"Thank you, sir." The man stood finally perched upon the top step of his mansion, and Alistair would tip his hat, withholding the drawn sigh that threatened his lips. His job would be complete in full when he held the crescents in hand. This man was a repeat customer, always finding the paranoia and fear in peripheral shadows. Nearly every time he deigned to go to a bar he would call upon his father's business. Normally his old man attended to the easy task himself, but this time, the old bugger had taken his luxurious vacation on a tour of Crue Efros. While the pay was good, he found his commission for the toil to be sorely lacking. "A pleasure as always, Mr. Crafton." The words would leave as he dipped into a bow, though he never truly allowed the dark umber of his amber gaze to leave the figure in whole.
A repeat customer.
And a repeat crook.
As per usual, he would clear his throat, fingers fumbling for the skeleton keys lashed to his waist. Alistair would straighten, hand resting idly upon the hilt of his blade. It was a motion Jamenson took note of and his stare flickered back to the unamused lines that crafted his hired hand's countenance. His hasty motions slowly ceased as he merely traced the curve of the chain loop that connected to his manner key. "Is there - uhm - something else, Ser Reigner?" His words emerged slow, their own form of bluff. An empty threat that Alistair had dealt with more times than he cared to recall. His weight would shift, boots settled shoulder widths apart, the long breath finally weaving from his lips as dark lashes narrowed faintly upon the man from under the large brim of his travel cap. "A-ah, oh yes! Your company fee!" Alas, he abandoned the entry of his home and instead gnarled fingers rummaged within the jacket pocket of his suit. His clothes had grown far more loose in the years he had known the man, and there was a brief wondering why he hadn't bothered to have them seamed and hemmed. Perhaps he didn't have the coin anymore, a fool who came into a grand inheritance. Friends had emerged from the wood like rats since the news, and he had stupidly filled most of their requests, assuming his pockets to be endless.
"Do take care, Mr. Crafton. And if you need our services again, please don't be a stranger." He gave another dip of his crown as he stashed the satchel from view. Those within the city were well known to be quite smooth criminals and pick pockets, and he wouldn't owe his father another fare, not one of this size especially. The sound of the door opening with a clink! emerged from behind him as he began his long awaited trek back to the agency. His gait was unbothered, however, drinking in the sights and changes that had occurred in his absence.
If one were to ask, Emma wasn’t certain that she’d be able to explain what compelled her to wander the somewhat winding streets of the city. Barely anyone came by the church, nowadays—her “kind” weren’t much for religion, it seemed—and that left her with very little to do to pass the time. Perhaps, then, it was a combination of boredom and discomfort; not even she could bear being in a house of worship for long, so it did her well to come out from under its crumbling roof, every now and then.
In her aimlessness, she only vaguely noticed as the buildings around her began to change, growing larger and more lavish the further she went from the outer ring of the city. Were her father with her, he would have scoffed at such brazen shows of wealth and power; he had never thought highly of those who flaunted their fortune, for they only did so to appear better than others, and as Emma stood staring at one of the many mansions that made up the district, she found that she felt similarly. They were monuments to wastefulness, with their sprawling gardens and too-large fountains. Not to mention that the people dwelling inside had probably done nothing to earn all that wealth; it’d simply fallen into their privileged little laps.
She frowned and, once she’d gotten an eyeful, started to turn away, ready to move on. But then others’ voices reached her ears, drawing her gaze to the manor’s steps. There, two men stood. She was too far away to make out every word shared between them, and a fence separated her from the manor proper, but she took note of their clothes and saw the older one hesitate before fishing in his pockets for something. Money, she assumed, as she watched him give it to the younger one, who bowed his head before descending the many steps that led back to the street.
Intriguing. Could he be some sort of mercenary? She knew that many in the city made a living by offering their services to people in exchange for coin. And although he had never drawn it, she had glimpsed the hilt of a blade by his hip, which lent some credence to her theory.
Watching him leave, Emma gave him a wide enough berth before deciding that she would follow him. But she wasn’t a fool; she knew better than to try to sneak up on a stranger, especially one who seemed skilled enough to wield a blade. Carefully, she crossed streets and cut through alleyways, making sure to keep the man in her sights while, hopefully, keeping herself out of his. And she hid her presence as best as she could, using magic to float mere inches above the ground as she walked, so that her footsteps wouldn’t give her away. Granted, if she were correct in her assumptions, the man had probably honed his senses to detect potential threats in his environment. She wouldn’t be all that surprised if he did spot her, somehow—it would be impressive, if not also indicative of the lengths she still had to go to to truly master her magic. And so she saw no real harm in reaching out to his mind, to speak to him without revealing herself, just yet, had she not mistakenly done so already.
What would you have done, she intoned, if he had not paid his due? For she was curious. How did men of his ilk typically deal with clients too stubborn to give up even a handful of their precious coin?
RE: rough hands, rough season - Alistair - 02-07-2024
The streets seemed darker, upon a glance. He'd noticed it almost immediately. How even the vermin seemed to be wary of him, wilting and withering away from his presence. While he had not mentioned the matter, it had been something his father had commented on almost immediately. Perhaps it was the man's own way to deal with the horrors that had taken a firm grasp within their household. 'After a visit from you, at least I don't have to worry about mice for awhile. Better 'an most I pay to do the job.' It wasn't just the rats, however. The skittishness had also won over his horse, an animal he had once dearly loved going mad from his mere presence within its stable. Other animals too would only tolerate distance from him. No longer did stray dogs encircle his legs in hopes for treats he had once often carried within his pockets. Maybe that's why the city seemed more dismal since he had last been here. He thought at first that the shroud must have darkened, that it had grown more dense to blot out the heavens. In truth, it was just the absence of life.
It was a bit on the later side, so it wasn't uncommon to find most people had already locked themselves away within their homes if they didn't need to be somewhere. He also noted that the sense of tense unease he would have once felt at this time when he passed by someone on the walkways was absent. No longer did he feel the need to give them a wider berth or to keep his head down. It wasn't so bothersome to be in the company of those unnatural when he had become one in the same.
Perhaps that's why he didn't bother to take better heed of his surroundings, why he didn't notice the shadow following him from the older man's house. It wasn't until the touch drifted across his mind, so very unaccustomed to the sensation that it felt like lightening struck the entirety of his frame. His footfalls would stop, and for a moment, the whole of his body froze before he would force sinew to relax, to allow the rise of his shoulders to fall faintly, though he didn't immediately start walking again. Instead, his eyes would narrow faintly, traveling the close proximity as the voice reached out to him. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but he didn't find any familiarity in the tone. What would you have done, she asked, and he would tilt his head faintly as if it would give him some inclination of where the sound emerged from despite it only scratching along the walls of his own mind, if he had not paid his due?
Certainty came then that he did not know the speaker, making him feel a tad wary. While the question itself was innocent enough, he definitely had never experienced someone injecting their voice into his cerebrum, a sensation that was... difficult to explain. He signed a contract for our services. He began to explain, feeling a bit foolish for merely.... thinking the words while trying inexperiencedly to project them to the other. If he didn't pay, I would inform my boss, who would reach out to him and should it come to it, the authorities would be involved and he would be ordered to pay us. Though normally an empty threat or a frown was often enough for Jamenson Crafton to turn his pockets inside out to them. If he happened to catch someone off guard, he was known to do so however. It had never reached a point that they needed to involve the proper laws of Crue Efros. No, the man was afraid of his own shadow, and there was no other company that would provide him the protection he felt required from his demons. Hesitantly, he would reach out again. Where are you? Can we not speak face to face?
Emma saw the man freeze in place. She hadn’t meant to startle him, but telepathy could be unsettling, in that way; one’s mind was typically a private place, and to have that privacy so easily invaded was a cause for concern, to say the very least. Or it would be, if her intentions were less than pure, but she saw no reason to torment this stranger; all she had wanted was to speak to him from afar, without opening her mouth and giving away her location.
To her surprise, the man took advantage of their new mental link to speak into her own mind. Telepathy wasn’t a very rare ability, but she only ever used it sparingly, and the sensation of having another’s voice inside her head was too strange to fill her with anything other than slight discomfort. She got over it quickly and frowned at the man’s answer to her inquiry. It was rather cut-and-dry, involving contracts and authorities—not at all what she had wanted to hear. “Where are you? Can we not speak face to face?” he asked her, next, and she was silent for a moment as she considered her options. Perhaps it wasn’t worth it to stay hidden; she had done so with the intention of observing the man, but now that he knew that he was being watched, he was less likely to do anything interesting. That and she doubted that he would try to harm her without reason; he seemed like a stickler for the rules, and they tended to act predictably if nothing else. Fine.
Letting her feet touch the ground again, Emma stepped out into the open and walked up behind the man. “That was an awfully boring answer,” she said, having to tilt her head back to look up at him. “I thought you mercenary types were more prone to violence?” Not that she had met many mercenaries. Perhaps they were more disciplined than she had initially thought. “You are a mercenary, aren’t you?”
RE: rough hands, rough season - Alistair - 02-14-2024
Fine. The word would once more permeate his mind, drifting through his thoughts as easily as a breeze through his hair. Was this something he should mean to strengthen about himself? Were there those who could read his actions through not body language but his own very thoughts? While true skirmishes seemed to be coming less and less in the current day, it would not due to have his ass handed to him by a mind reader. A threat he had never given much time to entertaining until this very moment.
“That was an awfully boring answer,” the true voice emerged from behind him and he would turn to face the speaker. To say that he was wholly inert to what he witnessed would be a lie. She was quite young, but tainted with the very same curse he shouldered. Perhaps it was due to the fate of his siblings or maybe even that tragic hope that they would once again open their eyes, but her mere presence... wounded him. An indescribable thing that offered much more of a bother than her mental intrusion had. “I thought you mercenary types were more prone to violence?” At that, he would laugh, the sound genuine. He shifted his weight, his arms crossing loosely over his chest.
“You are a mercenary, aren’t you?” A slight hum would leave him. "I suppose that's not entirely wrong." He couldn't deny the title, though perhaps his father would find some manner of insult with the term. Though there wasn't much his old man couldn't find a fault with if he looked at it with enough of a furrowed brow. "Back before I joined the company, I'm sure things had to be solved far more violently, but the man's a frequent customer of ours. If we cause too many problems, our organization may come under scrutiny." He would raise a hand in vague gesture, a thoughtful frown curving his mouth. "If I were to harm him, he would be less likely to rehire us - or me specifically, at least. Overall, it would be a loss in profit, and then my boss would rough me up." A popular saying of why kill the cow when you can continue to milk it in this case more than anything. As well as his father was rather unwilling to have the guards or any other super natural eye glowering down at them.
The entirety of their original premise was to protect mortal lives from vampires, after all. The overlords may feel less than generous should they come up for review. As he'd said, his old man had worked from the ground up to grow this self proclaimed empire of his. He had suffered for it, his family had suffered for it. It wasn't something he would allow to fall apart too easily.
He made a face upon seeing her, and although it was little more than a twitch of his lips and a slight furrow of his brow, Emma noticed it all the same. Back when the city had been ruled by mortal men, she’d had no trouble tricking others into believing that she was a normal child, no different than the ones selling papers in the streets or trying on dresses with their mothers in stores. Vampires weren’t so easily fooled, however, and she’d grown used to them seeing through her ruse—rather quickly, at that. And while it had annoyed her, at first, she was almost grateful for it now, for it meant that she risked nothing by simply being herself. Father would surely be happy for her.
The man laughed at her comment, bringing a small, confused frown to her face. What about it was so amusing? She wasn’t completely wrong about him, he then said. "Back before I joined the company, I'm sure things had to be solved far more violently, but the man's a frequent customer of ours. If we cause too many problems, our organization may come under scrutiny,” he explained. Hurting clients would hurt his organization’s reputation, as well as cost them money in the long run, which would draw the ire of his boss. Better to handle things the proper, boring way than stir up trouble where none was strictly necessary. And that all made perfect sense to Emma, but it didn’t explain his client’s behavior from before. Was he always so stingy when it came time for him to pay?
“Hmm. You would think that he’d be more forthcoming with his payment, then,” Emma said, lips pursing with disdain. “He was mortal, wasn’t he? The services that you and yours provide should be invaluable to him.” She couldn’t imagine that there were many other vampires out there who were willing to protect mortals, whether they were paid for their efforts or weren’t. Surely that man’s life was worth more to him than whatever pocket change he’d reluctantly given his protector. Were she in his shoes, she would gladly pay her dues, and then some, if it meant that she would be safe from the city’s hungrier denizens.
There was more that she could say, in regards to the man’s client, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care enough to put it into words. How this man conducted his work was none of her concern. Yet she was still intrigued—that and pure boredom compelled her to speak more than she had in recent memory, it seemed. “Do you get much business, nowadays?” she asked the man. “I imagine your clientele has shrunk, considerably.”
RE: rough hands, rough season - Alistair - 04-18-2024
He couldn't shake the disturbance from himself at the sight of her. It wasn't easy to separate her reality to what could have become of his siblings'. To himself. The collar shrouded the marring scars for the most part, but he couldn't help the innate pull of his palm to brush the carved divets. Newly gained habits that were difficult to dismiss after his father's vicious scrutiny had fallen upon them several times, the harsh grasp of his calloused hand upon his jaw to wrench his countenance to the side when he'd stumbled his way back to the family home, Euria still held tightly within his arms. She had been first subjected to his attentions, and he held his doubts that he would ever forget the way the girl had screamed when he'd tried to examine her throat. The way she'd fought like a demon possessed even in her initial stupor. She'd been covered in scratches and bruises, but he attuned her vicious tenacity to the reason why he'd gotten to her before she met the others' conjoined fates. Despite the time passed, it was still a fresh memoir, and he often considered if it would ever cease to be just that.
“Hmm. You would think that he’d be more forthcoming with his payment, then,” the light-hearted display of his simper would realign itself to his mouth. “He was mortal, wasn’t he? The services that you and yours provide should be invaluable to him.” There came a thoughtful sigh, one that was not entirely certain how to properly designate his explanation of the elder man. While she was correct, and he often times thought the exact same. "I believe he would, but I doubt his pockets are as deep as he tries to make them look nowadays." He would deign. In the end, even if he had forgotten to gather his fare, it would only be a matter of time before it was claimed anyways. He would only be delaying and holding onto those few crescents a mere day or so longer. A sad reality, really. Maybe it was just a quiet desperation. "He'd never had much before, received an inheritance and suddenly had a family. He used to buy love and protection, but I reckon he's only got enough for one or the other now." As much as the man had contracted them, he almost viewed the sad sod as an old family friend. One of the very first jobs he'd accompanied his father on was to ensure his safety to collect what had been willed to him.
So maybe he just didn't turn a cold shoulder to the fellow because in a way, he pitied him. Unsure of why he'd been summoned to the capitol, he'd paid with nearly everything he'd had at the time. The money hadn't made him cruel, but perhaps more of a fool. To be discarded by his family and only regain any semblance of relationship with them in exchange for currency: it was sad to him. Fewer and fewer were the faces that congregated to him in recent times. Less frequently did he contact them for jobs. Until this task he was wholly alone.
Her next inquiry, however, would allow his thoughts to turn from the rather depressing life of the eldering man. "We slowed down considerably for a while," he'd admit. "But the talk of war has people in a frenzy right now. Guess while I've been gone we've received more requests than we have hands for." Most, he'd been written about were rather long-term. At least until things calmed down and returned to the mundane. "Have an interest in the work?" He'd add in gentle jest.
