RP:Dirty Street Talk, Part I

Part of the Questionable Honor Arc

Background

Seriis only wanted breakfast.

Thistle only wanted an uncomplicated search for Byechni.

You don't always get what you want, do you?

The mean streets of Cenril

Early morning in Cenril was a time when the lower class crept about unmolested by their betters. Servants rushed to complete tasks for their masters, and those who worked tended their stores and their carts, preparing for the day ahead. That morning in particular, however, the mouthwatering smells of cooking foods mixed in with the more typical stench of city life was tainted by something becoming commonplace in Cenril: blood. And in the wake of that smell lay the bodies, scattered over the ground like trash, overlooked by white-faced beggars, merchants, and shopkeepers. One girl had fainted, and she was tended to by another girl in the same livery; some rich man's girls, those. Of the bodies on the ground, three had the markings of gang members -- tattoos on two of them and a strange device on the jacket of the third -- while four others seemed to be none other than regular, everyday citizens. People, only people, who had tasks and lives and duties to perform cut short by violence and left to bleed as their bodies desecrated themselves in death. Few people were moving, two running for the old guard tower to the west while a few more vacated the area. Whispers had started, dire rumors of the ever increasing boldness of the smaller groups, and it was to this that Thistle listened. She was disturbed: it showed in her face and in the way she carried herself, the way she picked her footing along the edge of the road in the morning shadows of stiff buildings that stood solemn like judging witnesses. Her eyes roved the people who still stood and those who didn't, and with something of distaste twisting her lips she stepped forward into the bloodied mud, bare feet squelching with some grotesque sound, and bent over the man with the device on his jacket, fingers reaching to touch the strange mark and trace over its symbol.

Seriis has discovered that Cenril's utterly delightful morning air is more bitter than usual, as if someone felt the need to assault his nose further by mixing blood with the stench of humans and animals. The boy's teetering on the edge of solid regret as he slows his steps and finally stops within a couple of feet of the corpses - regretting ever coming out for a morning walk, that is. His bright eyes survey the bodies in a distant, pitiless manner, nose scrunching visibly in disgust. For all his experience with the dead and dying, Seriis has never truly been able to stomach the smell of them. His tolerance of it borders on precarious, and he's quietly glad he hasn't had breakfast yet, and suddenly he’s rethinking the idea of actually buying any now thoughts of food are corrupted by the grotesque image before him. Still, he's curious. Huffing a warm breath that mists in the chilly air, the scholar picks his way through the mud to get a closer look at the nearest body, thankful for his choice of footwear - his usual clothing is not quite suited to the winter weather so he's currently wearing boots and a black dress coat over a simple shirt, and black trousers. He cuts an elegant figure, actually, if a decidedly petite one. His gaze is drawn to the distinct tattoo blackening the flesh of one thick, but now useless, arm of the man splayed out before him like a rag doll, and Seriis sniffs. "What a shame," the drow drawls, sounding not at all genuine. Judging by the look on his face, the scholar would likely rather that this be the fate of everyone in Cenril aside from himself. It would certainly help to clear the air.

A shriek, as a woman came forth from within the bowels of a brightly painted building boldly proclaiming beautiful glass baubles -- rich fools' shop, that -- a middle aged woman holding and pulling at her arm as if to keep her back. But she was not stayed, was not convinced, and she flung herself at one of the corpses. Utterly heedless of mess, of stink, she put her face to the man's bloodied neck and sobbed as if her world had ended. Who knew, maybe it had. People began to avert their eyes, looked away, too cowardly or confused to be of much help besides gawp at the bad things that had occurred. Only Thistle and Seriis dared to get closer to the bodies besides that one whose shoulders shook with her great, heaving breaths. It wasn't that sound that drew Thistle's attention, but the intelligent words formed by a boy she judged not much taller than herself, standing. She squinted up at him, down almost to her ankles in mud -- if Cenril had an export more plentiful than fish, it would have to be mud -- and her mouth worked for a second as she looked him over. There was a studious neutrality to her face ruined only by the faint wrinkle between her eyebrows and at the outer corners of her eyes. It was further blemished by the way her lips twisted up into a sardonic little smile. "It will be, if they keep pushing north." Her words were almost made unintelligible by the wordless wails of the mourner, who had gotten her arm up under the man's head and had pulled that slack face up and into her lap, where she cradled it. Thistle's eyes glittered in the morning light as she stared up at Seriis, a challenge and a question in them.

Seriis twitches. His head snaps toward the distraught woman when she bursts out of a nearby building but at the sight of her, his hand stops to rest just at his hip, instead of delving into a nearby pocket to retrieve a concealed dagger. That terrible, anguished scream should have shaken off any paranoid notions he had of unexpected attacks, but he's found that you can never tell what folk who suddenly find they have nothing to live for might do next. He watches her in silence for a long couple of moments, a soft frown drawing his brows together, before his attentions are dragged away in order to focus on some words. They were spoken to him, yes, but Seriis only works that out after he's managed to understand what was actually said in the first place. "Oh?" he answers, lifting a brow slightly and staring resolutely back at Thistle with eyes as hard as gemstones. She looks common and dirty, he thinks, and a faint flicker of disdain crosses his expression that he does not quite manage to hide. Then his eyes return to the brokenhearted woman and he snaps irritably, "Oh, stop crying already! You should be proud of him, if anything. At least he didn't die a coward's death." A thin finger is jabbed at the multiple wounds decorating the corpse's torso, jagged gashes brimming with rivulets of blood. It took a lot to bring that one down. Seriis looks back at Thistle, steely-eyed. "What did you mean, about pushing north?" he asks finally.

The older, middle-aged woman had finally come forward to put her arm around the shoulders of the sobbing woman, her face grave and unsure. Grave and unsure until she had a place to pin her emotions on. She settled for a cutting glare at Seriis as her companion wailed all the louder, face red and wet. Some of the onlookers had started to peel away: nothing they could do, and the world didn't stop for a few dead fools. Thistle's smile had dropped at Seriis' words, and she regarded him with a blank look, taking her time in looking him over. Cleanliness. Assurity. The way he spoke. The way he stood. The way his limbs were shaped. All of it was taken in and assessed in turn, and then she glanced past him at the two women and the dead man. The dead men who were presently unmourned, though she knew they'd provide a nasty surprise later. All but the one ragged looking young man, who likely didn't have much in the way of family. And the gang members. . .this was expected for them. She took out a knife from her sash and started to cut off the device, which was maybe not the wisest course of action, but her movements were sure. "Guards aren't as noble as they used to be. The issue of pay has become a problem. They won't come for this. Watch. This public, this close to their tower? Money's being passed around again. The smaller dens are creeping out of the slums, and the bigger gangs are starting to slide into the high class. The churches hold the north, for the most part. This is a declaration -- " her lips hung open as if she'd been about to say more, but then she closed them and gifted Seriis with another of those ferocious little smiles as she sheathed knife and tucked it into her sash with the device. She stood, and found that the younger boy was about a height with her, which might have been frustrating if she wasn't so used to it.

Seriis sniffs, indignation evident on his young face. That will certainly be the last time he makes even the smallest attempt to console somebody. With an over-dramatic sigh he subsequently chooses to ignore the crying woman and her companion (the living, glaring one), returning instead to his absent inspection of Thistle. It seems they're both attempting to size one another up but the drow allows the scrutiny of his person, and he takes just as much information from his own assessments. There are bruises and cuts and a missing knuckle, ragged edges and dark, tousled hair. Her eyes intrigue him the most and Seriis openly stares into them for a couple of seconds, before he jerks his gaze back up and surveys the road as an indifferent expression slides onto his features, to mask his childlike curiosity. Sharp eyes catch the movements of those in the passing crowds, the people that flow along the road and part like water around a prominent rock, all of them trying to put others between themselves and the stench of death and the bodies littering the ground. He glances down again, at his own feet, and can't help the face he pulls at the sight of his good boots all marred with smudges and smears of wet mud. Someone is going to have to clean those later, and Seriis is going to make sure it isn't him. "Was anyone ever noble in this city?" It seems laughable to him, the idea of acceptable individuals even daring to set foot past the front gates. Except him, apparently. "It's interesting, at least," he offers after a beat, shrugging. "All these plots. I would have taken a closer look at this city's underworld a lot sooner had I-- ...what is that you just took from him?" Cerise eyes glimpsed the strange device just a moment before it was hidden within the folds of Thistle's sash.

Thistle grunted, dipping her head in acknowledgement of his words. "Comparitively speaking," she muttered, even though he kept talking. "Had you what? Known about it? You look better suited for Hoity-Toity Street out yonder -- " a careless gesture somewhere eastward, " -- rather than the slums. Not unless you don't mind offal, and judging by your expression. . ." she tilted her head forward, shrugged. It was odd being able to look someone in the eyes. She stuck her thumbs into her sash, question neatly avoided.

Seriis' initial response to 'Hoity-Toity' is a look of total and utter bewilderment. He repeats the words once or twice under his breath, as if doing so might conjure their meaning from the shadowy depths of his mind, but he cannot remember coming across the phrase before. Only after listening to the rest of Thistle's comment does he begin to grasp what they might be referring to. Then he grins, amused. "Yes, well, of course. I am nobility, but I do love a good plot or two." His kind are rather (in)famous for it, after all. "And I'm used to the stench of blood and death, really. It sort of comes with the training." Seriis blinks. Somehow remarks like that are all the more insightful when the person he's talking to is closer to his height, and he can truly see into their eyes when he speaks. He shuffles his feet, not sure why he chose to give that little tidbit of information about himself.

Thistle for her part had never seen one of Seriis' kind before. He was but a daimon to her, something non-human and likely monstrous for it. His smile was met with a briefly raised eyebrow; the comment had been a casual half-insult, but he was proud as a newly victorious stallion. A more considering look overtook her face in the way her brows lowered. Maybe it was the bad start to the morning, the extremes that had been pushed in this new and more dangerous little turf war. Maybe it was her feeling of responsibility for it and the deaths, though she'd not lifted a hand to accomplish either. She'd only spoken. Only words had she passed along, a few whispers in exchange for coin, half that she'd squirrelled away -- gotten her a new bow, hadn't it? That blood money -- in order to provide more fuel for her personal vendetta. Innocents always died when men played at war. It was expected. Perhaps it was that, and the way Seriis smiled that provoked her into her next few words, the challenge a fading but constant ember in the shape of her eyes and the stiffness of her posture. "You want to see it, then? Think you the guts for what's been stuck in the shadows?" All the while unknowing of the Underdark and the horrors that trespassed there but willing all the same to show him the sort that passed under witness of the sun. It was a heartless gesture, but he wasn't one of hers.

Seriis is a victim of happenstance, truly. Normally he would rarely make trips into the city proper, and definitely not along back roads such as these, preferring to stick to the areas surrounding the library; the wide avenues, high cliffs and vistas, and the beaches where the salty tang of the ocean overpowered Cenril's pervading stink. This morning, he felt like a fresh, warm pastry from the bakery just along the road from here, but his dislike for people is second only to his dislike of touching them, and the main road was so crowded he would constantly be bumping shoulders with every fleabitten Tom, Dick, and Harry. Sure to catch a disease from that, he's certain. So he took the alley, and now Seriis does not really feel like getting that pastry any more. He does mind offal, but he didn't admit to it. He can tolerate it, but the sight and smell puts him off food for a while afterward. Good thing he's a fairly confident actor and his mother never found out. "More guts than he has," the drow answers Thistle with a smile that's not all pleasant, gesturing to one of the nearby corpses whose intestines have been partially torn from his torso and now lie strewn haphazardly around him, fleshy, blood-soaked worms half-drowned in mud. "Really, shadows and I are quite familiar with each other. Have you never heard of our home?" He sounds half-interested, as though his attentions are elsewhere, which they are. "And what is that thing." Not one to drop his line of questioning until answers are found, Seriis is pointing at the woman's sash again; specifically, at what she's hidden inside it, and what he hasn't been able to stop glancing at. "It's not polite to loot corpses." Because she looks the type to care about that, yes.

Thistle looked at the intestines, that poor rutting slob, and then back to the whole and hale Seriis. "'Our' home? No. I've no care from where you came from." He'd be a fun one to tote along, she thought, whatever compassion she might have had drowning in her brittle mood as did those previously hidden worms so haphazardly exposed to the world. "Were these polite, I wouldn't touch them. But they'll be left to spoil until someone pays to have them removed or their minders come to take them. Which, I think I'll be elsewhere when they do. If you're too prissy to come along, I've information to gain." She stepped sideways, away from mud and to the side of the coils of intestines, bending once to get a closer look at one of the tattoos. She didn't attempt to skin those though -- not even she was that bold. Not that she was typically bold at all, but for that particular man with his fancy jacket she'd been willing to take a risk. Mud made disgusting noises underfoot as she started for the side of the street and the thickening crowds there. Something made her stop, look over her shoulder with a positively derisive smirk and a raised eyebrow. Even the fainted girl had been roused and whisked away, back to somewhere perceptibly safer. A man had joined the yet-weeping woman and her older companion, and together they managed to pry the younger off the dead man, speaking urgently about children or whatnot.

Seriis nodded. "Yes, 'our' home, of my kin. Suppose it's not of much interest to most of your lot, though, aside from in horror stories. For which I'm glad. But let's just say that all this--" A sweeping motion of the hand gestures to the tragedy they're stood in the middle of, "--is rather commonplace where I'm from, and often on a much larger scale. There is a reason no one is willing to show me their back." Amused, the boy snorts and waves his hand again, more absently this time. "I'm more fond of stabbing up-front anyway." This positively arrogant remark is spoken so casually that Seriis almost seems to have forgotten where exactly he is, or maybe he was just not thinking fast enough to catch up with his running mouth. Suspicious and angry glances are cast his way and the cries of woman cradling the dead man's head die down, as she lifts her eyes, red-rimmed and blank, to find his own. Seriis stiffens a touch, recalling his wariness of those unpredictable ones who've lost everything, realising that Thistle said something to him and then left. He looks around for her - she hasn't gone far, at least, and the boy hurries to catch up, mud slurping and squelching under his boot heels. Perhaps that wasn't his smartest moment. "To be fair, I'd have been a lot cleaner about it," he mutters to her, quickening his pace and glad for the fact that his small size makes it easy to become lost in a crowd. "One or two well-placed knives and definitely no spilt guts, ugh."

Thistle had shown Seriis her back. It didn't seem to bother her, but considering how often she had to put herself in danger it was, as ever, a calculated risk. Her bow scabbard was on her back at the present anyways, with the bow neatly carried within alongside her quiver and full complement of arrows. "If I've a guess as to the two who did it, they've a fondness for extra. . .decoration. If it wasn't them, it was a warning. Either way, the statement's been made and the four not involved'd be the emphasis." Had he really claimed his people part of horror stories? An odd thing to be so nonchalant about, but he was a daimon. Thistle had learned early to expect all sorts of weirdness from that quarter, and if that reminder lit a touch of her paranoia into realizing how stupid she was for inviting him down the narrower alleys in streets, into the worst parts of the city where screaming was as commonplace as he claimed the bloodletting was to his, well, her pride wouldn't let her take it back. Once they were through the crowds, Thistle took him between two buildings, the space so narrow she'd need to turn her bony shoulders sideways. Once free they found themselves on another street. Less populated, more poor. The mud on this street stank of piss and faintly of alcohol, and the buildings were a piece shabbier than the ones on Arril, faded signs promoting businesses deceptively innocent with a few newer ones a sight more bold as to their real business goals. "It only gets worse from here," she said to him in a falsely cheerful voice, eyes hard as they watched the stretching morning shadows.

Seriis noticed Thistle's apparent disregard for her own life. Twice now he's seen the backs of humans and twice he has not taken the invitation as many others would do without hesitation. For all his lauding of the horrors of his violent culture and his own abilities, Seriis is much less vicious than he tries to imply he is. Which does not necessarily mean he is lying, but is simply oddly subdued. And he's scrunching up his face. It appears neither he nor his nose appreciate that particular someone's artistic tastes. "You know who did it? Or..." He trails off, feeling somewhat out of the loop. With his kind's love of plots, deception, and lies -- things he tries to stay on top on for it's in his best interests to do so -- it's a little disconcerting to be so uninformed, so helpless. It makes him feel exposed, and vulnerable. "Does the information you like just enjoy hanging around the worst parts of town, or are you doing this on purpose-- by Astrala, I don't want to know what that is. Was." Hopping over an unidentified lump partially buried in the mud and buzzing with flies, Seriis attempts to breathe through his mouth in order to save his delicate nose, but finds he can almost taste the fetid aroma in the air. He gags despite himself, wishing he had some sort of scarf. "By the way, I don't think we've been introduced," he adds in a voice that's slightly muffled, because the boy has now covered his mouth with both hands.

Thistle stepped where she did without apparent care, knowing full well that with everything that went into the muddied streets there was no avoiding the worst of it, all churned together as it was. "I go where I fit in, to get to where I need to be." Open and shut into Thistle's reasons quicker'n a cat's hiss. They crossed the street, and then into what Thistle privately thought of the real bones of the city: the realm of the poor. The buildings they passed became less and less maintained: repair a thing of past owners and happier days. Stone was chipped and made rough by time, grouting pitted and sometimes whole stones missing. Wooden buildings occasionally rotted, and those made from all materials would sometimes be caught sagging. Sad sights, all of it. And sprouted around them like mushrooms after the rain was the leading edge of the first shantytown. Workingclass district, as Thistle thought of it, where the unfortunates who couldn't get steady or good work were forced to live after landlords of better buildings had been forced to raise rent either due to extortion, protection rackets, or the notable danger of owning anything in or alongside what had been claimed as 'territory' by violent men. Those in the safe places where the church's men kept some semblance of peace and the guards still did their jobs? Had to be a merchant or better to afford those. Thistle didn't speak as she took him around the thickest of cobbled together hovels, arcing them left around a four-way intersection and onto a narrow road. She kept to the left side of that road, well away from the near-liquid slurry that sluggishly drained southwards to the main gutter channel. A couple tartly dressed women lingered in doorways, bodies long past the ripeness of youthful ease, though they were not truly that old. Only when they had passed the women did Thistle say, voice quiet, "Call me Chu."

Seriis' lips purse slightly. "And where is that?" The place she needs to be. Surely there are better ways to go about reaching that elusive position, ways that do not require trudging through stinking mud and who knows what else...and actually he's not even going to think about what might be mixed in with the wet earth, and he may have to just burn these boots rather than make any attempt at cleaning them. He glances down as he skirts around an overturned bucket, catching sight of Thistle's bare feet. Maybe she would like them. The further they walk, the more Seriis finds himself thinking, 'it can't get worse than this,' but it seems Thistle was definitely correct, because the drow is proven wrong at every winding turn, where the buildings rising around them on each new alley are steadily becoming dirtier, hollower, and dangerously more rickety than the last. He's certain some of them would fall down if he were any taller and his weight larger, which presents him with an image of houses collapsing with his every footstep, showering him in brick dust. He'd rather the brick dust than all this mud. But aside from his occasional whining when his boots get stuck in particularly deep spots, or when he stumbles due to this and catches himself against a wall covered in a substance he doesn't care to name, Seriis remains quiet and as alert as a boy can be when struggling with his own footing. Very nearly gagging again at the sewage, he hurries past a pair of scantily-clad women without looking up, ignoring the flash of intrigue in their eyes when they take into account his expensive clothing, and the likely weight of gold lining his pocket. "Seriis. I'm a scholar, actually." Mostly.

"A more advantageous position," Thistle said as she cut her eyes sideways at the fluttering of the women, and then looked at Seriis' clothes. In her mood she'd neglected to take that into an account, and she swung around fully, coming to a stop to frown at him. At that point, the ragged ends of her who-knew-how-many-hand leather pants slightly higher than her ankles were spattered, and the back hem of her deel, too. Nothing was dragging, thank the Souls, but everything would stink later. Scholar was unexpected, and it made her blink a few extra times as she looked him up and down. "That'll cause grief. Your clothes. Want I should cover you up? I won't be responsible if you get attacked, elsewise. Most of the people here are out begging or seeking work, but there'll be plenty of destitute in the slums trying to take each other's food or marching around in clumps of twitchy thugs. They'll like what you're wearing, and I'd prefer not to draw too much attention. Especially if some marked idiot thinks I'm selling you." That had her pulling a face as she looked at him, as if he'd be the last grubber she'd desire to sell. Someone else was passing up the street from the direction they'd been headed, and Thistle put her hand on her sash in a decidedly aggressive stance. The man only slogged along, head down with a sheaf of crumpled papers in one hand.

Seriis halts abruptly so as not to walk straight into her, because he's sure she'd want that just as much as he does, which is not very much at all. "Somewhere out of the mud, I hope," he mutters dryly, covering his mouth again now he's not constantly throwing his arms out to keep his balance. Thistle earns herself a disapproving frown for her blatant staring -- he thought they both had their fill of that already -- but then she mentions the trouble his attire might bring and the drow is momentarily caught between shock and laughter. Eventually he snorts, unable to contain it for any longer. "Only a fool would attack me, Chu. Even the desperate beggars in this hovel have more sense than that, unless the air has rotted their brains. Wouldn't be surprised, actually." A nonchalant shrug and he turns to glower at the passing pedestrian, though he spares a brief glance at the papers he carries. "It's not as if I have time to run back and fetch a cloak." He pauses, blinks, then sneers. "Try to sell me and you'd certainly reach the place you'd need to be, in my view at least-- which is below ground, 'six feet under', as your people say. Anyway, unless you have something on you that can cover me up, I think I'll just rely on my natural deterrent to get rid of idiots." Being a drow has its uses - even one as small as Seriis is considered highly dangerous by the majority of knowledgeable folk.

Thistle smirked. "You would?" Those two words were very, very dry. She had no hopes at all for him, no desire to see him in a better or worse position. He was totally, wholly of another world from her. He was the classic stranger, destined for different things and places, as unlikely to want anything from her as she was from him. That made him the ideal form of safe; someone to take her frustrations out on and then never see again. All that from his dress and attitude. "Really? Why? You look a -- Crow." The man had drawn alongside, though he hadn't stopped or looked at them in any obvious way. At the tossed name he did look up, and his eyes narrowed to see Thistle there. "Runt," was his cool retort: he topped both of them by at least eight inches, maybe more. "Found yerself someone t'play with, didja?" He was highly amused. Thistle was not. "Where's your boss' bitch and her cowardly brother today, eh? Out playing games? Can't help but wonder who slipped their collars." Thistle's right hand, on the far side of the man, bunched into a fist with a single forefinger outstretched: a gesture to be still, to wait. "Boss says y'aint t'be trusted, Runt." Stiff words, closed words as the man turned diffidently away from Thistle and squinted at Seriis. Something dawned there behind his questionably foggy eyes, something that looked a lot like fear. He glanced back at Thistle, briefly incredulous before he turned to shuffle away as quickly as he could muster in the muck without losing all face entirely. Thistle stared after, blank. Back to Seriis. Down as she started to unwind her sash. The items within were juggled awkwardly before she stuck them between her knees: long knife, dagger, scrap of paper, device. She was removing her deel with a muttered, "What? Your people normally murder humans or something? How's that different from humans murdering humans?"

Seriis must have a reason to be so sure of himself, despite his petite size, despite his apparently young age and the fact that he typically looks about as frightening as a small, noisy dog. You'd assume he's all bark and no bite, right? Apparently not. If he didn't have a reason, Thistle would probably be right again, and he would be dead by the end of this little excursion. "Crow?" He blinks, sounding mildly affronted; likely due to the association of crows to the trash heaps they frequent. "I most certainly do not look-- oh." Realisation dawns in his ruby eyes, and the man who had been shuffling past them has stopped and is now talking, but Seriis can't make out much of what he says. However, the young drow does not seem to care about the towering height difference stretching, painfully obvious, between the Crow and them both, and he's staring defiantly at the man. Once again his hand has come to rest lightly on his hip, ready to draw a hidden blade should the need arise. A cursory glance to Thistle warns him against action though. He looks back to the man named Crow and when the familiar look of recognition and growing terror flickers across his expression, it tells Seriis all he needs to know - so he spurs it on and grins, a truly savage glint to his sharp eyes, and it's enough to scare him off. Seriis is still smiling when he turns back to Thistle, though it's now tinged with triumph. "Oh, you really need to read up on us some time," he says, trying not to sound too proud of himself even as his chest visibly puffs up in a manner similar to a strutting cockerel. If he had colourful tail-feathers, they'd be out on display. "Though it might give you nightmares." He pauses and blinks again. "What did he say, anyway? I couldn't understand anything-- accents are difficult. And what exactly are you doing now?"

"I can't read. Daimons, humans, bad things happen and it doesn't much matter who killed the dead, does it?" Her deel was wrestled fully off -- might have been comical the way she had to twist to get it out from under bow scabbard and quiver -- and in reply to the lattermost question she held it out to him. Under it was her binder, the article of stiff material that kept her form decidedly gender-neutral, not that she was hiding anything particularly feminine beneath it anyways, but proprietry and all that. It did leave her arms and upper back bare, but that was something Thistle had learned to live with. "Wear that. Besides, I've enough nightmares from what's in and around this Souls-cursed city. Don't pay him any mind, he doesn't like me because of what I do. He's part of the Rats, and if I'm right it was their sibling shifters did the bloodletting. We're heading for their territory now. I'm not especially loved there." Nor anywhere, truth be told. Not that Thistle let that little thought affect the still lines of her face. She was desensitized to most forms of violence, the hard little knot of fear a constant companion in her gut. Death was all but guaranteed for her, and in a violent fashion; she was simply too driven to give much thought about how it might arrive at her door. The fear could take over then. There was no affording it now. Still, if she did know, there was a high chance she wouldn't have ever spoken to Seriis in the street. Risks of that nature weren't things she often partook of.

"Daimons?" Seriis tastes the word on his tongue and finds it ringing familiar to others he knows. "You humans use strange terms. I'm a drow, a dark elf, unfortunately a cousin of those horrid surface elves you find dancing with trees and all that rot." His nose wrinkles a bit again, for the thought of wood elves is almost as disgusting as the filth clinging to his boots. "Violence is in our nature - torture is our entertainment, and we kill for fun, often using the most gruesome methods possible. I've had far too many books ruined by my brother's games with slaves, you know." Sounding rather miffed about that last part, Seriis frowns before adding, "Luckily for you, I have more sense than most of my kin - many of them would kill you outright, but I much prefer intelligent conversation to all that blood and death, and you offer more of that when you're alive. Corpses don't talk. Most of them." There was an almost-compliment tucked away in that. It's then that Thistle offers her clothing to him and he stares at it for a second, then reaches out to grasp the thick material and take it from her. It's dirty and worn, but he'll attract less trouble with it on, and Seriis would rather deal with washing dirt out of his clothes than bloodstains. He keeps his gaze lowered, preferring to look at the deel than at the binder and her chest, what little of it there is. "Why do you wear that?" he asks and gestures to it, before pulling on the deel, working his arms carefully into the sleeves. It's a good thing they're a similar size, really. "For what it's worth, I'll back you up if we do run into trouble. As I said, better to talk to alive and all that." He can be all right, really, once you get past the entitled, bratty nature.

The affect that Seriis' diminishing, feral smile had on Thistle wasn't something that was immediate, or showed all at once. The hairs on her arms raised to start with. Seconds after she'd held out the deel a crawling shiver spasmed down her back. Her instincts screamed at her to stop being so rutting stupid, and she swallowed in the wake of that. There was too much spit in her mouth. He was just a boy, she told herself, one like the others in the alley. The ones who'd left mutilated puppies in their wake. Broken toys. Maybe Seriis' people were better at it. Knowing daimons, they were probably faster, stronger, and more enduring than the humanity that had spawned Thistle. Maybe all of them were bad. But worse than humanity at its most depraved? Worse than the pitiful, bloated remnants Thistle stepped over regularly in the gutters, than the sold children, than the handless beggars in the streets regularly ignored and left to die? Her imagination wasn't that good, and with her nose full of the smell of human waste and the rot of dead things, it was a hard thing to get around. And for being threatened? She'd a price on her own head bought by two instances of betrayal -- both of her and by her -- and at the rate she was going it was becoming a sadly commonplace thing. Either she'd give up her mad quest and go hide in exile somewhere else, or get the rutting hell over it. "Get in line," she muttered to his offhand declaration of her near worthlessness. Louder, she said, "Because I'm Nameless. And I'd rather run than fight in this mess. I don't mind the rumors, but attention is bad for business at this juncture. Hah. Though now I'll have Crow yapping to anyone with ears that I'm running with daim -- whatever you are. This, then, is how a reputation gets born." The grin she gave him in kind was all wild bravado, because if she was going to put herself in danger -- capable of talking or not -- she might as well get something out of it. She put her sash back on, tucked her things back into them. Getting rescued was also something sadly becoming commonplace, and given the few thousand chips of pride she carried on her shoulders it might have been the real reason she preferred avoiding fights. She was still too scrawny, too out of practice to be of any practical use. Once everything was secured she started to walk again. She always had gotten along better with the ones who didn't try to hide what they were under smiles and kindnesses and false hopes. She knew what lay underneath most of that, and it always made her uneasy to deal with someone who claimed to be otherwise.

Seriis is not blind. Though he makes his arrogant displays and acts as though all the world revolves around him, most of the time he is watching other people drifting in orbit. Anything to gain the upper hand, anything to use as a weapon, be it mental or physical or some combination of the two - he needs the extra leverage because sometimes, the element of surprise is not quite enough. And when it's all he has... For that reason, Thistle's apprehension is not missed, but it is also not mentioned as Seriis is smart enough to leave it be. Let her do what she will, deal with it or leave, and let him live with the consequences of his own curiosity. It brought him here, to this fetid pigsty of a street, a narrow, clogged vein in the sweaty, beating heart of a chaotic city rife with bloodshed, and Seriis will be damned if he is to die here of all places. He'll make it out somehow. "Then use that to your advantage. You're all about gaining advantages, right, Chu?" It's a trait they possibly share, funnily enough. Maybe it's because they're both smaller, and not able to win through brute force alone. He tugs at a stray fastening on the deel, laughing. There's nothing on the other side to attach it, so he can only ignore it. "You saw it just now - he's afraid of me. Is it so bad if they assume I'm a comrade of yours?" As an afterthought, the boy reaches up to run his fingers through his hair, which is sleek and clean - he refuses to dirty it up more than he has to but he does scruffle it up, giving himself a more tousled, wayward look. It helps, sort of, though he still looks a bit too clean and posh. "How do I look?" Posing, a hand on one hip, he grins at her while toying with that broken fastener, before following once more.

"I will," she said, and then when he spoke of being her comrade, "No. The largest issue with -- " he was posing. He was rutting posing in the street with two streetwalkers still behind them. She made a little noise. A little breathy noise that started in her throat and exited through her nose and was most definitely not a laugh. Collecting herself, she talked to him as they moved, conscious of the people they passed in shadowed doorways or sitting alongside their makeshift hovels. Fires were common, though they were mean, pitiful things. "They think I'm more than I am. The issue is maintaining the facade when I've no hired thugs of my own or readily accessible allies." Or allies at all. Why was it that a professed little monster was earning her secrets in piecemeal fashion? Was it because she had no one else to tell, and she'd guessed that once he'd seen the boundaries of what counted as her life he'd be too disgusted to give her any thought as he returned to the glittering expanse of his? Because that was safe. Safe. Thistle went silent for a space as they hit the outer edge of the slum, marked by a building that had collapsed partway but still held traces of desperate human living. Beyond that was an open square packed tight with makeshift dwellings too poorly constructed to even be classified as shacks, built on the ruined foundation of rubble that was a fully fallen building. It was hemmed in on all sides by older, more crochety constructions that still held to their forlorn existence, some of them so close together that only rats could treverse the filthy space between. People sat in huddles, ate bits of what they could scrounge. Most of them were old, castoffs in some fashion or the other, or children whose parents were dead or nearly so. The useless, the criminal, the terrifically poor: those were the citizens of this little kingdom. "Rat territory," Thistle said, briefly gesturing out to the south and west before turning and pointing eastward. "That way is Thonmet's territory. Don't go that way. You've been marked as being with me, and you'll get shanked if you go that way. Word will spread soon enough, I'm sure." Her gait, carefully balanced to keep her hips from swaying in the natural way womens' bodies were designed to do, became a little more cocky. Not by much, but enough to say that she was confident, and armed, and ready to defend herself against thieves or thugs. She moved them forward, along the outskirts of the grouping of destitute people, ignoring the vacant stares and occasional fearful whimpers as Seriis was recognized for being what he was. Most of them, though, had never seen a drow before. They'd lived in poverty, and they'd die there.

Seriis hides a genuine smile behind his hands by using the excuse that the air is too thick with stink for him to tolerate it for long. It's fun, this little escapade, in a strange and slightly maddening way - but oh, how his mother would rant were she ever to learn that he had been lurking in muddy streets that smelled worse than sewers, losing himself in the dangerous warren of the slums. It's simply not proper for a secondboy of a noble family to stoop to such a level, to actually find a human interesting beyond their use as a potential toy, and this is definitely not what he's supposed to be doing on the surface. He wasn't sent up here to go on adventures, and Seriis is aware of that, but what his mother doesn't know won't hurt her. "I suppose that's true." Allies seem hard to come by in this place; reliable ones especially. Learning to go it your own way is difficult and a story that Seriis can understand in a roundabout manner. Drow society is all about putting yourself above others, and trusting no one. "All the more troublesome for people of our...stature. Sometimes I envy those men, you know, the hulking, brutish types-- because it's so easy for them to just smash heads against walls and fight their way out of trouble." Skipping forward, he falls smoothly into step at her side instead, presumably sick of blatantly following behind. "Then again, I've seen dead fish with more brain than most of that lot. It must all go to the muscles." He falls silent after that and shuts his mouth, eventually dropping his hands to his sides just as they reach the edge of the square. The truly squalid conditions people are living in has the boy frowning again but he manages not to look too disgusted, adopting a more neutral expression that is less likely to draw the watchful eye of every other individual in the area. "I'll make sure to keep my bodyguards around if I end up there," Seriis murmurs back, leaning a touch closer in order to do so. For his part, he carries himself with the deadly grace of his kind; an assured, arrogant swagger that more than does its job of dissuading potential aggressors. Whether or not they knew of drow, he made sure they knew he wouldn't be above vicious stabbery: the kind of language many thugs spoke better than the common tongue.

Thistle looked sidelong at Seriis, having someone her height again striking her. She'd almost forgotten what it was to look at someone in the eyes without having to crick her neck, not that she did much of that. Mostly she was keeping her attention on everyone but Seriis, confident that he wouldn't put a knife between her ribs or in her gut or across her throat (probably) but even less so of those in their surroundings. Rat, as she was most commonly known, had men scattered throughout her little carved out empire, and they knew better than most how to lay low. Thistle was pretty smooth then, a bloody daimon at her side and a tilt to her head that said she was dangerous, whether or not she truly was. Smooth, until Seriis said 'end up there'. That was a problem. She put her foot down wrong, slid forward a little bit, caught herself and kept walking. Seriis was supposed to be along for the ride because he was an arrogant pup and Thistle had wanted to see his pretty little face scrunched up in horror at how bad the city really was. Not because he was intrigued. Not because he wanted to come back. Thistle had gotten in big trouble already because some yahoo associated with her had killed a gang member. What if Seriis and his bodyguards. . . Thistle abruptly wanted a drink. She also abruptly realized she really, quite probably had bitten off more than she could chew. Again. Her expression went sour as they took another alley in the maze of them, heading for the slightly better off sector where the majority of Rat's little peons gathered, and she herself tended to sleep. There were a few drunken louts down the alley they walked, but few enough lean-tos. There were several men standing around a decently sized fire. That it was right next to a wooden building -- even if it was a damp, half rotted one -- was something Thistle put down to fate. "How's that shoulder, Runt?" one of them called as Thistle and Seriis passed, and she made a gesture that was rude even by the admittedly low standards of the slum. The men laughed, and Thistle rolled her shoulders back, still walking. "Claw said you squealed like a little girl." One of the other men started making noises like a stuck pig, and Thistle saw the flask that passed between them. Blood rushed to her face, anger in the way her jaw tightened. "I heard the bitch and her brother slipped their leashes again. Or maybe you rabble are challenging West Arril?" Still walking. Slowly.

Seriis appears to realise he's wearing a visible ring about halfway across the square; it's one of this rings with a pretty jewel and all, clearly worth something. So he subtly slips it off and into a pocket under the premise of finding a handkerchief, reaching over to catch Thistle in the face with it. "Got something on your nose." A faint grin and he tucks the handkerchief away again, safe with his now-hidden ring. In terms of attacking her, that's about as far as he goes. Maybe she'd rather he stabbed her, though. They slip down a side alley that twists its way into a slightly more habitable quarter - although the buildings are still a ramshackle collection of wonky timbers and worn stone, Seriis finds the smell of the streets behind them has not followed them entirely, and it's somewhat easier to breathe. He's glad of that, but whatever he might be thankful for leaves his mind when a voice calls out to them and catches his attentions. A group of men, not all that large, thinned by hunger and wearied by the weight of poverty, but laughing and cajoling one another all the same. And pushing their luck, in Seriis' eyes. He turns a burning glare on them, mouth a tight line, wanting nothing more than to snap at them but certain it would be an unwise decision-- and one is squealing and oh, to hell with it. "Want me to really give you something to squeal about, fool?" He spits out the threat before he can stop it, jaw tight, body tensing as his eyes take on a vicious gleam. Silence answers him at first and Seriis realises dimly that Thistle is likely to kill him for speaking at all, but now he's irritated enough not to care. He'll deal with the repercussions.

The men were drunk. If it wasn't obvious in the way they smelled, it was the way they reeled about. The squealing man broke off into silence, and then a howling burst of laughter, followed by four others. The fifth, however, was chuckling uncertainly as he stared at Seriis. There was a squint to his eyes, like he was trying to remember something but couldn't quite piece it together. "How would you know where they are?" One of them, finished with his amusement before the others, turned his watering eyes from Seriis back to Thistle. Who was smiling tightly, eyes two spots of rigidity and pinned to the men around the fire. Definitely not towards Seriis. Oh no. "It's my business to know, and I think your little doggy and kitty are out pissing in public. Where Craven likes to walk. Where's your boss, huh? Talking to you makes me feel stupid." It was on the weaker side of retorts, but she needed something before Seriis got her killed. Maybe not today, no, but she couldn't afford to rile up every group this side of Beloy Street. The line she walked was fine enough without someone helpfully erasing it altogether. "Your business, like information, huh? You bringing boys to Rat now, too? Oh, she'd like that." More laughter. Thistle reached out, pulled at the sleeve of her deel that Seriis had dutifully put on. She pointed down the alley. "Move it," she snapped, and turned another of her perfectly perfunctory smiles onto the man. There were a few rude remarks, snickering and catcalls. She gave him a nice long look, memorizing his features and dress. "Don't lump me in with you and your tastes. I'll be sure to let Rat know you were interfering with her business. She'll love that."

The air has become frigid all of a sudden. Whatever warmth the fire offers is weakened by the malignant rage drifting from Seriis, the kind of cold anger that fuels a killer, like the shiver of dread that runs the length of prey's spine when it's being stalked by the predator in the shadows. It is not cold of a magical nature, no, but the chilly whisper of death walking these ruined streets, and it's not the merciful kind either. In this moment it is perhaps possible to understand just why there are horror stories told of the drow, because Seriis' fury is frightening and near-tangible, and it's only further deepened by the laughter that followed his threat. He stands resolute and firm, one hand at his hip again and already reaching for the concealed hilt of a dagger, and then-- he's pulled to the side, a borrowed sleeve tugged at sharply to shake him out of it. By this point he has already scrawled some very detailed mental notes on the features of each individual drunk and it's likely he'll be using the information in the near future. Turning sharply, the boy stalks into the alley without another word, though he's pulling her with him. Unsure of which turn might lead where but not truly caring, he walks swiftly, taking random lefts and rights and sometimes allowing himself to be dragged in the opposite direction, until he finally comes to a stop and lets out a long, slow breath, leaning against the nearest wall. His voice is shaking when he speaks; but whether it's from anger or something else is uncertain, and he does not let anything on through his tone. "I'm sorry."

The man who had stared so hard at Seriis did what any sensible drunken man would have done: he left as quickly as his jellied limbs could take him. Only two others had the wherewithal to stare after him, curious, while the other three remained focused on Thistle through their haze. Absentmindedly they rubbed at their arms, shivered, patted at the backs of their necks. Perhaps their forebrains were too occupied, too stupid by drink to realize how close they were to perishing, but their instincts knew. Their instincts screamed for them to wake up, and by the time Thistle's last word had left her lips as she was dragged down the alley, they were all staring after the two. No longer merry. The flask was passed around faster, and before Seriis took a sharp turn with Thistle in tow she saw them staring at each other. All of them a little paler under their dirt than they had been before, all of them looking confused. Thistle was too. Seriis had loped along with her without question, without much fuss, but what he had displayed had been. . .chilling. Demonstrative. She let him pull her, quiet, recognizing in him the depth of thought, of emotional turmoil, that she'd experienced herself in situations a little more different but same on the level of compressed rage. Only once or twice did she pull back from his grip, nod down an alternative route, keep them within the Rats' territory before they could dip out. Like that, at the edge of that territory, Seriis made his way to a stop, and her eyebrows rose briefly to hear the apology. She tucked her left hand into her sash, propping the arm out to the side, other remaining loose and ready. Balanced, as she watched him again, took her time drinking him in and measuring probabilities. The alley they were in wasn't abandoned entirely; a few hovels were propped against the walls, but no one stuck their heads out. The three buildings that formed its length --two of them on one side and pushed close enough together that it'd be almost impossible to get through without getting stuck -- were a little sturdier than where they'd been before: newer, though not by much. The ground, of course, was muddy, but at least it didn't smell like crap or piss. Something rotted nearby, but it was wood or plants by Thistle's guess. "You want to go back to Arril Street?" Her own voice was steady, neutral, but there was sweat on her palms. Down her back. Her heart was beating a little too quickly for calm, for all that she pasted it on her face like a mask.

Seriis is staring at his feet again, at his dirty boots and the mud climbing up them to mid-calf, but suddenly he isn't bothered by it at all. It gives him something mundane to focus on, though, while he attempts to calm down, reigning in that vicious aspect of himself before he can lash out at Thistle instead. It's too uncontrollable, and Seriis hates it. He hates that this wild behaviour is 'normal' to his people, how they call him a lamb for not giving into it, how the anger clouds his judgement and all rational thought leaps out the window. The boy prefers to remain reserved and able to think clearly - he needs to be able to think clearly to survive, because his brawn certainly isn't going to make up for his lack of brains in these moments. Eventually he speaks again, the words halting and awkward, like he's abruptly forgotten the language. "No. It's fine, I'll be fine." His hands are clenched into fists at his sides. He inhales deep, shuddering breaths, holds it in his lungs, lets it out slow. Regain control and it will all be fine. "In my culture? We kill pigs like that and nobody even cares. I understand things are diffident here but-- no! Different, I mean different. It's...hard not to slip up or into drowic when I'm-- when I'm like this. Angry, I mean. I'm sorry, I really am." After that he falls silent and focuses on that breathing exercise, until he feels confident enough to look at Thistle without wanting to introduce her to her own intestines. His eyes search hers briefly, and he glances away again. "You look pale."

Thistle was used to being afraid. Seriis might kill her faster, more efficiently, than the men and women she dealt with regularly, but as she'd told him: dead was dead. She learned to force it down deep, to keep functioning with the fear, the uncertainty, the helplessness. If anger was his instinctual response he had to deal with, fear was hers. "They've killed their share," Thistle said, standing mostly straight, shoulders starting to round. "One day they'll even be killed. Thing is, they belong to Rat. If anyone besides Rat kills them, they become Rat's enemies and the enemies of all her people. The Rats, the group. Maybe you, and any of your people could survive that, but I'm not a daimon. I'm a weak, skinny, out-of-training human," Souls, she sounded like a whiny, bitter, retired hunter. She hated it, but kept grimly on, "and what I have is information. I can't afford to have Rat on my ass, I've already made two enemies, and I don't have muscle to back it up on a third. I'm just getting started, scholar. I don't have the money to play in the big arena." Her right hand joined the left in the sash: comfortable, familiar position for her hands. "You're a scary little shit, you know? But it'll be worse where I'm headed today. They'll be worse. Even if I say you're a client, if I take you in there and you off someone it'll be my head. Dead is dead." Maybe it was his struggle that drew the admitted weaknesses from her. Maybe it was seeing someone else struggle, work for it, tangle with failure and almost not make it. The world narrowed down to the two of them and their little tete-a-tete, to the look Seriis gave her and the raw honesty in the width of her own face as she gave him a look of her own. She would abandon him, lose him if she could, tell him to piss off if he couldn't control himself. She'd take him with her if he could. He'd given her honesty, and she gave him hers: no sympathy or pity necessary. They each were what they were, and between them that was all they needed to be.

Seriis does not regret coming here, despite all the mud and the flies, the unfriendly thugs, and the unbearable smell. As much as he loves a good game of deception, when it all comes down to it, he'd rather be given honest truths with no strings attached, no matter how brutal they are. What he does regret is almost losing control back there and the fact that he cannot kill what does not deserve to live, not without endangering Thistle. Normally he might not care, and really he shouldn't care, but a small, inexplicable part of him does and that part is hell bent on screaming until it forces itself to be heard. It feels vaguely like empathy and he's not sure what to think of that. So he doesn't think about it. He can deal with the repercussions of his actions so long as they only involve him, but he much prefers Thistle alive, and she does too. And she has information, and so she's exactly Seriis' kind of girl, even with her dirt and her threadbare clothes, and all those little scars and bruises with their own untold stories. Knowledge is power, from the heights of society to the deepest, darkest Houses in the Underdark, and even here in Cenril's seediest slums, and they both understand its worth. Breathing out once more, the boy lifts a hand to run his fingers through his hair, the sound of air exiting his lungs more of a sigh this time around. "Marked, then. I'll consider them all marked for death, but not by my hand. It'll be easier that way. If dead is dead, and they're marked, then they're already dead." It works in his mind, although he's not sure how effective it will be. He'll do his best. Think of the information. Sniffing and ruffling his hair up again, Seriis pushes off the wall and tries to stuff his hands into his pockets, before realising there are none on the deel. He glances down at it and picks at the stray fastener a bit, absently. "I suppose I'll try and make sure you don't end up that way, too." Cerise eyes lift and look to her expectantly, seeing nothing else and waiting for her to lead the way. Seems he isn't running away just yet.

Thistle sighed, would have put her fingers to her forehead but they were in the spot that suited her best when she was too piss poor unsure about her standing. Keep her alive? She couldn't trust that. Wouldn't trust it. "I need them alive, for now," she spoke slowly, begrudging him the words. "But you're right. They'll die sooner rather than later, they all do." Paused. Considered. Still grudging. "You'll be my client. A trusted client. One interested in sponsoring fights and fighters, the illegal kind." She was thinking of Tooth, and Claw: bitch and brother, the two crazy shifters whose limited capacity for control had landed them in Rat's lap, and she'd mostly muzzled them. If it wasn't for them Rat wouldn't have carved herself the large piece of the slums she had. Word had it Rat wanted to take them to one of the rings, but as unpredictable as they were their ticket price was screamingly high: unheard of. Rich, bored noble brat looking to waste his money? Rat would eat it up. And if she was courting Seriis, she wouldn't let her cronies insult him. And while she was courting him, Thistle could work her for information. Things were always moving in the underground, always changing. "You put on your airs, but while we're here you're taking my advice, right? So watch my lead. Don't insult Rat, but don't flatter her either. Don't comment about her looks. She's a hard woman, and she's chewed up plenty of men. Yeah?" Thistle loosened her hands from her sash, ready to move but waiting for that affirmation.

Seriis would happily see all of them bled dry and strewn across the road like waste, much like the bodies that interrupted his walk; left out for the public to ignore and the guardsmen to deem too worthless to take a minute of their time. All of that seems oddly distant, now, lost in the maze of alleys and narrow streets that make up this notorious quarter of the city. Seriis considers the idea of food again, shakes his head a touch and decides that no, he still isn't hungry. "I can do that. I bet on my own bodyguards when they get in a tiff over whether swords are better than magic." He snorts but there's a fond lilt in his voice when he talks about them; they're friends as much as they are staunch protectors, though the prissy young drow isn't about to admit that outright. Brows furrow and he meets Thistle's gaze again. There are flecks of mud on her cheeks - how did that even get there? He looks for a moment before nodding his assent and grinning, faintly. "I'm used to that, too. And listening to girls-- though you're not as bad as the ladies back home." And thank Astrala for that. He wouldn't like her as much if she was.

Thistle grunted, and turned. Good enough. Wait, no. She turned back. "You visit the public baths?"

Seriis blinks and stumbles, having taken a step forward to follow. If he was expecting any more questions, apparently that wasn't any of them. "...No. There's a private bath in the library that we use."

Thistle took in a deep breath, let it out. Notoriety was something Thistle had gained only in very small and very specific circles. How a rich noble's kid would find her was an issue they'd need to tackle before they were caught out. "Visit any taverns? I don't go into fancy places. My kind aren't welcome," she bared her teeth on those words, but the expression faded quickly, "How would you have heard of me, to become my client? How would I snap you up before the larger patsies had a chance to?"

Seriis ' nose scrunches at mention of taverns. Apparently he likes them as much as he likes these streets. Enclosed spaces filled with human smells are places the drow would avoid like the plague, were it even possible in this city. "Kelay's, once or twice," he admits with a slight scowl, "And I visit the Whaler's occasionally, though the stink of all that sweat and sea salt makes me gag. Maybe I heard of you through someone there, someone she might know who's dead now. Wouldn't be able to talk to confirm the story, after all."

Thistle made a noise, a prolonged 'hn' as she considered Seriis' suggestion. "It'll have to do," she said, finally, because that was all they had between them. The very reasons she'd taken him along were now troublesome, potential dangers. But if they distracted Rat and her idiot followers well enough it shouldn't be too big of an issue, shouldn't turn them out. Thistle took them then. She'd lost her bearing during Seriis' temper tantrum, had been too focused on frantically trying to keep pace of his turns and twists and mood, but she got them straightened out after a wrong turn or two. That she was so familiar with the maze of old buildings and hanging on shanty-towns said something about how often she frequented it. Back through the streets, into a part that was a little firmer, a little less destitute, though the depths of the slums was only a block or two away. The ground was still muddy, but firmer for it; the ground higher so that the rains when they came would wind up turning other parts of the city into a hellish mire. It was a matter of circumstance, of luck. Or of exceptional planning. Thistle wasn't sure which way Rat went. The building she approached with Seriis was made of stone, the faded and chipped paint promising a classy blue that never quite made it, fading out to something browner and much less impressive. The sign, faded and pitted, read 'The Dollhouse' though Thistle couldn't read and only knew it as Rat's hangout. Outside its porch, raised off the ground by two steps, there were a few puddles of piss and vomit, and the shattered remains of clay and glass. Thistle picked her way through the worst of it, not wanting an infected foot on top of her other, more usual ills. Up the two steps, past a sneering group of mostly women whose eyes lingered on Seriis, and whose ribald comments made clear what they'd like to use him for, and Thistle had the door open. She looked to Seriis, eyebrows slightly raised, waiting to see how he reacted. Through the door billowed a cloud of smoke and the stench of alcohol and dirty bodies, old food and stale remains. Under it was the tang of blood, maybe new, maybe old. The interior was decorated in dark, stained reds. There were tapestries, ruined paintings depicting scandalous activities. The place smelled of more body fluids besides blood; its reputation built on the back of an old and successful whorehouse before it had turned seedy and then defaulted altogether, brought back to life as a seedy bar by Rat herself. The floor was hardwood, and despite the mud and other sticky things that might fall to the floor it was fairly clean. The chairs were old, the remnants of tattered upholstery claiming them for once-grand, as with the richly polished tables. Stains, dents, a broken piece of wood here and there made the place look like the epitome of ruined finery -- the masterpiece of the lot a giant mirror behind the bar that had cracked and partly fallen free; sharp edges likely used in fights. There was a group of a dozen or so loosely scattered around the large room, all having some form of drink in front of them. There was not one, but two men at the bar, and a few women dressed inappropriately for anything but inappropriate behavior. Rat's distinctive face was nowhere to be found. "Brace yourself," Thistle muttered.