RP:Cenril's Heartless

Part of the Questionable Honor Arc

Background

Vehara was newly arrived in Cenril, getting a feel for the city and its dangers.

Time was ticking for Thistle, as she tried to uphold her side of the bargain with Jerica, and dig into Byechni and the strange rumors that surrounded them and their connection to the dockside smugglers.

Two wholly different people, but maybe, maybe they could find a use for the other.

Dockside Cenril

Thistle was sweating, though the day had been breezy and cold. The sky was partially overcast, the sun hidden behind clouds. Still, it was bright enough to make Thistle need to squint. It was bright enough to give her a headache. She was on the outer edge of the city, off in the dirt that formed a short strip between land and beach, off to the side of the ramshackle buildings on wharfs that lead to the harbor. She stood beside one of the runnels of water that leaked from Cenril to the sea. Not quite a stream, not quite a creek; it had carved a path that was several feet deep in its middle from the unpaved sections of the city and trundled down to the sea. Thistle was crouched next to something there, foul smelling mud caking her ankles and up to her knees. Her deel had been removed, was neatly folded up several paces away on a bed of fitful grass that had somehow scrabbled a life in the loose soil. Thistle's leather pants had been painstakingly rolled up over those same bony knees. There were flies. Flies and other biting insects, and a wealth of awful odors that leaked from the bloated bodies she'd pulled out of the water. They were unrecognizable, soft, squishy things whose flesh had turned a mottled and inhuman shade. What they had been, what gender they'd been: no longer recognizable. Thistle was sitting between two of them, with a third half out of the water further down. One knee was in the mud, one knee was propped upright. She rested her elbow on that knee, and her forehead against the back of the upright hand. Her shoulders moved with her deep breaths, and her fingers were wet and covered with mud and other. Her free hand, flopped between her legs, held something crushed up tight: a scrap of cloth, with a device embroidered on it.

Vehara finds herself in Cenril for the second time in as many days, passing through sinister streets and down perilous avenues. She's lucky enough to escape notice and thus trouble, veiled again beneath that plain hooded cloak that shelters her from the elements as well as the eyes of others. By sheer chance alone the half-drow's path leads down this murky way, nose wrinkling beneath her hood as the mud cakes on her well traveled boots. Her gaze is brought up soon, catching the presence of a familiar form; indeed, it's the very same woman she came across last eve. The sight of her aside some bloated carcasses is quite alarming, bringing the woman to pull the hood from her head as she draws nearer to Thistle. Not seeking to startle her new aquaintence, she calls out, "...Jur, wasn't it?" The rotten stench assails her senses, bringing her features contorting in disgust. "What on...what are these?" The bodies didn't seem human anymore, if they ever were.

Thistle lifted her head. She had mud smeared on her forehead, spatters of something brown across her cheeks, but she didn't try to wipe it off as she looked up, craning her neck around to get a look at who disturbed her. The bow, its scabbard and quiver of arrows were gone, and all that was left to her was her worn leather pants and the binder that kept her form genderless. It left her arms and upper back bare, and what skin that showed was shiny from exertion. She looked back down at the bodies. What retching she'd had to do from the stink of them, the feel of them, the sight of them she'd already done, and doubtless that already mixed with the rest of the disgusting mess. Souls knew what the canal had seen. "This is what happens when you're in the wrong place at the wrong time. Only one though, I think only one wasn't gang related. Maybe not at all." Her shoulders were rounded, the curve of her spine extreme in its hunch. Her toes were buried in muck. It was amazing how easy it'd gotten to just not think about what she was putting her skin into. "I thought that -- I thought that it was nothing but. . ." She opened her left hand, the one with the cloth in it. The device that stared up at her was picked out in sloppy embroidery, a grungy grey color against a darker brownish-grey. A crude, childish impression of a fist closed around a heart. Of course, Thistle knew it was supposed to be a heart because she knew the symbol well by this point; otherwise it would likely look like an unrecognizable lump. Hair stuck to her cheeks, a few strands clumped in front of her eyes on their way down to her chin, making Vehara seem a little less distinct as Thistle looked her over.

Vehara would blanch at the smell if only she could; it really is that putrid, strangling one's olfactory senses with all of its fetor. Still, the half-drow has seen similar revolting sights, and this unfortunate 'experience' allows her not to retch. She drops to a knee, that muculent mud clinging to her pants while she manages to brave a closer inspection. "Do you suppose they were human? A friend of mine was telling me about some...strange beings in a cave not too far from here." Her gaze shoots up suddenly, taking in the sight of that symbol. No, it's not the same one this same friend mentioned, but it stirs the topic to her mind anyway. "You believe it's some sort of gang insignia? He also showed me one with a bent nail..." A sudden shake of her dark-haired head comes. "Not that I know anything of this city's collection of miscreants."

Thistle went stiff of a sudden, her lips pressed tight together for a moment. She looked back at the insignia in her hand and said with an almost absentminded twist of her lips, "This is Byechni. The Heartless. They are not -- should not -- be having bodies dumped. It isn't their style. Second one I've seen in a fight. In the last few weeks." But that wasn't here nor there. Light danced off the sweat that coated her skin as she turned a little, mud squelching beneath her. "Your friend. Silver hair, black clothes, sword? Nearly expressionless?"

Vehara absorbs these little tidbits of information like a sponge, committing them to memory; it seems there's several gangs in this city, not that it is any kind of surprise. She pulls her knee from the muddy ground and stands once more, absently wiping the worst of it from her clothes. That rather accurate description of her friend brings a sudden smile, breaking through even amongst this grotesque scenery. "That's him." Her lips thin back into a simple line now, "He showed me the symbol of a bent nail and I believe he thought it was some sort of gang as well. He wanted me to accompany him to that cave...but he came back a day or two after that and said all of them were dead. No obvious signs of trauma either."

Anger. It was there, beneath the surprise and the distraction from what she was doing. She pushed herself up slowly, having no desire to slip and fall onto one of the corpses. The thought of it almost made her stomach rise up into her throat again, but she held her breath until it passed. She took one of the corpses by the ankles and began to tug it back down the mud and into the thick slurry that passed for water. "Did he," she said, grunting with exertion as first her foot, then calf went under the water, corpse sluggishly following after. It wasn't her problem. It wasn't her deal. It was something she could inform Deaglan of, but what did it matter? If they were all dead -- had Deaglan killed them? Alone. Alone? She took the corpse by the wrist and pulled it further into the water. But if Krice had wanted to take Vehara, that would mean he'd consider her capable. And Thistle, of course, was helpless. Weak. Her stomach curdled with the force of that baldly obvious opinion, but she didn't take it out on Vehara. "They're not. . .human. Stay away from them, if you value your life. I suppose that goes for most strange men. And, bad men. Stay out of the slums too. I don't know what's going on, but it's looking to be ugly. I just can't figure out what." The first corpse floated free. Thistle wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, flinging droplets of sweat. She was frustrated, and she looked it. She sloshed towards the next one, the one half in and half out of the water.

Vehara aims to assist Thistle, reaching to snag the 'wrist' of the thing and pull it along. She slides a glance at the obviously agitated woman, letting silence hang in the air for a moment longer before she breaks it like glass. "That dangerous? But something killed them without so much as a blade...maybe it was poison..." That's only a guess, of course, leaving her trailing off in confusion. "...I realize you're quite serious, but if these things put others at peril, it only makes me want to investigate them further. If I have to engage them...so be it." Her dark-skinned shoulders roll, eyes dropping back down to the mangled corpse they are aiming to dispose of.

Thistle said, curtly, "Deag will take care of them." She pulled at the sopping jacked of the present corpse, and soon enough it was set free to float away, either to the ocean or until it got caught on the beach somewhere. It didn't much matter, Thistle supposed, where they wound up, but she felt bad leaving them where she'd tugged them free in the first place. "I trust him for that much." A fuzzy memory of laughter, food, and booze; easy taunting and pointless games. Pointless banter. She pushed it away, focused on the mud and the reeking flesh of the last corpse. Easy enough to trek back to it through the mud, watching Vehara move. "Maybe they're monsters, but even were they not there there's plenty more who do wrong. At least the monsters wouldn't sell their own kin." No, but they would make more of themselves. Deaglan's story seeped into her mind, and she shoved that away, too. She had gangs to deal with, and the dead detritus that had once been people that they left behind. Yeah, she'd be going into some of the tougher dives to search out information, had to rely on her posture and -- she watched Vehara. Krice had trusted her at his back, hadn't he. Thistle's expression went neutral for that moment, went blank before she grabbed hold of another ankle and resumed putting effort into dragging it to the water. "You want to help? With this." The way she jerked her chin towards the city, she wasn't just talking about the water-heavy corpse.

Vehara lifts a brow suddenly, grabbing at the other leg of the new body in an effort to continue her assistance. "...That depends on what 'help' entails, I suppose. Fill me in a little more and I'll certainly give it thought." A pause comes as this latest corpse is set to flow down this fetid stream of water, her nose wrinkling harshly before she spits to the side; maybe it is just that foul. 'Excuse me' she mouths, setting her now soiled hands along her waist. "My only real aim would be to help this place become...safer. Order is a long way off, by the looks of things, and it's not inherently good anyway. But there's no reason for this city to be as vile and dangerous as it apparently can be."

Thistle didn't much care for lying. Misdirection, sure, when she was dealing with dangerous men who had no qualms about slitting her throat if it was beneficial to them. Therefore, she waited to speak until the last corpse was set to safely float away. She walked away from the canal, not desiring to be anywhere near it longer than was necessary. When she turned back to Vehara, head tilted at a very slight angle for their difference in height, she was brutally honest. "I don't give a kicked bull at the post for the city. I have a score to settle. In settling that score, I'm dealing information. Today, I'm having to go into the bad part of the dockside part of the city in order to get a better idea what this," she nodded to the bobbing corpses, "is about. It'd be best if I don't go without backup. The information I find, well, if you want to use it to clean things up, that's on you." Souls, such a distraction could even be used to Thistle's advantage. "And if you like that sort of thing, maybe we could come to more arrangements." True, she'd all but sold herself to Eboric for the use of his men in this task, but Thistle had never been the sort of person to put all of her herds to one pasture. Hold the right debts, choose the right mares to breed, and stallions to breed them with. "Or, you can just come along, look intimidating and see all the places you shouldn't go." Her grin, when she showed it to Vehara, was both crooked and fierce. And, strangely honest.

Vehara tips her head in understanding. Not everyone shares her desire to salvage the fate of others, to free them from whatever shackles may bind them, so she passes no real judgement on this woman. "I see. Sure, I'll come along....long as you're fine with me using whatever is gleaned for my own purposes. I won't mix you up in whatever I end up doing, don't worry." Cue another pause, but it's brief. "You're leaving this minute, then? I'm ready whenever you are."

Thistle laughed, a little. Not a particularly happy sound, but it wasn't particularly derisive either. "If you do wind up needing to fight for me, I will owe you a debt. If you have need of more information for your business, well. I won't charge you. Before we go, I need to get this corpse stink off me. Some folk out there have a powerful sense of smell, and I don't need those questions. The ocean will do well enough, if you'll wait?"

An acceptance was made of Thistle's request, and she took full advantage of it. Once she was done, she dressed herself back in her deel and gave Vehara the type of dangerous, slow dark smile that only the mischievous or cunning truly knew how to pull off. Then they were off. Back up the beach, until they hit the ramshackle boardwalk that fell outside the purview of city maintenance -- or at least what little official city maintenance was still given money to handle. The wood was old, faded and worn by both sun and sea. It was swollen with moisture, and creaked and grumbled as they walked it. This far out, the soil was less well packed, and certain measures had to be taken to ensure the buildings did not endure too much strain from the shifting of loose dirt. The buildings were therefore built upon heavy, thick pylons, raised up and above the ground. This too helped to keep them dry during unusually high tides, though those were not so frequent. Storms though, were the main reason for the boardwalk buildings, and it was obvious as Thistle took them along the main seaside strip that this portion of it, at the least, hadn't the money to repair what damages was done by sea and wind. Most windows were boarded up affairs, paint cracked and leeched away. There was a lot of hasty repairs made with wood that was not in any position to patch up damage done to the buildings in the first place. Skinny old sailors too damaged to sail sat along the boardwalks as they moved, old hats and clay mugs outstretched. Children ran along the splintered walks, soles of their bare feet oftentimes too tough for splinters. And if not, then pain and infections were what they reaped; too poor for healers, after all. Occasionally a sick mother, or the child of poor parents sat in the lee of a building's shadow, begging. Thistle walked past them too. The unforunate were another part of Cenril's charm, and she was well acquainted with all of those stories. The boardwalk itself was broken in some places, causing a scramble down in mud or silty sand to get back up the other side, or making odd games of hopping necessary to get past rotted out boards. There was a stink of dead fish throughout all of the areas, and around and under the boardwalk had collected all manner of trash yet to be washed away by a heavy rain. It was to a building made of what once had been thick, heavy timber that Thistle took Vehara, the cracking paint an unhappy shade of once vibrant yellow. The windows had once been glass, as could be seen through the old boards that had covered them up. The sign above the door was badly damaged, the grooves that had once been painted in in an awful state of repair. It read something like Th--e --ad F--h, and was commonly known as "Fishy's" though it was not owned or staffed by anyone named Fish and the original name -- though guessed at -- was buried deep. The door was too badly warped to shut properly, and as Thistle shoved it open the first thing to note was the large plank of wood set to the side used to keep it shut when it was closed. The second was that the place reeked like fish. The third was that the whole thing was made of wood, old wood, rotting wood, dry wood (there was a prohibition on patrons having any sort of fire, including brief matches used to light pipes, which was regularly ignored and only rarely enforced. Rumor had it that there was a spell in place to keep the damn place from burning down). A ramshackle, short bar was set up in the back, and there were only a few whole tables. The rest were in pitiful shape, held together by spit and luck. Stools were the only form of seating, and the alcohol was a dubious prospect at best. For all of that, though, the place was packed, loud and happy. Thistle looked sideways at Vehara, and her smile was a challenge.

Vehara gives Thistle a smirk in turn, quite prepared for such a challenge...or so she believes. Their trek down this dilapidated boardwalk is not an overly pleasant one, however. Thieves, muggers and would-be murderers hardly cause her to flinch, but the sight of this city's suffering is a tough one to swallow for the half-drow. Occasionally her pity gets the best of her, rummaging through a pocket in her cloak to toss a piece of gold or two into the pleading hands of these unfortunate people. In particular she favors the mothers, favoring a pair of them with a small handful of gold coins wrapped in some sort of aging drawstring pouch; mostly to protect them from jealous eyes, especially those that might go to dangerous lengths to separate them from their newly given gold. Vehara hardly pauses in her steps for these acts of charity, though, keeping pace with Thistle all the while. Even so, she offers a short 'sorry' to the slightly shorter woman leading the way. Soon they finally seem to reach their destination, a sort of beat up old bar that appears well beyond its days, much like the rest of this slum. Thistle's smile is met with a sidelong glance, pulling that cloak snugly to her form. "I suppose you have a contact here, then." The words are set under her breath, not wanting the wrong ears to hear them.

The noise of the place was enough to cover words spoken near ears, and slightly out of the way of the door -- which Thistle kicked shut with a force of movement a bit excessive for her otherwise mild manner -- Thistle stood on tiptoe to say to Vehara, quietly, "The grunts of Byechni gather here. This is one of the few places not claimed by Thorns. Do you like cards?" She went back to flat feet, the smile gone muted to fleet hints about the corners of her mouth, a slight curve to her lips. Her eyes were dark, glassy: sobered, they were hard as cut stone, and possibly the least expressive part of her face.

Vehara considers that question for only a moment, replying in a hushed tone that nevertheless carries bell-like clarity. "...Cards? I suppose. I can manage my own if we must play. I'll follow your lead." Her eyes shift from Thistle to take in the rest of this pitiful establishment; from the way it crawls with obvious scoundrels to the crumbling furniture, it's a sort of grotesque masterpiece, one that's only barely holding itself together.

Thistle jerked her head towards the back of the room whilst staring at Vehara, and her body followed the motion. Here, Thistle belonged. She had a rolling, stoop-shouldered stride that was at once pathetic and cocky, shameless and cringing. It was the step of a greasy underling, someone who knew exactly where they belonged and yet dreamed for more. It was a useless talent in the wider world, a thing that would have little use, but for that in the criminal underworld it was a very good thing, one of the best traits Thistle had going for her. She eeled her way between too-loud men, avoided spilled drinks or food, tangles with irate and curvy wenches. Past the bar, past the tables, past the wealth of bosom that spilleth over, and what was left was a ratty curtain hung lopsided over a doorway. It was there that Thistle slunk, holding it open long enough to take a look back at Vehara, the edges of a smile still glimmering through the muted demeanor she played at. Smoke slid out of the room, a hazy prospect that blended the odor of fish with something a little earthier, heavier. Into the gambling room, it the smell of fish almost vanished entirely, but hung in quiet pockets like an unwelcome house guest. Not that it seemed to affect anyone. What did affect people were the two tables set up in the cramped room, and the twenty or so men and their waspish, round women who ate every word with a cherry-sweet smile. There were only five or so girls working the room, but they kept the dissatisfied men dropping coin, and the happy men ready to continue on. Besides them there were only a few hard women not working, but gaming with the men, and with their obvious bulk and fighting-ready garb, they were no one's toys. It was hot in there, and Thistle wedged herself into the far corner, bony elbows unobtrusively obtaining room for Vehara. Thistle's eyes were flat, snakelike as she stood all rounded and slouched, staring down at a high stakes game played between rough, quiet men. Five were at the table minus the dealer, and two of them wore that childishly embroidered fist surrounding the lumpy heart openly on their jackets. The others were tattooed heavily, some with repeating designs that surely heralded other groups. And all of them, to a man, was visibly armed with knives or daggers, the occasional sword. They wore cheap wool or stained leathers, had ratty hair often tied back. An unscrupulous group, for sure, but even so the presence of two more slight bodies created no unnecessary stir or fuss. Thistle and Vehara were folded into the group as if they belonged there, just like anyone else.

Vehara follows close behind, but whereas Thistle has some sort of swaggering stride, she is rather subdued in comparison; no attention is drawn to her movements, those soft leather boots generating only a gentle tap on the ratty floorboards below. The half-drow ducks her head slightly as they approach the tattered curtain, passing through it soundlessly and emerging at the other end like some sort of cloaked phantom. The arrival of the pair seems all but unnoticed in this room full of hardy men, nestling into that corner unobtrusively. The darker skinned of the two gives a tender tap of her elbow against the other, tilting her head toward the gambling group in some sort of silent gesture. No doubt it's an indication for direction; she wishes to know whether they're to approach or stay back in the fold for now, though she waits patiently all the while.

Thistle tapped a finger to her lower lip, sliding a glance back at Vehara that seemed on the verge of a wink, on some strange and momentous thing, but then she just looked back to the table. So they stood, as money came and went, changing hands and flickering in and out of sight. Thistle stood by Vehara through it all, occasionally nudging her and nodding to men. Three at the end of the table muttered to each other about a planned raid into a local business that hadn't paid. One of the card players made a ribald joke about the sexual inclinations of one of the prominent church leaders, and when asked how he knew he declared it to be common knowledge. One of the women whose bosom nearly spilled from the front of her too tightly tied dress tittered to one of her compatriots about a limp member of Thorns who'd gone on and on about the church's involvement with the very officious customs office. She was shushed by said compatriot. After a few hands had come to their natural end, Thistle started to place bets on one of the Byechni men. When he won her money, she carefully and inobtrusively bought him drinks. When he lost her money, she bought him a few more. All the while she skillfully pointed out people of interest to Vehara, occasionally mentioning names and affiliations. "See the tart in blue? She sucks for Rucchione," or "The black haired man smoking the red pipe? He's in for the Triad, looking to force in for more territory," and most notably, going up onto her tiptoes to put her mouth skin-close to Vehara's ear: "The two Byechni at the table? You'll see their marks. The one I've fed drinks to will be getting dragged from here soon. They've information I need. Can you rough the mostly sober one up once they leave?"

Vehara whispered to Thistle, "Mm, very well. I suppose you'll be following along to glean the information from them? Luring the more sober of the pair won't be difficult...perhaps to the alley outside. Then I can rough him up, if need be, so you can get the information you desire."

Thistle whispered to Vehara, "Watch them, watch: he'll take the drunk one from here. We'll leave shortly after they do. When they're outside, out of sight. . .that's when we'll take them both. The drunk one shouldn't matter by then; he's a drowned fish."

Vehara nods in affirmation, watching the pair of Byechni men. Thistle proves to be positively prophetic; the one that keeps downing swill steadily grows less and less coherent, his words slurring as he recalls old tasteless tales to his comrade, a drunken chuckle bubbling through every so often. The more composed of the two tolerates this at first but soon grows annoyed, no doubt having heard this stupidity surface many a time before. He grumbles something about leaving before the drunkard passes out and chokes on his own vomit, snagging his 'friend' and shouldering him out. Vehara and Thistle follow soon after the gang members pass through that curtain, trailing at a distance so to not appear overly conspicious. It's the half-drow that advises the thinner woman when they're out of that shacky establishment, guiding her along a more shadowy path that leaves them beneath a veil of relative darkness in their approach. Once they've reached a point where bystanders are almost entirely absent, Vehara steps out to call to the more sober Byechni in a fine imitation of a sultry whore. No sooner than he turns his head, however, the half-drow's leg snaps up adroitly and that heel crushes his jaw like mulch, leaving him spitting a colorful string of curses at his assailant. Vehara gives no reprieve, hunching down and crashing her shoulder right into the pair, sending them stumbling just inside the nearest alley; a finely serrated dagger is brandished just after, thrust threateningly out while she waits for Thistle to extract the information desired.

Thistle was biddable, which was perhaps a sign of just how cozy she was with the idea of cornering the men and gaining information with violence. Things changed. They always did, and if Thistle had started stepping past the line she tried to walk so carefully, well, there was only one thing she cared about and it sure as hell wasn't the men they stalked. As Vehara handled the men in a way sure to keep Thistle on her good side -- for the present -- Thistle was looking behind them, checking for tails or bystanders who might have gotten too close, might have seen something. Nothing. Of course, it would have to be an interested party who'd bother doing anything after seeing such a scene; most of them would bugger off and forget about the matter entirely. So long as the two men remained anonymous and unattached to the organization that they currently belonged to, Thistle and Vehara were as safe as anyone. "Smooth," Thistle murmured as she slid up behind them, the ridiculous cowardly skulk gone from her steps. She walked as she always did when out from under a necesary act: as if she had some business to see to and planned to get it done right. The man who was full up to his ears with booze had already flopped partially onto his stomach, and was relieving himself of some of that booze quite noisily. Thistle wondered for a moment if he'd be able to get himself rightside up to piss: after all that liquid he'd be sure to have a full bladder. Ah well, not her concern. To the other she bent down by as he groaned and pulled himself mostly upright, eyes going to the deadly blade Vehara held. Thistle cocked her head so she could look at it too, admire the gleam of it in the steadily fading light. They'd been in the tavern a good long while. "Pretty thing, isn't it?" Thistle asked the man casually, and he turned. She'd already backed off a little, crouching with her hands over her knees as she looked at him. "You're marked as Byechni. I keep hearing rumors about Byechni, you know. Can you speak?" He didn't get up, not with the knife pointed so close. He chose to look at Vehara rather than Thistle. "Yuh," he said. Thistle rocked back onto her heels, back up onto the balls of her feet. "Great. Now, I keep seeing your crummy little markings deep in the dry part of the city. What're you doing getting violent up there, eh?" The man chanced a glance at Thistle, but he looked back at Vehara and her knife, bracing one arm behind him and the other to his face. He pulled a leg under him. Thistle looked at Vehara, tipped her head forward.

Vehara gives only a short nod, acting swiftly. She's on the man in an ebon blur, seizing an arm and giving it a cruel twist that leaves him cursing in pain once more. The arm is pressed up against his own back in a sort of hammerlock; the bone won't break under this sort of pressure, but it does leave him rather compromised and sorely limits his options of escape. At the very least, he finds that his jaw isn't absolutely broken. Heavily bruised to the bone, maybe, and it might swell up in time, but nothing in the way of lasting damage. The half-drow finally speaks, issuing a quick order. "Just answer her questions...and be quick about it." She slings him roughly against the alley wall, entrapping him further. The drunkard, meanwhile, seems too out of his wits to truly realize what's going on, much less intervene. Who knows if he'll even remember all of this.

The note to stay on Vehara's good side expanded. Thistle stood so that she could move closer to the Byechni man. "The inner city. What is Byechni doing there?" Thistle repeated the question, attempting to catch his eyes and failing. He'd grunted, breath coming faster as he attempted some small resistances, considered what he was willing to risk for his boss. Considered which would net him more pain. Considered what might get him killed. It was in his eyes as they moved, in the painful tension that held him against the wall. ". . .being paid," he gasped, voice rough and low. Too low to be entirely heard. "Speak up," Thistle snapped, some small part of her stomach squirming away from the coldness in her voice. "Byechni handles customs and the other dockside officials, helps with smuggling. What changed?" He was pale, pupils dilated as he finally looked at Thistle before he squeezed his eyes shut, shifting a little in Vehara's grip. "Bigger money than the cuts," he gasped. "Whose?" Thistle asked. "A man -- a man from the Church, I heard, but -- " He didn't get the chance to finish. Thistle took a step closer, her voice brittle in its frigid lack of heat, "Which faction?" His eyes opened. "I don't know." Thistle's expression lost some of its tension, some of the disgust that she'd shown when talking to him. She turned so her back was to the wall, momentarily looking away from Vehara and the man as she watched the drunkard slip around in his own vomit.

Vehara wrenches the arm a little further when the man hesitates or seems reluctant to answer, possibly eliciting faster - and hopefully more honest - replies. Only when Thistle turns her back to the wall and takes pause does the half-drow loosen the arm just slightly, though not enough to let him escape just yet. "That all you need from this guy?" The drunk is kept in her peripheral vision; he's not bound to be of any use in the near future, but one can never be too careful. "You rather I just let him go or let him take a little nap?" She means knock him unconscious, not kill. She'd rather not be that cold unless she simply has to be.

Thistle shook her head as she watched the drunk try to crawl away. "There's more, I'm betting." It was strange to work with so many people Thistle didn't know well. Strange to ask a woman she'd only met once before to do this dirty work. Or was it that the woman had found something valuable in the work for her own need that she'd agreed to? So many questions, always circling, always hiding the truth from Thistle. And some day, that truth would come back and take her down, down, down. She turned back to face Vehara and the man, right shoulder still pressed against the wall. It was filthy. But so was Thistle, right? "Y'hear that? Want to take a nap? If you play nice none of us will need to be troubled by this little game." The man's face was contorted, and Thistle found the disgust she'd abandoned to be leveled back at her as he spat. It hit her deel near her hip, and she took the time to look down at it. When she looked back up, her expression was thoughtful. Neutral. "What does the man want? Why the money?" "We was told -- we was sposed to test the bottom of the pile. Find the lines. Muck 'em up a bit." "Why use you? They have power. They don't need little doggies to do their dirty work." "I heard it was -- I heard it was somethin' about controlling the smuggling, the rings. An' then Byechni would have control, I heard, we'd be the ones callin' the shots, have say so on what got brought in and for what price. That's what I heard but I don't know, alright? We was sent t' fight, that's all, that's all!" Thistle chewed on that information, gaze sliding to Vehara. She wondered what use the other woman might have for it, might do with it. What a fun little spider's game it was turning out to be, a right nest of silken threads to tangle everything up in. Her sisters, Souls, Thistle could only hope they stayed all the way out of it. "Who would know about the church man?" The whites of his eyes almost seemed to glow in the twilight as he whined, "Petra, shit, I don't got it, alright?" Of course Petra would know. That didn't help Thistle any. Or. . .maybe it would. Huh. "Put him out," she said, curt, but that time she didn't turn away.

Vehara absorbs the information the man spews, even if it doesn't make total sense to her just yet. When Thistle gives the order to put him to sleep, the half-drow obliges; the grasp on his arm is loosened, but her own snakes up his back and around the neck, clamping like a python. The pressure exerted cuts off the bloodflow to the thug's brain in a simple choke, one that allows the smaller woman to subdue this larger man. Soon his limbs go limp and his eyes droop shut, robbed of all consciousness. He's not dead, though; Hara just unlaces the arm from his throat and dismisses him to the dirty ground with his friend, where he'll sleep until that bloodflow regulates again. She turns to Thistle, nodding and stepping out of the alleyway. "That's all, right?"

Thistle watched what Vehara did, and she watched the unconscious man. Thistle was wearing her deel. It was an article of clothing that was unusual in Cenril, and she was becoming recognized by it. When he woke, he'd remember that little detail, and the darkness of Vehara's skin. He'd remember lots of things, maybe more than Thistle had control over. That could be handy, if used right. It could be disastrous, if used wrong. His life balanced on that internal set of scales, as Thistle considered her safety and Eboric's promise of aid, the people she could count on and the ones who'd use any missteps on her part to take her out before she could become anything more than a nuisance. In the end she stepped out of the alley after Vehara with a muttered, "Yeah. If I have need for muscle again, would you be interested?"

Vehara considers that question silently for a moment, tipping her gaze to the ground. "Maybe. If it lines up with what I intend, I don't mind it. I'd like to ask you more questions about these gangs, but now isn't the best time I suppose. We should be parting ways." Her eyes snap up to greet Thistle's own now. "I suppose that thug will probably remember just enough about us to cause trouble in the future. Perhaps we ough to lay low, especially when it comes to their end of town. I don't fear them or any other scum, but you might stick around this place more often than I do. Plus, I know I may have looked capable enough back there, but I don't need the sort of trouble a whole group brings, you know."

Thistle shrugged. It was a wholly street gesture. "I'm forgettable," she said. People remembered her deel most of all. The rest was all calculated risk for a dubious reward. "I'll be interested to see what you get up to." She nodded, and stepped back without turning around in a south-eastern direction; the road at her back a narrow dirt lane that emptied out, eventually, at the eastern edge of the slums.

Vehara very nearly comments on that deel and how distinctive it looks, if only because it might leave her infinitely more identifiable than if she was without it. Knowing the woman is plenty street smart, however, pointing that out seems to smack of condescension; instead, she simply gives a parting nod. "All right. I'll catch you around soon. Hopefully the information you got is useful." With that, she turns and makes her way up the street, weaving through a nearby alleyway to take a less conspicous path out of this slummy part of town.

Thistle smiled a little, after Vehara's back. Well, well. Some things needn't be said to make for the most interesting information gained. Thistle turned too, heading for familiar spaces and the less friendly people who populated them. Because friendly, after all, required a price she just wasn't willing to pay.