Fandom Grishaverse (Main)

[EasyWright]

Cole sat on the rooftop of a bar in an area near the Barrel, out of sight of anyone down on the streets below. He wasn't dumb enough to go directly into that place -- alone, at least. He went over his alias one more time: Garitt Holt, a spider hired just like the rest of the people that were to meet him there. If he was smart about it, he wouldn't even have to really go into more detail about himself with the others; after all, this was just another job to most everyone there.

Each of the hired people had received a letter with a wax seal, obviously from a noble family, but without a proper insignia on the seal. Inside was enough cash to interest any Kerch resident, and the letter within promised even more if the mission was carried out properly (Cole did his best impression of a stereotypical nobleman in his writing). The job was risky, so he didn't expect very many people to actually show up, but he was confident that he would have enough manpower to do what needed to be done. There was only room for so many people at the top, and Cole wanted it to himself, but he couldn't risk trying to overthrow rich houses on his own.

He could fix this damned city. He would fix this damned city, or at least have some catharsis by the end of this mess-to-come.

 

[S n o w]

Louis​

Louis slipped into the bar, holding his hat towards the entrance as he shook rain out of it. Because, note telling him to or not, he wasn't going to stand out in rain, soaking in his boots until his client arrived with a servant holding an umbrella for them. Or worse, in a carriage. Since he knew he wouldn't have been told to come here if his client never planned to go inside, he was content to be warm and dry until that happened.

The bar smelled like sweat and urine, but Louis smelled worse daily coming from the brothels on the West Stave. He put his hat back on once it was mildly dry, lingering with his hands up just long enough for everyone to see the tip of the silver dagger poking out from his sleeve. Some patrons he vaguely recognized, some he didn't. Still, that was Louis' warning to anyone who thought of messing with him. He'd spilled blood for less. His daggers used to be a pair of silver knuckles, but things with a point cut a lot deeper.

Most would have taken the money that came with the offer, crumpled up the note, and walked away, but Louis could never resist the promise of more coin. He took a seat at the bar, facing the entrance. He crossed his legs, showing off the second dagger strapped to his lower leg, and waited. Even if he didn't recognize whoever he'd be working with, he wasn't exactly being subtle.

 

[Morrighan]

Nadya had, of course, been the first of those who'd recieved the letter to arrive, and had made herself quite comfortable at a small booth in the very back of the place, her favlce concealed within the shadows of the unlit corner. In one hand she held a glass of wine, and in the other the breast of a wicked, lovely little thing who'd no-doubt end up sharing the assassin's bed that night.

The moment the door to the place opened, and that charming little cutthroat had entered with all the swagger of a Barrel Rat, Nadya had known he was one of the others who had revieved the same offer. No one else would bother to make such a show of their weapons, pub or no.

Interesting.

Nadya quickly grew bored of watching the little man play dangerous and decided to occupy herself with the mouth of the girl sprawled across her lap.

She had no objections.

 

[EasyWright]

Cole decided it was best to hop down now that he had two of his hired power inside. He didn't want to be the first one inside; that might have been too obvious. He had no experience in the streets of the city, but he was smart.
As silently as he'd climbed, Cole brought his body down to the cobblestones and entered the bar, pretending to look for an open seat. It was just one more level of disconnect from the job at hand. He found a spot nearer the middle of the place and looked through the menu. He'd done his best to dirty up some of his clothes and his face appropriately, but if one knew how to look, they might see through him. Though his cloak was concealing while he stood or crouched, sitting gave view to his scabbards and the holster across his chest where he kept a revolver. The boy idly looked through the menu of the bar to let the time go by faster; he was also hungry. Under the cover of the pamphlet, Cole took a glance or two at his soon-to-be coworkers. Two so far.

 

[StormWolf]

People so quickly dismissed paranoia as a neurotic condition, often forgetting its vast uses. If a mysterious letter provides an address, it begs to be cased beforehand. Swathed in his surly uniform and draped in his bearskin coat, Blackhat Ben sat a block away from the cafe within the cover of a bell tower with the scope of his rifle sighted in. Running through his mental catalogue, the tacky little establishment didn't spring to mind any gang affiliation. At least, any worth his consideration. Little bands of pissant criminals came and went like leaves in a stiff autumn breeze in Ketterdam.

Cold blue eyes squinted against the lens of the scope, contemplating. This wouldn't be the first time some idiot mercher brat tried to hire Benhamin to make a loanshark disappear or hurt some lover the scorned them. This was shaping up to be much of the same. Suddenly, a knock at the trap door. Coded, just like he told them.

"Eingeben," Ben commanded in a voice like distant thunder, not taking his eyes off the crosshairs. Rusted hinges groaned meekly behind him.

"We did as you said, onkel Schwarzehut," said the urchin. A filthy little thing, a common rat that scampered around the Barrel. Ben grunted in affirmation, shaking his coat pocket with a jangle of coin. The rat barely managed to stifle an excited gasp, much to his credit.

"And?" Keeping the rifle steadied on his knee and a finger along the frame, he set a silver piece down on the wooden panels.

"Many come and go, onkel. It is so hard to tell..." Ben laid another coin atop the first with a metallic click.

"One like silver, one like gold, onkel. They waiting for something. Someone," muttered the urchin. Ben could hear him wringing warmth back into his bony fingers. Not the best description nor set of information, but it was better than nothing.

"Da, that sounds about right. Here, kleine maus. For your trouble." Scooping the coins from the floor and with a swift feint of his hand, Ben passed the urchin a silver and a gold coin. It seemed only fitting. "You and the other rats best scatter." The urchin snatched up the coins and left without another word, leaving Ben to return his rifle to its case.



Having lived long enough without the sensation, Benhamin had forgotten what it meant to be hot or cold, but for the sake of blending in, he put forth an effort to emulate the gesture. With his coat pulled tight and his hat down against the wind that came off the canals, he'd pass as any other pedestrian making their way through the city. By the look of him, perhaps a musician at the Menagerie, if the cello case was any indication.

He took his time surveying the little pub's garish facade as he meandered down the avenue towards it. Crossing the cobbled street, looking both ways for carriages, he stole glances through the paned glass windows at the front. Silver and Gold, he muttered to himself, bemused to find just how apt the arcane clue was. The two were plain to the eye as Benhamin opened the cafe door, the bell overhead twinkling in sour little notes. Silver was the first he saw, seated closer to the door and making a subtle show of what was no doubt keen-edged cutlery.

A viper coiled to show its colors, thought Benhamin, who offered a mirthless smile to the hostess. "Sit wherever you like, sir. What's your pleasure?"

"Kvas, if you please," he said in a tone that was about as smooth as a mile of gravel road. Weaving through the tables, Ben kept the silver-haired on in his periphery as he peered through the haze at the Gold.

Saints alive, he cursed inwardly, seeing those all-too-familiar eyes and cheekboness, and the telltale curls. It had been some time since he'd seen a fellow Rankan veteran, let alone a fellow oprichniki. Ben let his eyes linger for a moment, his face an impassive mask but for the faintest furrow twitching in his brow. He waited until he was sure she saw him, for that moment of briefest eye contact before touching a finger to the brim of his hat. Quick as the breeze, a wolfish smirk rippled across Ben's face before sitting down in the booth adjacent

"It has been a long time, dorogaya You seem to be doing well," Ben said with a tigerish purr, folding his arms across his chest. His right hand found the familiar wooden grip of his revolver, concealed within the voluminous folds of the bearskin. "I heard you were painting now, da? You always were such an artist." A glass and bottle were set down at Benhamin's table by a waitress, whom he dismissed with the faintest shooing motion.

 

[Morrighan]

The moment he entered the room, clad in those grey robes that were far too similar To those he - they - had once worn, Nadya had known exactly who he was.



That damned, worthless, piece of shit otkazat'sya! How is he alive?! How could he have possibly made it out of Ravka?!



Their eyes met, and the man tipped his hat to her in what she felt was a mockery of the salute her position had once demanded. He stood tall, his face the same, even if his eyes had lost the brilliant hunger and purpose they had possessed in the years she had known him. The fact that he still wore the grey, that he was no-doubt carrying a revolver and that old, pathetic knife he'd kept, spoke volumes.



He may have escaped Ravka, but the otkazat'sya clearly had not forgotten his place, or his time serving The Darkling.



Serving me...



The man slid himself into the booth across from where she sat, those familiar eyes taking in her fine clothes and - no doubt - the woman on her lap. Without so much as a glance towards the girl, Nadya murmured a soft "Leave".



The words, soaked with the promise of a long, brutal death should she fail to keep her mouth shut, made their point. She immediately fled the bar and did not look back.



"Benhamin," Murmured the assassin by way of greeting, even as her mind plowed through every possible way to dispose of him.

 

[S n o w]

Louis​

Ignoring the bartender, who made a valiant attempt in convincing him to buy an expensive drink that would be more water than alcohol, Louis took another look at the patrons. A boy sitting by himself with scabbards and a revolver. Louis quirked an eyebrow at how he didn't even try to hide any of the weaponry.

Subtlety was dead, he'd say.

Making no attempt to hide that he was watching, Louis looked up at the next person to enter the bar, a tall man who was no doubt at least part Fjerdan. At least 3/4ths, if not full-blooded. He was cute, in a brooding sort of way. Louis quirked his eyebrow further at the case on his back. Interesting that a musician would choose to play in a place that was more likely to pay him with gratitude over coin. Even more so when he sat instead of got to work raising the mood. Coming here from work, perhaps?

The woman though... what a scary look she gave him. Ohoho, Louis could feel the tension between them from here. He did wonder what the man was hiding underneath that bearskin coat of his. Money or coin that Louis could help liberate him from? The woman's date fled, no doubt being told a few harsh words along the way. Louis lingered on the pair for a moment before he glanced back at the boy sitting by himself. He would be harder to steal from, keeping all his valuables on display like that.

Mark chosen, Louis stood and sauntered over to the pair. "Mind if I sit?" he asked, but didn't wait for an answer before sliding in next to the bigger man--who looked only slightly less likely to react to his presence with violence. He was all smiles as he pulled a deck of cards from his pocket and placed them facedown on the table. "I work here, you see, and I thought one of you might want to join me in a game. The starting fee is a measly five coins, and if I win, that goes back to the bar. Think of it like giving a tip to your hostess," he winked for added effect. "If either of you win, you get a drink on the house." While he spoke, he looked over the two more closely for small, shiny things they might not immediately miss if they vanished.

 

[StormWolf]

Leaning forward in his seat, the lacquered wood creaking beneath his bulk, Ben poured himself a splash of kvas. He was aware that such an establishment likely watered down the imported Ravkan liquor, possibly cut it with some home-distilled rot-gut from the Barrel. He was not Grisha. He could not command the height of clientele that someone like Nadya might nor possess her luxuries, but he took a brief pleasure in knowing that she needed to work for her meals, now. Swirling the drink, Ben took a tentative sip, the faintest hint of dimples at his cheeks from the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. It never touched his eyes, though. They remained frigid as the Sokol, even as they drifted to the young woman Nadya had so curtly dismissed.

"Tsk," he clicked his tongue with the faintest shake of his head. "I love when you say my name like that. Ever the thorny rose, aren't you liebchen?" He drained the glass, pouring another. Rummaging through his pockets, he slowly withdrew a silver case engraved with dancing bears and swooping eagles. Thumbing a spring switch, the case opened to reveal a neat row of hand rolled cigarettes. He left the case in the center of the table, the offer left unspoken as he lit one with a match plucked from his coat cuff. Ben took a long drag, mulling the cognac tobacco and the faintest hint of jurda.

"Forgive my saying so, darling, but I would have thought a dive like this beneath you." He took another drag on his cigarette, the embers catching in his eyes with a predatory gleam. "If you require monetary aid, you need only ask." Ben was fully cognizant of the fact that he was playing with the cat's tail, daring the claws in a dangerous game of Ravkan Roulette, but this close, it the destruction was mutually assured. She may boil his blood or make his heart explode in his chest, but not before he put hot lead through hers.

---​

It took every ounce of self-control that she had not to crush the bastard's lungs, and in the end it was her suprise that kept him alive.

As a soldier, he had never spoken to any of the Grisha like this. He'd known his place, and had stayed out the way. To meet him now, only to discover that the pathetic little Iceveins had grown a spine?

It was unnerving, almost as much at was infuriating.

"Why I'm here in this disgusting Kerch cesspool is none of your concern, otkazat'sya," she snarled softly, eyes blazing in the dim light of the room. "If you're here for the reason I think you are, then you had best listen close to what I am about to say."

Then, grabbing his drink and downing it with an ease that none of the piss-pot Kerch in this city could have achieved, Nadya threw the glass to the ground and let it shatter.

Lest he forget who she was and what she was perfectly willing to do to the traitorous wretch.

"You do not know me, and we have never met until you sauntered up like a drunken fool to my table. If so much as a whisper of who I am or who I was reaches the ears of a single person in this Saints-Damned city I will personally see to it that you die a long, and truly painful death worthy of traitorous sack of flesh. Am I understood?"

---​

He couldn't help but meet Nadya's blazing eyes with his own, widening maddeningly at her impotent display of rage. Just like one of his smiles, the expression was gone as quickly as it came. Vanished in the puff of smoke that slithered through his lips. With that same pantherish luridness, he tapped out the ashes that clung to his cigarette,

"But of course, babushka. Your secrets, as always, are safe with me," Ben took a moment to cross his heart with his fingers, not once breaking eye contact with her. "Though, if you are accepting critiques," he leaned in closer, grabbing the kvas bottle by the neck. This close, he could smell her perfume even through the swirling cloud of tobacco smoke.

"You should have decided you wanted a low profile before you smashed that glass, da?" Easing back into his seat, Benhamin took a long pull straight from the bottle. Fun as it was to poke and prod the little wolverine, she had a point. She knew enough about him to make his life complicated should circumstances change, so they once again sat at a stalemate. Lounging back further, he stretched out his legs beneath the table.

"Working together again," he sighed, "How exciting, eh? As equals, no less."

Nadya's beautiful face twisted into a cruel smile as she rose from her seat and leaned across the table with a feline grace to whisper into the man's ear.

"You and I are many things, otkazat'sya, but we will never be equal."

---​

Benhamin's lips parted to respond, something he was sure would be terribly clever, but those stormy blue eyes found his thoughts turned to molasses as they explored the alabaster swath of Nadya's neck. Years of service together in the oprichniki, and this was the closest they'd ever been. Ben snapped his teeth shut mere inches from her ear, and as the curtains of her spun-gold hair withdrew to her side of the table, the Silver Boy was by their side in a few strides. Regaining his composure with a brief flex of his will, Ben flashed one of those whip-quick smiles of his.

"Of course, I'm sure the fraulein wouldn't mind one bit," said Ben with a faint slur to his tone, flashing a look across the table as he moved to make room for the newest interloper at the booth.

"Just the one drink, mein freunde? Or everything on the tab?" He asked with feigned pleasantness, rummaging in a pocket for five copper bits that had long since lost their luster. He stacked them in a modest little tower on the table and simply observed.

Morrighan --- Co-Author

 

[EasyWright]

Cole watched as his workers got themselves together in the booth and couldn't resist the slightest curl of a smile on the right side of his face. He was concerned about his appearance; mainly what he was carrying on him. He was new to the belly of the city, so he didn't exactly have places to hide his weapons; and the familiar black hair and blue eyes of his family stuck out in the setting, but it wasn't like worthless bastards were uncommon under noble families. Of whatever trips he did end up making, sneaking out of his house, few took a second glance to suspect him of being the Halber kid.

As if realizing that the group at the booth was where Cole needed to be, he got up quietly and approached with caution. He was silent in his movements, but he wasn't trying to hide. He wanted them to think he was naive. When standing, his weapons appeared to vanish under his cloak.

"Did you also happen to get one of these unmarked letters?" He asked, feigning timidity as he slowly pulled a letter just like the others had received, opened just the same, with a similar proposal as the others'. "Mir leid, I don't mean to interrupt." Of course, he kept his distance and ensured that the others saw that it was, in fact, a letter that he was revealing. He didn't want to get pickpocketed because he was too close to the silver-haired one or murdered without any real cause because he spooked an ex-soldier.

 

[Ayama]

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"Whatever you wish, I will be."

[/div]​

Neige was dreaming. Well, 'dreaming' was a much nicer way to describe the horrible visions she experienced when she slept. Since becoming addicted to parem, she had disturbing nightmares every night- being chased, falling from great heights, being eaten or buried alive... In sleep, the drug inflicted on her mind the same slow torture it did on her body. Neige tossed and turned, small whimpers of fear escaping her lips until, with a cry, she sat straight up in bed, eyes snapping open, shivering and covered in a cold sweat.

Neige looked around her room in confusion for a moment, completely disoriented and scared the monster was still there somewhere, before her mind was able to catch up. She took in a few, deep gulps of air, slowing her breathing and her heart rate, relaxing her death grip on the covers. Lately, it was getting worse. She knew it, but there was nothing she could do; it was too late- she depended on parem to survive now.

Carefully, fighting the customary trembling that took hold of her limbs, she climbed out of bed and walked over to her curtain, pulling it aside to reveal a typical rainy Ketterdam day. Judging by what light she could see, it was late morning. She rummaged through her closet, looking for something to wear, settling on a plain but flattering dress and lacing her gown with shaky fingers. She brushed her hair as best she could, not bothering to apply makeup- she wouldn't be able to in this state and, once she got what she needed, she wouldn't need it anyway.

She walked over to the fraying tapestry that covered her wall, pushed it back, and reached for the handle of the door concealed behind it. She tottered along the short corridor that linked her room to the matron's study, feeling the trembling intensify with her exertions. She knocked twice when she reached the end, and waited. After a moment, Tante Vorst's grating voice floated through the wood.

"Enter."

Neige pushed open the door and walked inside, blinking in the sudden glare. To compensate for the gloomy day, the madam had lit a lantern that was altogether too bright for the poor girl's current sensibilities. She walked over to the chair in front of the desk and sat down, waiting in patient silence as Vorst went through the sheaf of papers she was examining. She tried not to betray her impatience too much, for she knew it irritated the matron, but she was beginning to feel an uncomfortable warmth in her chest and the beginnings of nausea.

She looked down at the floor, eyes half closed and hands gripping the chair's armrests, taking in deep, shuddering breaths. When it seemed like she must surely be past her limit, Vorst deigned to finally put down the papers. Neige heard the familiar sound of parchment sliding across the leather desktop and looked up expectantly, only to be greeted not, as she expected, with a small mound of powder, but with a letter, bearing a wax seal and written in elegant, sloping script.

Neige frowned up at her employer, her confusion evident.

"Read it," the madam instructed. Neige pulled the letter closer, attempting to focus on the words running across the page, despite the fact that they were starting to look blurry. When her addled brain finally managed to wrench meaning from the contents, she stared back up at her boss, eyes wide.

"You will go to this meeting and meet this..." The matron picked up the letter, and resumed "Garitt Holt. You will find out the details of the job and the pay, you will find out what it is that he needs you for, and you will report back to me. Get it?" she demanded menacingly. Neige nodded, her throat dry. Vorst studied her for a moment then, seeming satisfied with her response, she put away the letter.

"Good."

She reached into one of the drawers in her desk, and Neige's heartbeat sped up in anticipation, craving flaring within her. The matron retrieved a small metal tin, from which she measured out a precise amount of yellowish-orange powder onto a bit of parchment, which she pushed across the desk to the girl. By the time Neige had inhaled her dose, the tin had vanished, the drawer was locked, and the key had disappeared in the matron's voluminous bosom.

Many a time had Neige dreamt of simply taking the key from Vorst while she slept, but she didn't know where she got her supplies of jurda parem, or how much she kept on hand, and she was painfully aware that, without it, she wouldn't last a day. She rose from the chair, grateful as always for her restored vitality- the trembling, weakness and nausea miraculously gone. She nodded once at the matron and left the room the way she came.

*****​

A few hours later, Neige could be seen entering the Crow's Foot- a little hole-in-the-wall not too far from the Crow Club-, cloak and boots muddy and wet but having protected her clothes as intended. Thanks to her Tailoring talents, she looked the very picture of health (despite the ravaged state her body was actually in), luxurious brown hair tumbling freely down her back. She had, however, altered her appearance, so as not to be recognized as the prized Siren of the House of Snow.

She took a quick look around as she entered, making particular note of the white-haired man sitting at the bar with the characteristic wide-brimmed hat and warning glint of silver at his thigh. She recognized him as the Barrel's famed Silverhands Louie, called this for his unusual hair color and for being as accomplished with his silver blades as he was at lifting silver from unsuspecting pockets.

With his shining locks and golden complexion, it was no wonder they had desperately wanted him to work at The Anvil, but he had politely declined (which was putting it mildly). Due to his stunning beauty, some in the Barrel often made lewd comments about him, wondering aloud if Silverhands was also a Silvertongue. His reaction to such comments made it so that the offenders never repeated them.

She also recognized the famous Scarlet Flower, currently occupied with a poor Barrel girl, no doubt helpless before her charms. She was most well-known in the Barrel for being a fearsome Ravkan Grisha and bloodthirsty assassin- one of the best in the city, in fact. However, few outside of the rich merchant class knew of her talent as an artist. Neige had had the privilege of sitting for her when one of her patrons in the Geldin District had commissioned a portrait. She'd been touched and surprised by the soft brush strokes and luminosity of the finished product.

Not wishing to draw attention to herself by staying too long at the entrance, she found herself a small table off to the side from which to observe the door. She assumed that whoever had called the meeting would make themselves known at their convenience, and settled herself down to wait, hoping it wouldn't be too long. A dark-haired boy then walked in and sat himself near the middle of the room. He was obviously armed and appeared to be dressed like a Barrel Rat, but Neige couldn't help but notice that the quality of his clothing was not what one typically saw on a boy from the slums.

The boy was followed by a tall, broad musician- Ravkan or Fjerdan, by the looks of him, who ordered kvas from the bar with the barest hint of an accent and then sat himself down beside the Scarlet Flower. She couldn't catch most of the words from the interaction that followed, but the girl in the assassin's lap left in a hurry, and then the pair were joined by Silverhands. The black-haired boy followed suit and, when he pulled out a letter that looked like the one Tante Vorst had shown her that morning, Neige got to her feet.

She tentatively walked up to the group, careful not to get too close to the other tables lest someone decided to get grabby. When she reached them, she smiled timidly and said

"I think this is where I'm supposed to be? I was instructed to meet here at this time."

She looked nervously at the other individuals, wondering which ones would recognize her if she had her usual clothing and appearance.

[/div]

codedbycrucialstar | hidden scrolls, hover over photo​

 

[Morrighan]

The moment the boy with the silver hair joined them, Nadya's face settled instinctively into a flirtacious grin as she let her eyes rove over the young man's lovely self. She didn't believe a word he said, but that didn't stop her from giving him a little grin.

"I'm not too fond of card games, but perhaps you might tell me something, da? Why lie to us and say you are employed here in this shithole when it's clear you came here for the same reason as all of us?"

Before the silver-haired boy could respond, the boy pretending to be a barrel rat (as if she hadn't noticed) approached their table and flashed a letter identicle to the one Nadya had received.

Just how many of them were invited to come here?

By the time the woman arrived, it was clear to the assassin that this job wouldn't be anything like what she'd expected. Usually, she worked and killed alone. Partners were a liability, ones she could neither trust nor afford. That fact that Iceveins was here was problem enough without so many others.

Even so, she made an effort to smile at the newcomers and appear unbothered.

"Hello there, lovely," she purred to the woman, who she found oddly familiar despite not recognizing her face.

 

[S n o w]

Louis​

Louis shuffled his cards as he waited for the Golden Girl's response, making it a point to keep his hands up so the potential players could see if he slipped a card up his sleeves or under the table. It was a tactic that sometimes worked to lower the guards of his victims in the Barrel, especially if they were already wary of him. They believed if they saw his hands the entire game, or shuffled the deck themselves, he couldn't possibly cheat. Though the smart ones didn't play him at all anymore.

It was a little funny how fast she went from being at the Fjerdan's throat to flirtatious, especially with all the glass still on the floor. He kept shuffling when Golden Girl called him out. So, both she and the lightweight Fjerdan were hired for the same job without knowing it. And the Fjerdan's whole musician act was just a smokescreen. Since he of all people was invited to come here, it probably meant that the two beside him had hands just as dirty as his.

Louis looked up as the boy from before came to the table. Flashing that letter so openly while being armed to the teeth. He almost snorted. Did the boy take him for a fool? Then came the other one, acting just as naïve. Ignoring them both, Louis slipped his cards back into his pocket. "A little rude, don't you think? This is a fine establishment," he said to the Golden Girl. "At least your boyfriend seemed like he was willing to have a bit of fun."

 

[StormWolf]

Steely eyes flashed from Louis, to the cards, but changed countenance for the briefest flutter as they drifted over Nadya. While Ben's face remained a mask of carved stone, his eye twitched ever so slightly at the peacock display. Gloved fingers drummed idly on the tabletop in a bass staccato. The irritation was as quick and sharp as a gunshot, and returned to the numb expression in the next moment.

Typical privileged Grisha brat.

"Don't be so hard on moya printsessa. She has been so horribly spoiled, after all," Ben said, thrusting out his lower lip in a momentary facsimile of a pout. Like his smiles or his grievances, it was gone in an instant. As if to mirror the deliberate slowness of the young Kerchman's gesture, Benhamin procured his own nondescript letter. His eyes constantly remained in gradual motion, head moving only when it had to. Yet, the broad-shouldered man moved to make more room on the booth's seats until he was seated at Nadya's right hand.

Saints, how familiar, he mused.

"How providential," rumbled Benhamin, glancing between the dark-haired Kerchman and the young woman who bounded up beside him. There was something about the uncanny symmetry of her face and features that stirred unease in Ben's stomach. He wouldn't call it a sixth sense, but just a matter of intuition. A low growl thundered distantly in his thick throat as Benhamin dusted ash from his cigarette. "Since we all seem to be here for business, shall we get to it? After our cabaret pleasures, of course," he gestured to Louis with his card tricks, and by extension the open spaces of semi-circle bench.

 

[EasyWright]

Cole took the opened seat, doing his best to act uncautious. The people all around him were thugs of one kind or another -- he couldn't forget that. The tension in the air was tactile; this was something that he had expected. "I'll stay out of the game, if you don't mind. My wallet's kind of light from traveling to the city," he said with a feigned anxious tone.

The boy still kept some distance from Louis; more than anything else, he was likely to have something lifted from him by that peacock, and if the wrong thing was lifted, then every bit of his facade would go out the window. He couldn't take much risk in that. Not yet, anyway. Cole let a folded piece of paper with the same seal flick out onto the table from between his fingers. "I was also sent this, with instructions to leave it closed until we were all here. The seal's unbroken up to now, so I believe we have the freedom to open it?" He asked with uncertainty, though he was the one to have written it. "I'm Garitt, by the way. If we're doing what I think we're doing, we might be working together for a while."

The introduction was a reflex more than anything. A tradesman's formality that he kicked himself for letting slip off of his tongue. Still, it wasn't like he could take it back, and he could always claim to work in a shop in Belendt if he was questioned about it.

 

[Morrighan]

Nadya's eyes flashed to the man as he moved closer, fast enough that she caught that glint of remembrance in his eyes.

Those all too familiar eyes.

I should gauge them out for what he just implied.

But somewhere deep within her mind came the utterly unwelcome echo of a memory - a dream - and she was forced to turn away as quickly as she'd faced him. After what he'd done, after everything he'd made her suffer - regardless of his ignorance to his transgressions - she couldn't allow herself the mistake of giving the man an ounce of trust.

Besides, she was still his superior, if no longer in rank than by blood and nature. She was Grisha, and he was nothing.

And so she turned the full weight of her attention - and her smile - to the dark-haired Kerch boy, who'd just made yet another mistake.

Nadya could out him right then and there, especially when she likely already knew who he was. There weren't many families in Ketterdam with features like his, and his clear avoidance of the Silver theif spoke clearly of his need to hide whatever is was he had on his person that he valued more than coin or kruge.

Perhaps such knowledge would best be savored, put aside for later use.

After all, having dirt and keeping it were two very different things.

"Tell me, Sobachka," She purred. "Why do you, the boy who so clearly doesn't belong at this table, have that letter?"

 

[StormWolf]

So, this was everyone then? What a lovely little menagerie of misfits they all were. Benhamin permitted himself another long sweep of his sea-deep eyes washing over each individual at the table like a wave. This second pass was more than a cursory check for weapons or particular tells, but a definitive attention to detail. The cut and quality of their clothes, posture and speech. Unsurprising that they all wore a guise of sorts, some more than others, but all played with their cards covetously close to the chest.

"Hrm," Benhamin growled contemplatively as we watched the sealed letter drift briefly upon the tabletop. Taking one last puff of his cigarette, snuffed the butt on the lacquered wood. Reaching for the letter, Ben didn't immediately break the seal, but instead picked up the envelope and turned it in his hands. To the uninitiated, it would appear as if Ben was looking for an identifying stamp, seal, or signature, when he was in fact testing the contents for abnormalities. He'd employed powdered poisons in letters himself, and Benhamin hadn't survived this long in his line of work without giving the shadow of paranoia its due.

Satisfied, Ben snapped the wax seal at an arm's length with the flex of his thumb. Easing open the folds of the paper, he held it aloft in a shaft of natural light and began to read.

 

[S n o w]

Louis​

Louis tapped a finger against his leg as the blue-eyed boy took a seat. Normally, sitting between two marks like this would make him think the Saints were looking out for him. But, for one, he didn't want to go prodding the Fjerdan's coat unless he had at least a vague idea of what he wanted to lift from him. Even as close as he was, he couldn't make out the shape of a wallet or anything that would be worth the effort under all that fur. He could try and take the cello for the challenge, he supposed.

And there was the little fact that the blue-eyed one was staying away from him. Talking to Louis like a newborn that just washed up in the Barrel while acting like he was familiar with them. Louis leaned close to the blue-eyed boy. "Something in my teeth?" he asked, mock innocently. "I don't bite, y'know. There are so many nasty rumors about me going around. People can be so cruel."

While he waited for Garrit to answer him or Golden Girl, he looked at the only member of their group still standing. He gestured for her to sit next to Golden Girl. "Sit. I'm sure the printessa won't mind."

 

[Ayama]

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"Whatever you wish, I will be."

[/div]​

Neige was both surprised and impressed at the composition of this crew- two of them were Barrel legends, after all. The Fjerdan, though unknown to her, looked like he could knock over a wall with his bare hands and strength to spare. The dark-haired boy was... an enigma. Something about him didn't quite add up.

"Hello there, lovely," the assassin said to her.

Neige shivered- not with anticipation, but with fear. The Scarlet Flower was like a snake or a large jungle cat- beautiful, hypnotic, and extremely dangerous.

Silverhands had sat down at the table and begun to shuffle a pack of cards. Neige blinked. Was she in the right place? Or had she made a mistake? The Fjerdan moved to sit at the assassin's right side and produced his own copy of the letter, reassuring her. The dark-haired one sat down as well, politely refusing to join in the game.

Traveling to the city... he had said. So he wasn't from Ketterdam then. He introduced himself as Garitt, and produced a second envelope, this one with instructions in it. Neige's eyes went wide, wondering at the contents. The assassin asked him why he was the one who had the letter- Neige assumed it was precisely because he didn't really belong here. After all, whoever was hiring this group must've known that none of the rest of them would have obediently waited to open it. The Fjerdan then reached out and took the letter from the boy, turning it over and examining it before snapping the seal open with practiced ease.

Silverhands leaned in close to the dark-haired boy, who was making a concerted effort to avoid him, and then indicated that she should sit with them. She did so. She had no intention of joining in the card game, but she needed to find out what was in that instruction letter and what this was all about. Besides, if she was honest with herself, she was curious.

[/div]

codedbycrucialstar | hidden scrolls, hover over photo​

 

[EasyWright]

Cole's disposition shifted for the slightest moment. They all thought him to be some extent of ill-informed and/or stupid -- all around not belonging -- and his first instinct was to throw back something to let them know that he was not to be trifled with, but he knew better. To underestimate was a weakness, a great disadvantage; to be underestimated was power, to have an upper hand, to be hidden. That's what he wanted. Silverhands and the gilded grisha were his biggest challenges right now. If he could keep them looking down on the puppet that he was playing with, they won't notice the strings leading up to the puppetmaster.

Cole blinked confusedly, as if Nadya's Ravkan insult went right over his head. "You guys didn't get instructions?" He asked to the table, though he was the only one with a copy of them. He made a point not to move away from the silver-haired card dealer, his already deep blue eyes flashing darker for an instant. Despite himself, he wasn't going to let himself get pushed around so easily by his own team. "There is, actually, maybe you should find a toothpick," the raven-headed boy said sincerely with a squint and a point of his finger, as if seeing a speck of something in Louis's mouth.

Enclosed in the envelope was the same grade of paper, with the same pretty handwriting in the other letters and what one would expect from someone high in status. It read,
Goed Morgen, Garitt. If you've followed my directions, then you should be reading this aloud to whomever may have accepted the proposition I sent out earlier in the month; similar to the one that which you received yourself.
The task at hand is a difficult one. There are certain people in this city that must essentially be erased from their positions of power, never to return. I'm asking you a great deal, I suspect, but I promise to reward you all handsomely once this is all over. Your targets are the great merchers in the Financial District and the Zelver District. The guidelines for this are loose, all I want for you to do is destroy them and make sure they don't come back. If they have heirs, ensure that their will is burned. If there are successors in their businesses, ensure that they, too disappear.
Garitt, your job is to manage the wills, with the assistance of Louis, should you need it. Nadya and benjamin, consider yourselves soldiers once again. I don't care if you choose to work separately, but I trust that you'll know that you two will be more effective together. Neige, you are the intelligence operative. If there's something that the team needs to know about someone, you will find it out.
Now comes the hard part. I, of course, am leading this operation, but I'd like for you to decide a surrogate in the meantime. (I would rather not be penpals with you for obvious reasons). Consider this a first test of your commitment to the job and a team-building exercise. Decide amongst yourselves who should be your guiding force.

 

[Morrighan]

Consider yourselves soldiers once again.

Nadya knew that those who knew of her in the city suspected her of having been a soldier in the 2nd army once. Her skill made any other explanation preactically impossible, and yet the man in the letter had known to call her Nadya, not Natasha, which was the name she most commonly used.

Of course, there was the greater issue of her orders.

She was to partner with the otkazat'sya, to work and kill with him again after three years of learning to become someone else. He had once again barged into her life and ruined everything.

Typical.

Then there was Neige, whose current face was so different from the appearance she'd donned during their session. Nadya had heard of her changing her appearance to suit her customers, but she had to admit the transformation was uncanny, as the timid, brown-haired girl looked nothing like the regal blond beauty she had painted.

The rest of the letter Nadya found quite perplexing, and it only strengthened her theory as to wnat was really going on. The black-haired boy was not to be trusted, but she would play along so long as it suited her.

"So this mysterious client wants us to rid him of his competition...a man of my own spirit. However, why not name his own choice for a substitute? It seems to me he desires us to squabble about this, in order for whoever among us is his spy to report back as to which will prove the greatest threat to the mission. None of us are fools, though, so I suggest we decide this quickly and be done with it," said Nadya in a voice that felt...nostalgic.

It seemed old habits did indeed die hard.

 

[StormWolf]

Benhamin tilted is head as he read, maintaining that same stolid stoicism that was his social norm. As the letter prompted, though in a low basso tone meant for the booth alone, Ben recited the flowing scrawl on the letterhead. However, in seeing the nature of their mission, his voice trailed into silence. There was a brief flash of murderous intent in Ben's eyes, an undeniable urge to draw iron and make Garrit's brains fly across the parlor. It was bright and brief like an ember, and gone just as quickly as the note continued, but Ben remained silent.

There was a tightening around Ben's eyes as he saw himself and Nadya mentioned by name; not their aliases nor nom le sang. More concerning still was the knowledge of their time as soldiers. Whomever their shadowy entrepreneur was, they were well informed in the highest degree.

But not so well informed to spell my name correctly. . .

Ben worried his lip with his lip for a moment, then passed it along for the others to have their own gander. Despite his hands being gloved, Benhamin barely suppressed the urge to wring his hands, as if he'd touched something unclean. Instead, he just flexed his fingers with a muffled chorus of crackling knuckles creaking leather.

"Saints. A simple job, then?" Ben asked with a bitter rhetorical tone. "There needs to be a line," he said after a pause, long enough for some others to have read most - if not all - of the note.

"Children are off limits." It wasn't a request. "Spirit them away, put them under another name, but no physical harm." Ben helped himself to a fresh cigarette from the case which still sat in the table's center and lit it with another match plucked from his coat. "Otherwise, I don't care who leads," he said, exhaling. He glanced to Nadya with that gleam in his eyes.

"I have served, I will be of service."

 

[S n o w]

Louis​

Oho, so the puppy had some bite after all? Louis only smiled at the blue-eyed boy, amused. Sometime between the letter being opened and Garrit's quip, Benhamin's copper coins vanished, flicked up Louis' sleeves while the message was being passed around and discussed. Louis barely glanced at it before passing it on. He didn't care for most of it. He could be persuaded to make an attempt on the King of Ravka's life for enough coin. At least a medium-sized mountain's worth.

Though... Louis glanced at Neige. The face didn't match the name, but what else should he have expected from someone like her? He maintained his smile, even as he felt more ice towards her than warmth. How could he not know the West Stave's most sought after prostitute? His eyes slid over to Nadya. He knew her too now that he had her name. He was surprised he didn't arrive at the table to find Benhamin--who had morals, apparently--slumped over dead for pissing her off. Definitely an old flame. Deserters, maybe? Why else would they be here?

Louis leaned back and crossed his arms. "Benhamin," he volunteered. Ex-soldier or not, putting the assassin in charge was just asking to be stabbed in the back. Neige barely said two words since she arrived, and... the puppy? Don't make him laugh. Louis was many things, but a leader he was not. Benhamin seemed... capable enough. Smart enough to check for poison powder, at least. And.. the Heartrender was most likely to take out any failure on him first.

"Our mysterious benefactor seems like a bit of a coward, huh? Too afraid to show his face, paying others to do his dirty work.." he trailed off, his words aimed at Garrit. No doubt his choice angered at least the assasin. Despite what the blue-eyed boy said earlier, he seemed to be favored by their employer more than the rest of them. Louis winked at him. "You and I are going to have a lot of fun together, I think."

 

[Ayama]

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"Whatever you wish, I will be."

[/div]​

When the black-haired boy told Silverhands he had something in his teeth, Neige giggled softly. She hadn't expected him to respond at all, much less like that. She looked from him to Louis, gauging the thief's reaction, certain it was something he was not used to people telling him.

As the letter was passed around the table for everyone to read, Neige assessed the others' feelings on it. From the assassin's reaction, she garnered that the mission would require killing. Neige's insides squirmed uncomfortably at the thought. She also frowned at the bit about there being a spy in the group and them squabbling. Now that was strange. Why would the person who recruited them not choose or assign a leader? Neige had assumed this mysterious person would simply be joining them, but that didn't seem likely at all... Was this a test of some sort? Something about it simply did not add up.

The larger man whose case, Neige now suspected, did not contain a musical instrument, made a strange and sudden pronouncement about not killing children. Neige's eyes went wide and she felt a wave of nausea swoop in her stomach. Killing children? They'd all been at this table for only a few minutes and they were talking about killing children?

Her worried gaze caught that of Silverhands. He was smiling, and Neige attempted to return the smile but then faltered uncertainly as she saw the look in his eyes and felt his icy disdain. She looked away, cheeks pinking slightly, knowing just how he felt about her. It wasn't just because of her gifts- she was a sensitive, empathetic person who was naturally attuned to others' emotions-, but because he was well-known in the Barell for taking on any job that would pay except selling himself. Though she had never spoken to him before, she knew with absolute certainty that this person despised her.

"Our mysterious benefactor seems like a bit of a coward, huh? Too afraid to show his face, paying others to do his dirty work.." The boy commented. Neige felt there was more to it than that. The way he had brought them together, the letter, their first assigned task... She felt whoever was in charge here was playing a dangerous, calculated game. She felt a shiver of unease about their, as yet, unidentified employer and his motives, and her gut told her that this situation wasn't safe. It would be far too easy in such a situation for them to be thrown to the wolves or used as scapegoats, and she felt they would be more likely to see a prison or a hangman's noose at the end of it than the gold they'd been promised.

Whatever she felt about this personally, however, and whatever her instincts told her, she had been given instructions, so she would follow them. The letter had provided all the information she'd been asked to bring back except for one thing.

"The letter doesn't say what we're getting," she stated, ashamed that this was what she was focused on in light of what they had just learned. "I need to know how much the payout will be, and what kind of guarantees are on it."

She forced herself to keep her gaze level instead of trained on the hands she was twisting nervously in her lap. If Tante Vorst told her to do this job, she didn't want the rest of them thinking she couldn't handle it.

[/div]

codedbycrucialstar | hidden scrolls, hover over photo​

 

[EasyWright]

As soon as Cole noticed the weight of the coins in his sleeves, he pulled his hands down to his lap under the table. He couldn't be sure that it was Louis that had tried to frame him, but it was his best guess for now. "Benhamin seems to have a good code under his belt, I vote him," he said once he'd finished reading over his own words again. "If I had to guess who wrote this, I might suspect Erik Halber, the weapons trader. The seal is Navy, the same as their crest," he continued, with a bitter tone, as if he had some kind of history with his own father. This feeling was genuine, and he let it out for the sole purpose of painting himself as a bastard Halber. After all, who wouldn't be mad about being the illegitimate child of a rich merchant. All of the traits, none of the benefits.

 

[StormWolf]

As each individual said their piece, Ben's eyes drifted to them to read their faces and posture as they spoke. They all seemed capable, and all likely knew how to suppress their individual tells or ticks. It was hard to get anywhere in this city otherwise. Their words floated around in the air like the smoke from Ben's cigarette, the Blackhat mulling and sifting through the information with as if he was sampling the latest vintage of wine. He idly scratched at the scar on his chin as he thought.

A brief flash of Ben's eyes flicked to the spot of table vacated of the measly stack of pennies. There was no reason to raise a grievance over pocket change. Chicanery and slight of hand of Louis' pedigree had earned those coins, wherever he made them disappear to. Ben dipped his head to Louis in acknowledgment of his monetary vanishing act. What Benhamin didn't expect was his name to be elected as the leader of their little troupe, let alone twice. There was the faintest quirk of his dark eyebrow as he stifled the urge to glance to the Heartrender,

Oh, this is just too good... he thought with a brief swell of satisfaction, followed shortly by dread. Not for Nadya's possible wrath or retribution, but that Benhamin had only ever followed orders. Saints, where was this recognition when I wore a uniform? Ben found Cole's reasoning... refreshing, though he was likely the only one at the table who thought so.

"The world is a meat grinder and we turn the handle. I choose who I involve in that business. Hardly a code. Just a standard," Ben said with the same regard as if he was discussing the weather, but a deep distance drifted through his eyes for a moment.

That hatred, that malice. That singular capacity for violence. That is what makes you worth keeping. A dark memory of an even darker voice sent a ripple through Ben's mind. He grit his teeth and helped himself to a sip from the kvas bottle, letting it wash the oily thought away and bring him back to the task.

Halber was a familiar name to Ben. It was stamped on every case of ammunition he purchased for his weapons. A hostile takeover, then. Maybe he could get some new hardware out of this little deal.

"That is how people with money, status, and power function," he said in response to the commentary of cowardice. Ben found it odd, then, that a letter soliciting assassination and sabotage bore a recognizable seal. Such a scalding piece of physical evidence could be leverage in the right hands. Or just another piece in the game. A contingent, a ruse, or the spark that ignites a wildfire.

"Neige brings up a good point. Definitive figures are required. Are we being paid per head or a lump sum? A job like this one requires a deposit investment, as well as covering expenses; food, supplies, hush and bribe money, and other assorted logistics." Ben ran through his mental catalogue of incidentals with that same even-keel voice. Pure business, plain and anything but simple. Simple was killing people for your nation. You always got paid the same stipend, and the semblance of patriotism provided a little lock-box for he psyche, permitting the individual to do unspeakable things so long as someone above them made the order. Working as an independent meant that you were precisely that. Even when working with a group, one needed to look out for themselves.

"Since Garritt seems to be our corespondent, maybe he should write these down and hand them up the chain, hm?" Ben took another swig of the watery kvas and passed the bottle to his left. Hopefully, the Heartrender wouldn't smash it like she did the glass. That would be a Saints-damned waste.