The First

The First

The Fool
The door to the tavern slammed open, rattling on its hinges like the place itself flinched. Smoke, sweat, and the stale tang of spilled ale clung thick to the air, an offense to the finer senses. But Ahmir had long learned to navigate filth when necessary. The scent of his own perfumed silks curled into the musk, a stark contrast—for he did not belong here. He had no need to any longer. At least that's what he told himself.

And yet, here he was.

As Ahmir strode in, Sarabi slipped soundlessly behind him, her sleek form moving like living shadow between the tables. The sand cat’s sharp feline eyes swept the room, tail twitching once before she slunk closer to her master’s side. The firelight flickered over her tawny fur, catching on the sharp curve of fangs as she yawned.

Ahmir’s teeth were on edge as he cut through the tavern, bootsteps purposeful. The men within paid him no mind at first, too occupied with their own vices, their own short-lived victories, before they inevitably drowned their woes in piss ale. But eyes lingered when they thought Ahmir wasn’t looking. They always did. The rich fabrics of his robes, the scent of exotic oils, the very way he carried himself—it drew attention, warranted or not.

But his focus was singular.

At the back of the room, in the tavern’s dimmest corner, sat The Sixth. A game of cards lay between him and a handful of unfortunate souls, all blissfully unaware they were being stripped of their coin by a masterful cheat. Ahmir could see the casual smirk that curled his brother’s lips, fingers deftly flicking a card.

Ahmir’s own fingers twitched.

This was not the time for his brother’s games. Not when his reputation, and that of the Gilded Peacock Guild, were hanging in the balance.

Suppressing the simmering outrage in his chest, Ahmir stopped just shy of the table, his voice like honey dripped over steel, restrained fury beneath his gilded charm.

“Gentlemen.”

A pause. A slow inhale, steadying.

“I have need to speak with The Sixth.”

The players barely acknowledged him. One, a particularly bold bastard with shoulders too broad for his brain, let out a scoff. “And we’re in the middle of a game, prince. Fuck off.”

Another man, a face ruddy from years of drink and missing a tooth, turned and spat at The First's feet, just missing his boot. A roar of laughter spread around the table.

Ahmir smiled. A slow, deliberate thing.

Like a snake, he struck, slamming his dagger into the table, right through a spread of cards. The steel bit deep, splintering wood, sending a spray of coins skittering in all directions.

The laughter died.

Sarabi let out a deep, guttural snarl, ears flattening, muscles tensed to spring. One man muttered a curse under his breath.

Ahmir leaned forward, all warmth gone from his voice.

“If you value your lives and the rest of your wages that he’s planning to swindle, get the fuck out of my way.”

Chairs scraped. Boots stumbled. Coins abandoned in their meager piles. A few even dared to mutter protests, but none stayed long. The table cleared in seconds, leaving only The Sixth behind.

Ahmir exhaled slowly, smoothing the fine fabric of his cuffs, slipping back into his carefully composed exterior. A single flick of his fingers summoned a barmaid for two fresh drinks, and then, at last, The First settled across the table from her brother, the Sixth.

“Now,” she murmured, fingers lacing together as she rested her arms on the table. “I believe we have business to discuss.”

@The Sixth
 
Nothing like a game of eights to win some coin after a hard day's work, or at least that was the plan. The Spear and Stave was packed to the gills at this hour and that wasn't likely to change anytime soon. Usually the mercenary would drink himself into a stupor on the first floor but all the action was down here. Fortunately for the Sixth, no one was interested in rolling the bones today which worked in his favor. He'd awful luck with dice but kept going back anyways. A truly tragic tale best saved for another time.

A familiar face made for an interruption. The Sixth watched on with mild amusement until only the two mercenaries remained.

He took a long swig from his newly poured drink. "Bit dramatic, wasn't it? And hello to you as well Sarabi." he added with a nod toward the feline companion.

The Sixth relaxed into his seat. "So, what's this about business?"
 
The sand cat chuffed happily at the man and shoved herself under the table, leaning her considerable weight against him and asking for the attention she was owed.

"Traitor." The First mumbled under her breath. But it broke the tension she felt, and the levity allowed her to take a deep breath and reluctantly smirk at her brother. "Yes, well, I'm not exactly known for doing things by halves, am I?"

She reached into the many folds of her robes and retrieved a roll of parchments, pulling the string with a pert groomed brow, and set them before The Sixth. "This is the most recent manifest for the shipment of silks and coffee beans I just had arrive two days ago." One manicured nail tapped emphatically against the ledger. “According to this, twenty barrels of coffee beans arrived on the Silver Dagger, same as what left Crown’s Hold.”

“But when I had my men confirm the inventory, only eighteen made it to the warehouse. And wouldn't you know, -” Her gaze flicked up beneath heavy-lidded eyes, sharp as the dagger still buried in the table, “-the port master who signed off on the count, is rumored to be a man under your employ.”

The First flicked a glance to Sarabi, who was purring now under The Sixth’s hand, utterly indifferent.

“The Gilded Peacock,” she said low, leaning in just a fraction, “always delivers her goods.”

“And now my reputation is in jeopardy." A twitch had begun under her eye, and she pinched along the bridge of her nose in frustration. "Because somewhere between the docks and my warehouse, the two fucking barrels I had filled with contraband, have found themselves... misplaced.”

@The Sixth
 
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The Sixth listened calmly as he continued to idly pat the sand cat. He didn't much appreciate what was being implied but figured it best to listen to the end. It was something of a tradition to let the First say their piece, both within the cadre and the Rabble. To be honest, nothing of what she was saying was ringing a particular bell. He wasn't a stranger to stealing things but that usually came with a contract and the mercenary wasn't working a particular job at the moment.

He did hold a measure of appreciation for his sister. Every so often he'd wonder if she'd gone soft with this whole merchant business. The coin was good, no arguing that. But sometimes there was knife-work that needed doing. Lot of folk start wrapping themselves in fine silks and become too scared to roll around in the muck. The Sixth could tell from the other's eyes that wouldn't be an issue. She'd shiv him and bury him in some shallow grave without a second thought.

A strange comfort, but reassuring all the same. "Can't say I know anything about the Silver Dagger or this barrel business. Unlike you, I'm just a simple swordhand. I don't 'employ' folk." He knew that wasn't the answer she was looking for and continued, "Now I do happen to be acquainted with that greasy bastard. He tried to jam me up some time ago on another job. I made sure he knew that was a mistake. He'd know better than to cross anyone from the First and Last..."

Dancer didn't need to explain the rest. Only a handful of people were privy to the fact that the First and the leader of the Gilded Peacock were one in the same. 'Course it still didn't seem like a smart idea to pull a fast one on one of the biggest merchant guilds in the city, but folks did all manner of stupid things here.

"Think it's best we have ourselves a chat with the man and get you some answers." The Sixth was beginning to get a bit curious himself. These 'rumors' led straight to him. Had the guildleader been anyone else, this conversation may have started with steel.
 
The First studied her brother, the barest flicker of consideration in those kohl-lined eyes, before relief bloomed the edges into a crinkled grin. For all of The Sixth’s ways, he was not a liar—at least, not to her. If he said he had no hand in this, then she believed him. Not that she doubted him to begin with. But the instincts born from the life of a mercenary were hard to suppress.

Which meant someone had deliberately tied his name to this mess.

The merchant prince exhaled through her nose, fingers brushing over the ledger once more, as if willing the numbers to shift into something that wouldn’t make her teeth grind.

"Of course, you don't employ anyone," She drawled, her voice wry. "You simply collect strays, misfits, and debtors, and by some miracle, they seem to develop a vested interest in keeping you alive. Truly, the gods have blessed you, Brother."

With a flick of her wrist, she rolled the parchment back up, tucking it once more into the folds of her robes. "Azhar wouldn’t dare cross the First and Last. Nor the Gilded Peacock. Which means either he’s a fool of unprecedented proportions," her voice dipped, laced with something dark, something that suggested fools did not last long in his company, "or he’s caught in something deeper than his pockets."

A beat passed, where she downed the rest of her drink. The clink of empty glass hitting the abandoned coins sharp like Ahmir's humorless smirk, donning the armor of his illusion once more.

"Either way, it seems our dear port master has some explaining to do. Shall we pay him a visit, then?"

@The Sixth
 
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"You don't think it's cause I'm such a likeable fellow?" he shot back with mock hurt. The Sixth never considered himself particularly blessed, though he was still breathing so that's more than some. He'd also drawn the favor of Kitakha yet quickly learned it was best to avoid the gods whenever possible. 'Fell was far from her influence but their connection persisted. They weren't much for giving up things once they'd laid claim.

"Let's hope it's the former, that'll make this business nice and simple." The mercenary didn't sound convinced himself. Fools were lusting for coin 'round every corner so thoughtless greed wasn't out of the ordinary. Yet the First and Last always found themselves dragged into six feet of shit. Just like that Selvari business not long ago.

The Sixth shook his head as the First's illusion took hold once more. Seemed more trouble than it was worth but the mercenary knew better than to question it.

"You've any idea who might be pulling the strings?" he asked as the pair stepped onto the city's streets. "Other than me, that is."
 
The city bustled even at this hour. Crorefell never slept. Too many wagers being made, too many knives being sheathed in silk, too many voices jostling for a place in the great chorus of fools. It thrummed beneath their feet like a hungry thing.

“You are many things, Brother,” Ahmir drawled, casting a sidelong glance at The Sixth. "But let’s not pretend you’ve survived this long on charm alone,” An indulgent smirk pulled at his lips. “But you do have a knack for being exactly where the trouble starts. Which, tonight, works in my favor.”

Their boots clicked over the weather-worn stone as they turned down a narrower path. Sarabi padded ahead, tail twitching, unbothered by the gloom.

“As for who's pulling the strings?” Ahmir continued, more to himself than anything. “Could be any number of bottom-feeding parasites with ambition and half a brain. But this… this feels more deliberate.”

“I’ve been running shipments for a noble named Chalar Vos. Quiet-like. Nothing flashy. The usual veneer: silks, coffee, spice. Enough to pass a dock inspection.” His voice dropped as the lanterns grew fewer, the alleys darker, the hoods of passing folk pulled tighter against discovery. “But it wasn’t the beans that mattered. It was what I buried beneath them. Blackroot Resin, a potent narcotic, powdered and sealed. The smell of the roast covers it well. A trick I picked up in the Arshakan ports.”

A brief flame lit up the angles of Ahmir's face, the cherry bud of his rolled tobacco glowing in the shadows as he took a deep drag.

“He's trying to lock down a seat amongst the Steel Rabble by way of cornering the market. The more they depend on his product, the more favors he collects. And the less gold they have to fund their own campaigns for seats amongst the cadre.”

Ahmir exhaled slowly, his gaze flicking over to The Sixth with an almost amused glint. "I’d wager the other nobles gunning for Rabble seats have caught wind of Vos’s arrangement with us. They’ll be gunning for this shipment to fail, just to make him look unreliable. A chance to tarnish his reputation before the quarterly vote even starts."

The stink of ocean salt, rusted chains, and the sour reek of old cargo heralded their arrival at the dockyards. The low hum of the water lapping at the piers blending with the creaks and groans of nearby ships

A knowing grin tugged at Ahmir's lips, and he inhaled again, watching the smoke curl. “Too bad for them, they don’t know that the merchant prince they’re fucking with has a particular fondness for Fools.”

@Nino
 
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"Couldn't just smuggle craft steel in like all the other fools huh?" he jibed sarcastically. The smithies of the 'Row didn't much care for outside weapons being sold wholesale in the city. Oddly enough they prided themselves on not producing the best, but the most. Quality steel still yet not the sort of thing a noble keeps as a family heirloom. The type of production that could arm a city, not rest prettily on the hip of some upjumped knight. At least that's what they claimed. The mercenary figured it was pettiness and business, just like everything else in this city.

The games of the Rabble were hardly different than that of the Empire's nobility. Probably where they learnt it from. More than a few of 'Fell's residents were exiles from the south. Luckily he rarely had to deal with them, as that was the unique privilege of the First. He'd stood-in on occasion when she was not available. Most of the others in the cadre were defter with steel than their tongues.

"So if I'm understanding you right, we're likely to be butting heads with another cadre once we pull on the string..."

Dancer let out a resigned sigh knowing that was simply the way of things. He led the way to the small office that Azhar usually worked from. The mercenary didn't bother knocking as he swung the door open. A dying candle was enough to show that the portmaster was not here. This wasn't entirely unusual but the place was a proper mess.

Before he could investigate further a number of footsteps and a voice at the doorway. "Weren't expecting any company were we boys? So who in the hells are these two?"
 
Ahmir stepped out from behind The Sixth’s shadow with a long, leisurely stride, the faint glow of his cigarette flaring as he took a puff and surveyed the mess with an unhurried eye.

The desk had been gutted, ripped of its drawers, papers strewn about, muddied bootprints tracking over water-warped ink. Ship manifests from only one wall of shelves now in a haphazard pile beside a velvet chair, its fabric slashed to ribbons, tufts of stuffing spilling across the floor like entrails. A blackened, wet stain had soaked deep into the center of the rug.

He exhaled smoke through his nose and finally turned to their uninvited company, a lazy arch of one brow traveling the height of them.

Four men stood in the doorway, rugged and rough around the edges. Knuckles bloodied, eyes flat and eager for violence. One had a broken nose poorly reset, another still bore dried specks of someone else's blood along his collar. But it was the third who stood just a half-step in front of the others that caught Ahmir’s interest—jaw inked with a looping, crude tattoo of a serpent devouring its own tail.

"Ah, I see." Ahmir stated, mild as tea. "Excellent timing. Welcome. Perhaps you fine gentleman can fill me in on the whereabouts of one, Portmaster Azhar?"

One of the men, a broad-shouldered brute with patchy stubble and a cruel grin. chuckled, thumbing the edge of his blade.

“Oh, you mean that old pig that ran this shithole?” he said, voice thick with glee. “If you’re lookin’ for him, check the bay. He’s down there now. Couple holes heavier than when we found him.”

Ahmir sighed softly, as if genuinely disappointed. He lifted one hand, inspecting the gold bands stacked along his fingers like a man checking for dust.

“Well. That’s too bad. I had something I sorely needed from him.” His gaze drifted lazily back to the man with the tattooed jaw, gesturing to him with after-thought. “No matter. I only need that one alive."

The shift in the room was immediate. Fury flared behind narrowed eyes as the lackeys puffed up like cornered dogs.

“Why you pompous fucking shi—”

“Sarabi,” Ahmir said, calm as a priest giving last rites. “Kill.”

A sand cat’s scream, high and unnatural, like metal tearing bone startled the air.

A tawny blur of muscle and feline fury lept through the doorway. She was on one of them before his blade cleared its sheath, claws sinking into his shoulders as her jaws found the soft flesh just beneath the skull. He gurgled a desperate scream, knees buckling like the wet thud of meat hitting stone as she tore clean through.

The room fractured into violence as two of the others wasted no time in rushing The Sixth with steel flashing in the lamplight— faces twisted in rage, or fear, or both.

@The Sixth
 
The Sixth watched with vague indifference as the First bandied words with the new arrivals. Admittedly news of the portmaster's demise was somewhat of a blow. He didn't give a damn about the man but Azhar had his uses. More importantly, the bastard knew better than to cross the First and Last. Wasn't an easy thing to come by in a city where everything had a price, especially loyalty. Made for a good reminder; could be the most loyal fool in the lands and still end up as chum in the water.

“No matter. I only need that one alive." Dancer started at the phrase, sentiments mirroring that of the thug's. He was thinking his sister had gotten a little too wrapped up in this whole Ahmir guise. Cause he sure as hells wasn't one of guild's lackeys.

Sarabi's suddenly violent presence was quick to clear any misconceptions. Even Dancer winced slightly at the sight of the man being mauled without mercy. Distraction came in the doubled form of steel and malice. The Sixth drew his own ajenwi blade without hesitation as the two thugs charged him. He closed his distance to one, briefly evening the odds. His initial slash was blocked but his foot shot out and caught the man's knee.

As the first stumbled, Dancer pivoted to the other. Blade parried, he spun with the momentum and finished with an arcing slash. It was too swift for the other to block and steel found purchase. The mercenary brought his blade to bear just in time as the other recovered. Using his forearm, Dancer pushed both blade and man backwards. The Miradi followed with another strike, barely batted aside. Surprise spread across the other man's face as steel still sunk into flesh. Dancer yanked the dagger from the man's chest, watching him fall to the ground moments later.

He turned to see if the sand cat had indeed allowed the tattooed man to remain among the living.
 
Sarabi had the last man pinned.

Massive paws, wide as dinner plates, sank curled scythes into his chest. He thrashed, but the sand cat just leaned into the pressure, yellow eyes unblinking.

Ahmir approached at a stroll, wiping a red smear from his chin where blood had flown. He crouched beside the struggling man, one knee to the dock’s blood-damp wood, and caught the thug’s soft jaw in a curled grip.

“Now that I have your attention, tell me who paid you to kill the Portmaster.”

The man whimpered as fresh blood welled from the gouges in his chest. A cut across his cheek dripped steadily into his mouth. He blinked, grimaced, and spat a thick glob of blood straight into Ahmir’s face.

Ahmir cackled.

Then he slammed the man’s head back against the floor. Once. Twice. Three times before, leanong in and pressing a blood-slicked hand over the man's mouth, his kohl-lined eyes glittering with menace.

“Good sir,” Ahmir snarled into the thug’s face, “do not play me for just any Fool.”

The wicked light in his gaze burned hotter now.

“Tell me. Do you know who we are?” A pause. “Answer carefully. My patience wears thin.”

He peeled his hand away and the man sucked in breath through split lips, veins rising purple and red along his neck. And then he started screaming—curses, threats, spit-flecked fury. But mid-sentence—

Ahmir stood. "Wrong." He drawled. And the illusion shattered. Ahmir, the Merchant Prince of The Gilded Peacock, disappeared, and in his place stood The First.

Long waves of dark mahogany hair spilled over one shoulder. Jewels shimmered at her ears and her robes were fine, brighter than the blue of a lagoon, and bordered in golden threaded patterns. And the most arresting of all was the vibrant peacock tattoo that crawled up her throat beneath her high collar..

The man blinked up at her.

And then the color left his face entirely.

His eyes flinched toward the Sixth, like he’d seen a ghost rise in the flesh.

“Yes, you know now, don't you?” The First purred.

“Now I’ll ask you just once more,” The First said, and Sarabi’s growl vibrated beneath her mistress's words.

“Who paid you to kill the Portmaster?”

@The Sixth
 
Dramatics, always with the dramatics. They did, however, prove more effective than skull-bashing in this instance as defiance turned to fear. Silence hung for a moment as the man's eyes wildly darted around looking for a final savior. His gaze found the Sixth and the last sliver of hope crumbled.

Another low growl.

"'Was Shedur Shan, or one of his crew leastways. I swear it!"

Things just keep getting better and better...

Dancer took a long, hard look at the other man and saw no lie in his eyes, and that's what worried him. "Shan's new blood but this doesn't match his rep. Too sloppy by half." There was challenge, and danger in the Sixth's tone. The pinned man was quick to respond.

"Aye, his cunning is already known. Word is he stepped on the wrong toe making his bid and is trying to cleanup fast." The logic was sound enough but still didn't explain why this man was so sure about Shan. Sensing another imminent skull-bashing, he pressed on. "Anyways 'twas sheer shit luck I knew the bastard who gave us the purse. We did a spell in Hestio about ten years back. Doubt he remembered me, looked a lot prettier back then. But he's one of Shan's original hands back when they were still running out of Urdshawl. Name's Moffen, or something similar."

The Sixth held his gaze on the man for a moment before turning to the First and nodding. They'd gotten what they needed. Whether by maw or blade the man would see his end moment's later.

"We had to run into the one parasite with more than half-a-brain..."
 
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