expert after all. They do not linger upon Osytha for long, attention is turned to the coin purse that had been dutifully fetched in the middle of the ferocity earlier and slid haphazardly in her direction; the stiff leather tips and spills gold clinking before her thoughtful gaze in the way of coins in all their beautiful glory. The mintage is not free-state, northern or southern or from the stranger continent afar, the embossing of a hammer striking down against deep lines amidst a broken circle is very specifically Munas Kuvakian.

“It is worth less outside the city… probably somewhere around half, but here it is treated in full.” Her mentioning of not being paid is swiftly ignored of course, because if the stray knight did it for free then it would be a favor, and favors had to be repaid. “I’d suggest buying something here, but it is your decision.”

… Those are nine gold coins before her. Ninety silver. Nine hundred copper. Families lived on wages of twenty silver a month, and those were the lucky ones; even if carried beyond the threshold of the town, to anywhere that would accept any sort of mint, that is quite a nice bit of pocket change for something he’d describe as 'easy'. A rested temple against the curling of fingers sees him staring at her sideways through locks and bandages alike in that oh-so free way he oft did, so quietly relaxed, a far cry from before--

“And I also think that, when I get my sword, you show me quickly how to swing… it will not take long at all, right? You turn the sharp end on people you wish to harm,” An amused chuff, why, is that a genuine laugh? Sure, it is about hurting people, but those ruby eyes sparkle with mirth at the mere prospect of learning how to ‘learn how to use a sword’, “It cannot be that hard…?”


Quick note: I'm using the standard DND system of coinage and have been looking at other peoples posts to see how money is used, that his how that specific amount came to be (plus some help from in disc lol). And even more minor note, it is worth around half (maybe closer to 3/4? Somewhere between the two) elsewhere due to the fact it is gold smelted with silver and copper to stabalize the metal (like they did in ye olden days and probably do elsewhere IC) plus the price of inflation that exists within the town plus the lack of credibility that comes with not well-known mint stamps!
 
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“Well…” Osytha considers this, finding the distinct taste of hubris upon what Rois seemed to have posed as a rhetorical question, “… in a way, you’re right — learnin’ how to use a sword is relatively simple. It’s learnin’ how to fight someone with it that’s the hard part. That part, you never really stop training for.”

Those coins draw her eye back down. Gold. She picks one up, and frowns slightly. … mostly gold, comes the amendment as she tests its weight. Even so. Osytha has accrued her share of silver, yes, but gold? A fair bit rarer to come by, that. She’s handled a little, mostly for other people rather than to keep herself, and right now she has but one sequin to her name, carefully sewn into the lining of her raiment rather than entrusted to something as insecure as a coin purse. She knows its weight and lustre well, so she can tell these are a little off. Electrum, perhaps, or something like it. But, even so…

“I think if folk see someone wealthy and unarmed, that’s when you’re guaranteed trouble.” Osytha reflects on a certain ill-advised solo pub crawl of hers a couple years ago, when her sloshed steps had taken her to a particularly seedy part of Crown’s Hold. Sure, she had a sword back then, but that doesn’t count for much when you’re obviously far too rat-arsed to use it, and the way she’d flashed her silver around… if not for a certain timely guardian angel, well, there’s a good chance Osytha would not be here today. “So I suppose if you’re already goin’ to be a target, then aye — the idea has merit.”

The cigarette sizzles, and coin glimmers as it somersaults via some legerdemain between her fingers, from one side of her hand back to the other. Osytha watches its progress, frowning slightly. “It cannot be that hard…? Chuckles low, suddenly, because she realises Rois is right about something else as well. Some things you can’t explain with words alone. Some things can only be learned through action.

If this is what he wants, then Osytha is going to have to show him just how hard it can get.

“If ivver tha gavest silver an’ gold, ivvery neet an’ alle,” she murmurs to herself, then puts the coin back with its fellows. “Surely, this is far too much pay for such a simple job — even if you are rollin’ in it. Why?”
 
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“‘Folk’ do see someone unarmed and wealthy, that is me.” Incredible statement of clarification, the man somehow says this with an entirely straight face that slips into a blunt one at her brief critical eye upon the disk, “And yes, it is real gold. They use some other metals so it does not go soft… pure gold is very annoying to have in large quantities.”

The butcher knew a little something about that, hidden somewhere was an unbelievable wealth that did absolutely nothing and rarely saw the light of day. Eyes flicker about her fingers toying with the thing catching the moon-rays here and there slanted softly through the window; and he pretends like she is not speaking in riddles for a moment, but is a little caught off guard by the weird phrase she utters. A pause for puzzlement with the smallest tipping of a snared skull to the side before continuing,

“And… I am a simple man. I want nice clothes, and nice food-- lots of it-- and a nice bed, and nice tobacco… but aside from that, what else could I possibly need? Land? A title? I’ve already bought wagons and finely bred mules, I pay my staff fairly, so I have nothing left to buy. Well, except a beautiful sword.”

And Osytha would be reminded once again of a child pondering the thought of an expensive new toy, as if the price would mean the weapon did more damage or something-- and she is about to be treated to some performance, a real show, because the man is about to attempt to get out of the whole learning to use a sword well business. And it really was a simple scheme.

Just be stronger than a sword, duh!

“Ah, but see… I am a very strong person. I could reach out my hand right now… and tear your very skull from your spine.” This is acted out, his hand suddenly gets close to her head in an ominous fashion with claw tips furled to grasp the knight by the noggin'… but they never get any closer than just the gentlest brushing of hair. Could good sword-play stop an arm from being torn from its ligaments in a medley of fractured bone and snapped muscle? His stupid handsome face is so smug, a broad grin overtakes him as he addresses a rolled up sleeve with a dashed motion to flex a chiseled bicep in all its flushed bronze glory at her like a school boy trying to impress a gal, lord have mercy, he’s an idiot.

“The perks of being a hybrid…! I have eaten so many people that they are now me, their blood became my own, my heart beats with their strength!" This is not a new rhetoric and calls to mind the previous idea of live giving life, the methodical and philosophical approach to cannibalism, “Usually the best way to deal with someone with a sword is to simply rip his arm off. It always works. But... it also kills. And if they get close enough to stab me… I have been stabbed many, many times. All it takes is turning into it and back… and then I am good as new.”

Could good sword-play stop someone who was notably half-demon and would keep going even when ran through?! Rois does not address the notion that turning into it always became a terrible fiasco of bleeding out somewhere in the woods and telling his entire team to run far away before a rampaging crocodile thing started immediately taking issue with every living thing in a large radius for a little while, but! The healing was a good trait to have…! The burnt tongue, the smouldering shoulder of the basement, after turning back they had vanished as if they had never existed in the first place… phantom memories and distant pain.

“Maybe I should just aim to cripple people instead.” A content nod with the blasé rolling of a wrist… a pause. WAIT. Eyes sparkle cartoonishly with enlightenment (and such a comical, animated expression is worn upon the huge, grizzly male strangely well) as a curled fist is slammed unceremoniously against the table, his cup jumps and threatens to spill, wait, wait, fuck the sword, hold on-- “... Maybe… I need a club, instead.”
 
This time, she doesn’t flinch away. Osytha turns her head to Rois, her eyes darting briefly to the abrupt motion of a hand toward her face, then over, looking into his face. She feels the tickle of his fingers against her hair, hears the self-satisfied tone in his voice and further sees that smugness curl his cheeks, the corners of his eyes. And when he leans back to show off the bulge of muscle up his arm, for a second, she wonders if this is real. Or is he now doing a caricature of himself?

Sometimes, Rois feels like a living, breathing manifestation of Poe’s law. This is certainly turning into one of those moments.

The cigarette saves her in the end — takes her rising giggle and turns it into a genuine coughing fit. Hopefully he also just interprets her twisting features as discomfort, and not as the amused smile that it was for a flash.

“If you—” she catches, wheezing into the back of her hand before it lowers, and then goes on, “—if you truly, honestly don’t mind lettin’ the fiend take over to finish fights, then you don’t need my help pickin’ out a weapon. But it sounds like you want to stop things from reachin’ that point so often, nay?”

Osytha ashes her durry again. Her visage seems to fall with mild dismay as she observes how she’s only halfway through the thing. Nonetheless, it’s still there betwixt her fingers when she leans back. She jabs its point in Rois direction, as an emphasising little gesture for her next word.

“Havin’ a prop as a deterrent, that’ll help. If that’s all this is, it’ll be a lot cheaper to just buy some half-baked wall-mount that looks genuine enough, even if it would just shatter like a glass drum in real combat. But like I told you before: if you want my help pickin’ out the real deal to use, I need to know you’ll use it properly. Otherwise, it’s just goin’ to be wasted on you.”

Puff, puff. Smoke shines bright as Osytha huffs it away at the window. The intricacies of all its grainy, dancing coils shown up in an ethereal silver which gently thins and fades.

“Now we can do that one of two ways,” she intones, mesmerised by that lunar sway. “You can say you’ll keep practicin’ with it, and that’ll be plenty good enough for me, ’cause I know your word is golden. Or… we can have a bout. One bout, more if you prefer, with protective’ gear — I’m sure we can find some to rent in a forge town like this.” Fechtfedern, arming caps, gambesons, gauntlets and such; Munas Kuvak is the place to go for arms and armour, after all. “And if you can best me without gettin’ hit anywhere that it would take your fiend to patch you up, then I’ll gladly do as you ask, and without makin’ you beholden to any daft promise.

“That is my price. The coin’s entirely optional, but those terms ain’t.”
 

Oh, he had really hoped she’d be swayed.

That somehow she’d gaze upon him and decide, you know what? He is strong, no training needed! Just rip off arms, it is fine, maybe do it more gently, maybe get a club and learn how to not break people’s spines with the ferocity of the hit… but Osytha is Osytha, and Rois knows the damned knight is not easily swayed, but there had been an attempt anyway. Because he too wanted to be better. He too wanted to stop lashing out so harshly, wanted to deter the mangling of bodies upon their travelled roads, disappointment in the eyes of his family and the law ever sniffing around for reasons to throw them into stone cells. And as the woman turns from hacked up words burned by smoke his jovial nature in turn melts away ever so slowly.

… For a person who loftily proclaimed aloud that they were so fierce, the butcher definitely becomes more and more nervous as she firmly wheezes on. Nails scrape against each other in finger twiddling. The smile vanishes into a sort of barely open parted frown as eyes steal away to the ash tray’s lingering mess of powder, a bout? Why would she want a bout, were her ears not working, strong enough to tear limb from limb-- and she wished to fight? No, it was not his own strength that worried him-- though every part of the half-beast hoped she assumed that his now quieter visage was because of this-- it was the unspoken threat, the secret. Rois did not engage in practise fights. One solid enough hit to the head, which would bring round nought but a headache in any normal person could cause him to suddenly find himself amidst the treacherous waters of a seizure; and Osytha did not know this. And he could not tell her.

And he could not just lie either and say he’d practise in the moment. He wouldn’t.

“... Those terms are not fair,” He addresses her with a dour note despite holding his head held high, “You are going to win. How could I possibly win.”

There was not actually a choice; wasting time and money and effort losing a fight for exactly the same outcome as the other option was pointless, it would mean the perhaps reveal of something he definitely did not want to be dragged into the light and with it would come a heavy loss of pride. He’s pissed off. And you can tell the man is pissed off by the mere notion of ‘having to win’ attached to sturdy statements because all of a sudden, a gap widens between them, physically and mentally, no more outward nervousness. No more obtuse behaviour, no more animated gestures or open expressions, no more wavering pitch of emotion, it so quickly and suddenly lapses into what it was before… coldness. Quiet, tense and stifling air, stiff muscles.

She probably just wanted to humiliate him, that was the reason the secondary option of even engaging in a spar was brought up in the first place, wanted to feel high and mighty treading all over his trampled form upon the ground out of wish fulfillment. Wanted to show off. Wanted to find out where weak points were that could be exploited at a later date to whisper onto others, yes, hit here and here and here and he’s bad at all of it so we can strike when we want; and training would fix that, but he’d have to find a trainer willing to work with him-- him!-- and maybe the killing would continue and they could just kill the law and keep on running forever and forever until the inevitable came, death, sweet and pure and final--

“... I am going to bed.” Comes the static, low sweep of words with narrowed eyes, flat reds, Rois stands from his seat abruptly and leaves both gold and cigarettes to linger upon the stone surface without much care. “I’ll think about what you said.”

And he is escaping the scene because the red-head knows, if he stays, then he is going to lash out-- not physically but verbally. It’s as evident as the growl that echo’d about those harshly outputted statements, all bark, and… Osytha did have good will with him. She had been pleasant and respectful and did promise to help, but in the moment an unjust haze was coming about the butchers skull that would shred it all into confetti if he sat there and argued it, killing was easier, killing was so much easier, he presses the heel of his hand to a temple and wanders over to the kitchen door to say something to Safya through the low-light of its little window, a tone change. The chipper response from within tells Osy that it is not anything dastardly or horrid, or the bird would have confronted him in alarm.

Rois pretends she does not exist as he slinks shadow-ways up to his door and disappears within the room with the soft clicking of a lock. Safya had told her to choose any room that did not have a visibly locked door by the way of an old-timey gauge indicating a lick of red paint above the handle. She is abandoned in the moonlight.
 
‘Unfair’? She doesn’t think so. Not when it comes to a life-and-death matter like this. It’s not at all unfair, in Osytha’s estimation, that she would want him to take this as seriously as he can. She’s been there too many times herself, when being good enough with a blade has meant being able to save the things she’d wanted to save… but also, and especially, when she’s fallen short. Unfair. What would be unfair is giving someone a sword and acting as if that alone will fix all their problems.

For what reason does Rois feel her expectations are unfair?

“… I am going to bed. I’ll think about what you said.”​

She flicks away a touch more ash. Nods. “I’ll do the same,” comes her soft reply. “Good night, Rois. Thanks for the smoke.”

Osytha sits there a minute longer once the big man ghosts away upstairs, using her time to polish off the last couple bites of dinner remaining on her plate, which she then takes into the kitchen and exchanges a few words with Safya. Osytha re-emerges with a rag to mop up that puddle, and afterwards, seats herself back down. That’s how the accountant finds her when she returns a while later with a few things Osytha had requested. The objects are laid neatly by her side, for which thanks is given. And then Filly’s alone in the room once more. Staring out the window, puffing away through the last leg of tobacco.

Not exactly her cup of tea, Osytha decides, by the low-flaring gold of an in-drawn breath. It isn’t outright awful, just sort of, mildly unpleasant all around. She used to love the aroma of smoke, any smoke; the hint of collier’s mounds through vales back home, the respite of a campfire beneath the stars, the promise of good, oven-baked bread. But you don’t light as many pyres as she has without it souring you on the smell some.

So, no, she doesn’t enjoy the cigarette. And yet she sits there alone in the moonlit foyer for as long as it takes to work her way down to the filter. Doesn’t rush. Simply takes well-paced, leisurely drags, interspersed with thoughtful little silences where she but lets the rollup rest between her fingers. Like she’s treasuring it. Right to the very end.

Eventually, Osytha stubs it out. Then she picks up the collection of papers and instruments Safya has brought her, and makes her way upstairs to find a room of her own. The bed within, however, shall have to wait for her a little longer.
 
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The collection of maps are all drawn from people outside of the actual region; they bear inconsistencies and some untruths and some are old, but they all scribbled with the same boring lines of what appeared to be trader routes throughout the northern spread of the realm. It is because of their dullness and lack of ‘giving away anything’ that Safya has no problems with stealing the collection of bits and bobs from the navigators box at the lead wagons head, scurried through a back door and returning with a beat of tiredness… the cleaning was almost done. Almost. Things had to be restored to a terribly high condition after all. But there is one notable, shared marking marring each of the parchments surface; Crowns hold, Clouds keep and White port are circled with a measurable radius about them… and the further-north have thick lines drawn across it, invisible barriers that persisted in ink alone.

The upper floor was more of the same, minus the shared dining space. The same lengthy string of doors that possessed nothing in the way of decoration but numbers barely touched by the moonlight of thin windows at the beginning and end of the row, to which another set of stairs at the farthest end exists by way of black metal veering sharply upwards; a rooftop space where smokers who did not want to roam back down towards the main room could huddle in their shared misery beneath the sun and stars. Notably the white-light falls stronger upon those steps, a clue that that door sitting atop the shorter set was cracked open just a smidge to allow fresh air to cleanse the tight, rocky interior-- someone could be found up there blighted by his own suffocating sadness.

Her footsteps do, however, trigger something that breaks the peace of the once-silent upstairs.

From one of the doors a few paces ahead to the right there is the loud click-shhh of the lock being turned at an eager pace, it flies open to bathe the scene in the dancing bright-orange of intense, shared candle-light from smouldering iron lanterns within--

“Croc--”
“Cro…”

Two of them.

Feliene and Alaera have stumbled forth from their rigid confinements with thin arms wide open, all bright smiles and visible excitement thinking the person wandering the hall was him-- identical, from the white satin night-dresses hemmed by lace they wore down to the loose curls of their icy blue hair teetering on the brink of white, fine elven bones stretched over by flushed porcelain skin. Nope. That is not him, that is not even a man. A soft, joint exclamation of ‘ah!’ befuddlement captures them immediately, a pair of blue eyes go round with unspoken horror, though Feliene has seen the knight before they were under orders not to engage or to even be seen-- and so with a flurry of movement the pair of youths immediately skedaddle back inside with alarmed expression to lock the door with the same eagerness that they had thrown it open with. The scene plunges into darkness and silence once again, and for all the threads that Osytha has pulled, something about this one seems different. An ominous tickling at the back of her skull like the beginning chills of winter, a sensory warning, Kells the writer projects terrible emotion through her screen… do not pull, the feeling says. The trouble that comes with the exploration of that particular furl of string is suffocatingly dangerous and would lead into nothing even remotely good coming about for the good knight and her deathly sense of curiosity.


Note: Rois's room is downstairs and so he's still on the lower floor! :3
 
Osytha blinks back in surprise at the two faces. Then she smiles, recognising Feliene — a glad expression, if slightly marred by awkwardness at being unable to quite pick which one of them is the lass she’s met before.

“’Ullo, hens,” she offers. “Nice to see—”

THUD

*click*

“—you…?”

Osytha stares a second longer at the firmly re-shut door. Her brow furrows slightly.

“What am Ah,” she grumbles, “chopped liver?”

Her shoes resume their tapping tread down the corridor. That sliver of moonlight draws Osytha’s eye next, to where it falls across wrought iron steps and rails. Her first instinct is, of course, to have a bit of a sticky-beak; see who might be up there at this hour or if the roof access has simply been left ajar by accident, maybe also check if it makes a good place to find some solitude… but, no. Her curiosity has killed enough cats for one evening.

So she walks to the first unlocked door she finds, and enters on in.

It’s an amenable enough space, judging by the bit of light coming through its window. Room for a bed plus a travel trunk at its foot, a washstand, and even a small, utilitarian writing desk onto which she places the loaned items. For an inveterate rover such as Osytha, the facilities are more than adequate.

There’s one of those iron lanterns in here too, its black metal cage enclosing a big fat candle. Further investigation soon yields a tinderbox, and after a minute, she has the glowing orange tip of some charcloth lighting up that wick, and a soft, amber light gently waxes into life around the room.

She begins to settle in.

First up, ablutions. She takes out one of her little hazel twigs, chews its end until it's nicely frayed, then scrubs her teeth with it while giving the documents a preliminary glance. After that, she uses some of the water and toiletries supplied to make up a mouth rinse, where she is not at all surprised to find the aromatics decidedly pine-y. Which isn’t bad, and certainly beats the lingering taste of smoke and garlic going rancid in her mouth.

The wash-stand cabinet reveals a guzunder. Fresh, thankfully. She takes it out and once she’s done swilling and spits the rinse into its broad mouth.

Finally, she peels away her layers, fills the washbasin with a little more water and, aided by a little soap and a rag, does what she can to wipe away the sweat and dirt of the long trek here. There’s little to be done about her shift, unfortunately. Though maybe she can find a fresh one while she’s in town.

That grey water also goes in the pot. Once Osytha towels down, she dons just the chemise as her bedclothes and stows the rest away in the trunk. There’s no hearth in here, and it’s a little on the chilly side. But her own body heat and that big candle will do enough to make a small space like this bearable.

Osytha feels refreshed; unshackled by the general sort of ickiness one accumulates upon the road, even if it is but a partial reprieve. She settles in at the desk. Spine arches back and her arms stretch straight forward, until vertebrae and knuckles make satisfying little pops.

Then Osytha makes ready her stationary, and gets to work.
 

For someone who often loudly stated that he was nought but a man, Rois, at his core, was very much like an animal.

The man himself knows this well, many of the strangers that were memorable enough to stagger into the butchers warped bubble he huddled safely in were given animal names in turn, but the first ever ‘animal’ nickname given was by himself to himself; Rois identified himself as a dog. Not the prim and proper canines of court ladies needing their lap warmed or the screaming, frenzied hounds of a hunter… but the sort of mutt one would see circling about the streets, unowned, flea-bitten, ready to drool and any scrap that sympathetic eyes dared to throw his way, all bones and dead-fur and tattered ears. This image of himself had come long, long before the demon forced the name ‘crocodile’ onto him. That name was what he wished to be, a ferocious, calculating thing that held no emotion in its eyes, ready to snare anyone who dared get to close with its terrible teeth and drag them bubbling down into the mud-- and it is what most people saw-- but his heart knew despite the change in looks, the power, the money and the responsibilities, deep down… still a mangy mutt, desperate to feel the warm of living things who could look past the beaten exterior to bring a hand against his head, good dog.

Forty five minutes into Osytha’s activities, the wooden floor of the upstairs creaks a little to signify movement-- stray dog slinking carefully through the dark. Rois does not know what door Osytha is behind as the internal light does not leak through tightly sealed doors, the footsteps are uneven, he pauses and waits for a few beats to stare at the exteriors in turn… and hears nothing. The knight must be asleep. Thank the gods for that, because no part of his being conjured up images of stealth and he is bad at sneaking, trying to walk on tiptoes but so heavy footed that it is obvious that the man is attempting to be quiet in this little solo mission. Soft knocking. Very soft, almost impossible to hear upon the twins door, Osytha does not hear said door unlock but it is clear it does because all of a sudden the quiet is marred by skittering footsteps--

“Crocodile! You came!”
“We didn’t think you’d come--”

“Not so loud-- shhhhhhhh.”

Harsh hushing towards voices that were just as identical as their owners, they had been talking at full volume in their excitement at his arrival and only speak a little quieter thereafter (in the way that children very much did). Their little habit of yapping one after another could easily fool Osytha’s ears into thinking just a single person was talking,

“You did not see us for so long… we thought something was wrong.”
“... Do you feel alright? Is your head ok?”

A beat of silence towards the specific concern that would only be odd to people who didn’t know otherwise, and the curse of having a voice as baritone as his is that even when he himself tries to whisper it comes out as a throaty mumble that is quiet, but still very much audible,

“... I am alright, I think. It has been a long day, so more than anything I’m just tired. I’m sorry for keeping you up here. I just... needed to make sure it was safe, first.”

“Aahh… do you really think the lady would hurt us?”
“We can protect ourselves…”

“... I think anyone would hurt you, if they hated me enough.” Soft words thrumming with emotion, no doubt due to memories of Taani, who had unfairly taken upon his shoulders the anger others felt towards he himself. The moment does not turn into a sad one however, Rois adds in a tone that is no doubt said with a fanged grin, “You cannot protect yourselves… look at you--”

“Hey! Hey! No!”
“Wait-- Stoppp!”

God gave mankind two arms to grab with, one for each twin, their exclamations are accompanied by a fit of giggles and more dancing feet, the implication of the movement is that he’s grappled them somehow with outstretched claws in such a clumsy and playful manner that they have to jitter about to escape! Rushed snorting and bird-trill snickering, and even though the man is the one that instigated the noise with another ‘ssshhhh’ he reminds them that people are asleep and that they cannot be hooting and hollering at this time of night,

“-- So the lady is nice then? Nice in a good way, or nice in an evil way?”
“Give us details… we want to gossip!”

Rois uncharacteristically does not take a moment to think about the response.

“Oh, she is nice in the normal way. Just a regular person, far more so than any of us.” Admittedly openly, though an unseen moment is taken to scratch his head at the idea of giving details over about Osytha, not because he does not want to-- but because he doesn’t quite get what newly teenage girls mean when they say things like ‘details’, “She talks funny, has an ugly taste in dresses and has emotional issues.”

“Just like you!” And at the same time,
“Just like you!”

“I do not talk funny, and my wardrobe is immaculate-- oh... ha-ha.” A pout and a barely audible grumble, “Anyway, I am confident she does not like me which does not surprise me, but she doesn’t hate me, either; meaning it’s probably safe for you two to join us at breakfast. You pull any funny tricks, though, and I’ll send you straight back up here…”

“Wah, no, we’re going to be so good!!”
“We’re going to be perfect!”
“It is too quiet up here… and boring, and cold. You should…”

A soft ‘ohhhhh’ from the girls in unison,

“... Yes… sleep in our room, Crocodile?”
“Yes; we can make a big bed on the floor, and, and show you what we found today!”
“It is a pretty rock; we think it is opal. Come look?”

If it was not crystal clear to Osy before it most certainly is now; wanting their caretaker to sleep in their room, genuine happiness about the idea that they had found a rock that was not just pretty but valuable, the sudden grappling of the stretching moments before and the way they speak with sweet noises and pitched tones, these are very much children-- less hens, moreso chicks--, no matter what they looked like on the outside... such was the speed in which elves grew physically compared to the other races. Children hidden away like princesses in a tower from the big bad knight and her steel and her skills and the ears she could whisper into, the paranoia that came with a being that could kill, the mistrust of oaths and words alike… and with the history they had, no, Rois would not take that chance on the first day. He needed to make sure through tests and exposure that the supposedly ‘sleeping’ woman would not bypass him entirely and strike at his very heart, not the one in his chest but the ones that so eagerly and purely now reached out towards him with hands seeking comfort… but their little wishes could not be fulfilled.

He had to pretend like they weren’t so close to him, after all. And waking up in their room would very much be in opposition to that.

And the entire conversation was taking place outside the room in the first place because the butcher was not an idiot and he knew that stepping into their dwellings would trap him in there, they would not let him leave, and so with a smidge of regret (but mostly with a wheezed, quiet laugh),

“Nope… not today. I do actually have to sleep… I am old, you know. My bones are creaking, even standing here right now…”

“No they aren’t. Liar! Come here; I want to hear.”
“Let me hear your bones, too.”

Any excuse to hug, the silence is filled with rushed, breathy laughter… composed by the three of them. Two chattering kittens clambering against their whining dog, whose joy could not be heard in the presence of strangers, but here without the threat of their opinions it is breezy and pitched and half snuffled and it does not struggle to escape his jaws like so much often did; and the next statement is snapped with roughish glee,

“Gettoffa’ me. Go to sleep, or you’ll miss breakfast entirely… and you won’t want to miss that, I heard Safya defrosted the mangoes.”

“Mangoes!”
“Mangoes!”
“Okok-- we’ll go to sleep right now, even if you are eager to abandon us…”
“Cruel Crocodile… leaving us up here in the dark…”

“You aren’t going to guilt trip me this time… ! Show me your rock tomorrow, alright?”

“We will. Goodnight, mean Crocodile!”
“Goodnight, Crocodile. We will bring it down with us!”

One could imagine Rois’s face in the moment licked with a little despair, he did not want to look at the damned rock, but every celestial above knew he would regardless. Softly, sincerely, easily, a deep coo,

“‘Night. Love you.”

“I love you!”
“Love you too, mean Crocodile!”

They are left with a barely witheld scoff, wood creaking, a door shutting and the muted clicking of a lock as the dog returns to careful stepping in a calculated creep towards the lower floor. Despite the annoyance at Osytha's request about sword practise, the dog gets to go sleep with a wagging tail, and the moonlit upper floor once again lapses into silence that somehow feels a little less colder than before.
 
While inside a suite but a couple doors further down the corridor…​

Silence. Stretching on for two, maybe three minutes here and there. Occasionally broken by gentle little sounds; the soft shuffling of paper, or creak of a chair beneath shifting weight. Or, a faint and despairing sigh — that one usually follows on the heels of a fresh page being turned over. Those huffs yield, after about half an hour, to even more subtle noises. A woody swish from something light sliding into place, then deeper, drawn-out whispers of a stylus being drawn with precision across the page.

Hoo, boy. These maps… these maps aren’t all that much. Perhaps the Sinclair Meat Market has in fact gathered more information about the north than what is shown here. But if not, then Osytha sure has her work cut out for her.

That’s fine. Rois said it himself; he’s no stranger to illicit dealings and criminal underbellies. He’ll probably run with whatever such leads she gives him and soon have his own network in the making. The rest of it, though — lesser-yet-still-useful roads and settlements, checkpoints, fiefdom boundaries (with their individual quirks), relevant topography and hydrography, etc. — she’ll need to focus on those things. And that’s just the beginning…

Where to start? Osytha has just finished copying select contents of those parsimonious maps to a fresh working draft of her own, so now it’s a matter of roughly filling in the gaps with her own knowledge. She taps the silverpoint thoughtfully against her chin a few times, before lowering its tip to the page—

“Crocodile! You came!”
“We didn’t think you’d come—”

“Not so loud— shhhhhhhh.”​

Osytha freezes. Then, cocks her head slightly to the muffled voices coming through her door.

“… I am alright, I think. It has been a long day, so more than anything I’m just tired. I’m sorry for keeping you up here. I just… needed to make sure it was safe, first.”​

She wonders; what’s this about Rois’ head? Is it to do with his transformation? Or—?

“Aahh… do you really think the lady would hurt us?”
“We can protect ourselves…”​

The badger frowns. Answer that one wisely, Rois.

“… I think anyone would hurt you, if they hated me enough.” A pause. “You cannot protect yourselves… look at you—”

“Hey! Hey! No!”
“Wait— Stoppp!”​

For a flicker, just a flicker, Osytha’s chest twinges with surprise… but it’s soon evident those are squeals of laughter and delight coming from the twins. The kind of giggling fits she used to hear from Leofric when they’d laik about the village, and Osytha would chase him with her fingers all a-wriggling threats of ticklish doom.

She pictures that scene unfolding in the corridor outside. No. With Rois? Surely not. Rois. And yet…

It occurs to Osytha that she’s grinning. Like an idiot, no doubt.

“She talks funny, has an ugly taste in dresses and has emotional issues.”

“Just like you!”
“Just like you!”​

From no more than a half-dozen yards away comes the careful, strained silence of a woman biting down on her knuckles. Somewhere in the midst of quelling back her own bark of laughter, Osytha’s eyes dart over to the trunk housing her sunset-hue surcote.

Alright, well, that’s a fair cop, she concedes. I’ll admit it’s nay haute couture. Though at least the kirtle’s not so bad… is it…?

“Anyway, I am confident she does not like me which does not surprise me, but she doesn’t hate me, either…”​

Above her maps, that contorted face quickly eases off into a blank expression. Osytha’s fist unclenches, lowering away, and she stares downward. Well beyond the surface of the writing desk.

She’s like that for the remainder of the eavesdropped exchange, her only movement being to unconsciously prod the top of her stylus to her chin while she listens.

“No they aren’t. Liar! Come here; I want to hear.”
“Let me hear your bones, too.”​

OK, that’s a little creepy. If fairly on-brand, judging from Osytha’s first encounter with Feliene.

“’Night. Love you.”

“I love you!”
“Love you too, mean Crocodile!”​

Footsteps retreat away, down the groaning staircase. A door clicks shut. Quiet settles down, soft as gossamer, thrumming ever so faintly with the diminishing cadence of distant night-life. While Osytha continues to gaze distantly into space.

One of her first thoughts, of course, is that she’s just been treated to something of a stage production. A dash of theatre to tug on the old heartstrings, maybe get any big softies listening in to feel more amenably towards this troupe’s plight. Come on; “Love you” — really?

… but is that so far-fetched?

Osytha knows there’s more to Rois than the mask he puts on for her. Even if she hadn’t already seen it slip with her own two eyes, everyone is more than what you merely see on the surface. She also has a pretty strong feeling that kind of subterfuge just isn’t his style, either; not like Crocs has been especially bothered with making a good impression up until now, so it’s hard to imagine why that’s suddenly changed.

Plus, she’d seen the looks on the twins’ faces when they’d burst out of their door. Sheer elation, dashed to disappointed horror… no, it had been genuine enough.

Her eyes slowly refocus into the here-and-now. Soft grey lines over the cross-hatched texture of linen paper, these things swim into focus. Then Osytha slowly looks further up, into the steady yellow flame of a candle, little ephemeral black coils twisting higher and disappearing.

Rois was wrong about one thing. At least one thing¹. But quite right about another — it’s late, and no one’s doing themselves any favours by keeping their beds waiting.

With painstaking quietude, Osytha stands up and stretches. Then she blows out the lantern, slips through the sudden dark in beneath her bedsheets, closes her eyes… and tries to settle her restless mind for sleep.


¹ Just not about her fashion sense.
 
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Morning breaks with fantastic light and tired sighs.

The nightshift had began to stagger back to scattered beds at some point just before twilights demise, the lavender sky threatening to bleed orange-red, it was not the voices that gave away their arrival but the soft pattering of a hundred boots roaming in every direction; a multitude of gentle huffing, too tired to speak. This was in stark contrast to the hour after the sky burst into flame, the morning shift with zealous chattering are accompanied by the mingling blacksmiths and store-keepers alike, forges churn alive with stoked wood-chips atop coal to begin the cycle of smoke anew… the chimneys bellow, and Munas Kuvak has begun another heated day against stone and soil.

Upon the bed of duck down and wooly flock a single square of sun-glow captures Osytha’s center through the little window upon the wall, turning silk-spun, deep red bed-sheets a sprightlier shade of carmine; a brighter day than before, barely any clouds come to smear the furthest reaches of the sapphire sky not yet touched by rolling coal plumes. The cozy din of distant talking from the warming streets and the luxury of the bed may tempt weaker souls to sleep in until the later hours, but sadly for Osytha, she would not be given the chance.

Feliene stands amidst the thin flittering of the hallways dust with a pout upon her face, staring directly at her identical sister with slightly upturned brows-- they are not at their door. They are at Osytha’s (the only other locked door on the floor!). There is no knock for the moment, just the tap-tap of shoeless feet and rushed words that tried very flimsily to be quiet… after all, it wasn’t night-time. Who would wish to waste the glorious morning in bed?

“You don’t need to fidget.”

“But…”

Alaera was stressfully toying with her hair, overcome by a general air of anxiety floating about her little form, eyes stealing themselves away from the unknown threat of big bad Osytha behind it; fingers tangle against the softly curled locks at her throat. She lacked an experience that her sister had, the initial spying of the knight about a bubbling stew-pot a full moon ago.

“I don’t know… what if something bad happens?” The gentlest cooing, like a mourning dove’s cry, “What’ll we do then…?”

“... Aren’t good knights supposed to protect the innocent?” A heavy emphasis on ‘good’, Feliene barely manages to keep a trill of laughter from her words, “We are the innocent!”

“Not… by association.” Comes the quick protest, memories, her mouth forms a wobbly line, “Oh… I do not know, I really don’t. Plus, Crocodile will be really, really mad…”

“You listen too much to him; that is why you worry so much. Safya said there is nothing to fear, so, I choose to believe her.” A thoughtful pause… a slightly less confident statement, “... If anything does happen, just run, ok?”

“Feliene--”

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
 
“That’s assumin’ you can outrun me.” Click, snick; the door eases open, revealing a dressed and presentable knight behind it, back in her apricot mistake. “The walls en’t that thick, you ken.”

Osytha wipes a little ink off her fingertips as she takes in the twins before her. A couple of young elvish lasses, hair like it’s spun from a glacier, and those electric blue eyes she remembers, too. If there’s any surprise in their gazes, Osytha has to wonder why; she rarely had the luxury of sleeping in while growing up as a peasant, and military organisations like the order don’t much tolerate such idleness, either. In fact it’s one of the agonies to which she rather enjoys acclimating their recruits.

From the looks of it, the knight has been up for a little while now already. Not letting that daylight go to waste.

“Mornin’, loves.” Osytha flashes the girls a smile. “What can I do for you?”
 
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