RP:Dirty Street Talk, Part II

Part of the Questionable Honor Arc

Background

Rp is Incomplete

After Seriis and Thistle had met, Thistle had thought to both use and cause discomfort to the drow. Though, after he'd nearly scared the piss out of each other, perhaps they might find an uneasy working relationship, regardless.

Thistle has shown him to Rat's den within her territory, and she hopes to use his obvious good breeding to get information out of the manipulative bitch. Seriis, meanwhile, hopes to find some fun to interrupt the tedium of his usual routine.

An ooc note: I don't see this rp finishing, but I feel, due to some of the development within, that it is important I posted what I have for the purpose of easy reference.

Slums of Cenril, Rat Territory

Seriis remains as lost as ever but Thistle seems to find her way again - it will be difficult for him to return to more familiar territory later on. Maybe she'll show him how to get back. Then he can possibly offer to take her for something to eat and give her his boots because it's dangerous to walk barefoot in this mess and what on earth is he even thinking anyway? In the end, the drow winds up walking in silence while wondering how he can go doing about those things without making it seem as if it's out of pity, though a piece of him is thinking he would rather it be pity than whatever else it could be. They eventually slow and Seriis looks up to stare upon what seems to be the jewel of the slums; a faded building that might once have been a grand old sight, many a year ago. Seriis reads the sign aloud and remarks, "This is a whorehouse. Was. Is." As he speaks, his eyes stray to the flock of women near the doors before dropping to the ground, eyeing the glass and fluids they have to pick their way over in order to reach the Rat's nest, and he's once again thinking about letting Thistle have his boots. Later, though. He looks back at the women when one mentions something particularly crass involving belts, candles, and his being pinned to a table beneath her, and the boy's dark cheeks flush with traces of a reddish hue. Overcome by a sudden and unexplainable coughing fit, he follows Thistle quickly inside, trying to hide his embarrassment from her behind a hand. Inside the door, he manages after a moment to recompose himself, assuming his reserved and decorous appearance again, head held high and jaw tight, as though he's refraining from saying something inappropriate. Sharp eyes sweep the room in search of anyone that could be Rat but he judges by Thistle's reactions that she isn't present. After a pause, Seriis leans to murmur, "Quite the place, actually." It's almost acceptable, this establishment of impoverished finery and poor man's luxury, even when it's anything but. Seriis levels a wary look on the women at the bar. "You didn't mention the whores, though."

Thistle turned her head slightly to show that she heard Seriis, but her eyes were for the two men at the bar. Bartenders were, in Thistle's ever-so-worldly estimation, useful creatures. "Whores are a given," she said, quiet but not so quiet that it was a mutter. Close, though. The way he scurried inside wasn't missed, and that made her eyes dance, just a little. Thistle had no compunctions about getting humor out of others' misery or discomfort. She gave it further thought. "Not all of them are whores. Some of them are just loose." If that was a joke, Thistle was walking forward with a humorless smile on her face, sidling up to the pitted and sticky bar with the practice of a person used to making her way into the snake nest. Some conversation still carried on. There was even music, in the form of a man dressed to fit the bar, complete with a hat whose rim looked like it'd been caught by a mean dog. Or a mean woman, given Rat's reputation. He was making faint, whining noises come out of a battered fiddle, every so often barking out verses of a bawdy song. He might have had a passable singing voice, if it didn't sound like he'd swallowed some of the glass outside. The string-work wasn't much better, but the content of his songs were greatly appreciated by the closest table of four men and two women, who roared approval and giggled in irritatingly high pitched voices, respectively. The ones closer to the door, who looked a sight more sober and were probably there on duty -- drinks or no -- were watching Thistle and Seriis with the sort of close scrutiny that often precedes violence. "You," she said to the closest man behind the bar, having no memory at all for names and not typically made to feel shame for it. "I've business with Rat. Got prospects for her. Think I might have a deal." One man at a table shoved up alongside the same wall the scarred door was set into had gotten up, and was wandering up to the bar, nearer to the entrance. Ready to stop them if something went south and they needed to escape. The man with the ruinously fancy getup proclaiming him as 'keep nodded to Thistle, the courtesy not much of one considering the contempt in his eyes, but then those same eyes slid to Seriis, and the man opened his mouth. Thistle held up a finger. "Client. If you say a word about his pretty little mouth I'll be honor bound to ask Rat for your tongue. Where's she at?"

Seriis ' shoulders slump and he sighs resignedly. "Of course they are." He can only hope he'll make it out unmolested. Slanting Thistle a look that's somehow equal parts disapproving and bewildered by her possible joke, he lingers by the door for a couple of seconds longer than he should; not a wise decision, apparently, as it opens behind him and one of the women from outside bustles in. She catches his arm and leans down as if to meet his gaze, but it's her chest that ends up at his eye level, her ample cleavage threatening to swallow the pretty little jewel dangling from her neck. Her breath smells like stale cigarettes and something sickly sweet, and the combination is nauseating. "Have I seen you somewhere before?" she asks him with a coquettish smile, and Seriis resists the urge to visibly jerk away, though he avoids being smothered. He steels himself, stiffening slightly, used to the dominant women back home that flirt whenever they like and punish you if you push them away. "Dreams, maybe?" he answers back in a falsely smooth tone, amazed he can hold his nerve. Flirtatious women scare him, honestly. Subtly he winds his arm round her waist and slips a gold coin into her other hand, before adding, "Unfortunately, this is reality, and I've business to attend to right now." There's the vague hint that he might return though the drow does not intend to, hence the little tidbit. He pulls away to hurry after Thistle, leaving the woman to sigh and head off to one of the occupied tables, tucking the coin between her breasts. Seriis vaguely wonders if he should have wiped his boots first, because the floor appears to be the cleanest surface in this place - even the ceiling is dusty and discoloured from years of smoke wafting up from tables below. The barkeep gets a neutral once-over and the boy frowns a touch at Thistle's mention of his 'pretty little mouth', but he keeps said mouth firmly shut.

Thistle didn't really notice all of what happened to Seriis, though when she realized Seriis had been behind her and not at her side where he should be she was turning around. Rat's women were a tough bunch. Half of them liked to dress like they were advertising, the other half dressed almost like men. Pretty much all of them liked a good time, but that was men and women in the Rats. Privately, Thistle considered the ones who didn't dress with body parts on display the worst of all of them; they'd a tendency of forcing issues when backs were turned, Thistle had heard. That she didn't approve of at all. The keep was looking between them, back and forth, but Thistle had her credit with Rat and at the moment there was no bad blood between them. Thistle'd come to them with important information about Thonmet, and even though Rat had given Tooth and Claw to Thonmet's attempt to kill Thistle, they'd squared over it. People trying to kill her was depressingly normal. She couldn't let that be what kept her from expanding her own circle of contacts, or else she'd just screw herself later. "Upstairs. She's busy." Thistle sniffed, real prissy like the man had just farted in polite company and Thistle was making the obvious thing a matter of public attention. "I've got a rich boy here bored and looking to spend money on fights. I think you'll be wanting to go fetch her. I've already been detained by one of her boys, and my client is. . .unimpressed so far." The man nearest to the door was staring at them. Thistle saw it out of her periphery. For rot's sake. She turned to look at Seriis. "If this isn't to your satisfaction, Vitus might have some flesh for you to look at." Play it smooth.

Seriis fiddles with the fasteners on the deel while Thistle converses with the bar tender. Eventually his fingers work all of them open again - he keeps the garment on, but now his dress coat is visible beneath, a teasing strip of expensive clothing and silver buttons peeking out from behind a shabby disguise. It's clearly finely-tailored, because the drow is not about to skimp on class or craftsmanship when it comes to attire. Secretly, he is really quite enamoured with this particular surface style, and the tailoring on his coat impressed even him. Thistle earns herself a quick, almost pained glance that is gone in the blink of an eye, as if it was never there to begin with. He'd really rather not have to deal with more of these types of women than is necessary. "I'll take a look, later, perhaps. I'm a tad more interested in the fighting, though. I heard there are some here capable of putting on a good show - it's worth investing in that kind of entertainment. Your lot seem to enjoy brutality almost as much as mine." Thin fingers run absently through his hair, attempting to return some semblance of order to the wayward mess of silver strands.

There'd been a sneer on the mouth of the 'keep -- rich boy, with Thistle? The lower slums' so-called Runt? -- but then there was the strip of expensive clothing. The way of speaking. Thistle had nodded and turned back to the 'keep, head tilting just so and a tiny little smile deepening the corners of her mouth. It'd been a long, long time since she'd put to use her skills at conversational fencing, at the art of pleasant socially political bull, but before that long time had been a longer time when it had been a necessary part of her life. Here it was, again, and Thistle was pulling hard on those memories as she fixed the 'keep with her mocking, daring eyes and polite little 'gotcha' smile. "Jevan!" The 'keep snapped, and one of the other men at the front tables leaned back in his seat. He stood up like he was pulled by strings, all reluctant, lazy crony. More posturing, really; the 'keep wasn't entirely high enough on the ladder to be ordering this man around, but since he'd doubtless overheard enough of the conversation and seen the fancy garb Seriis had flashed, he'd not really much choice but to get to it. "The client is waiting," Thistle added fuel to the fire with a nonchalance that belied the way her eyes followed the man. To the back of the room he went, slamming through a warped door to the stairway beyond. There was a burly man at that door -- the type of brainless muscle Seriis had claimed to partially envy, earlier -- and his eyes now too were directed at Thistle and Seriis. He looked almost upset, but that might have been his work face and Thistle saw no reason to be concerned about it. The music, however, -was- a concern. Thistle was fairly certain the men kept at it mostly to cover any distressing noises from the top floor. That or they were as drunk as they appeared. Speaking of. Thistle turned back to Seriis. "Thirsty?" A pointed word, designed to needle under the skin of the 'keep. If Rat asked, Thistle would ever so helpfully inform her that her most precious guest had not been extended every available hospitality. The 'keep's eyes narrowed in response, and he wandered closer. Thistle was making utterly no friends with the Rats. Not yet.

Seriis adds another chunk of wood to the proverbial fire, drawling in typical bratty fashion, "And I'm certainly not used to waiting for anything." He'd have continued with a little, 'so hop to it' for Jevan (a phrase he's been fond of ever since he learned it), but it seems they're getting what they want already so there's no need to go overboard. After watching the man trudge through a door at the back of the room, the boy turns his gaze to the sticky countertop and scrutinises it with some measure of suspicion, before deciding against leaning on it. Instead he chooses to stand next to it and look distinctly impatient, idly tapping a muddy boot against the hardwood floor. He flashes a broad smile at the barkeep, though, that he then extends to Thistle along with a short nod. There's a hint of amusement in the expression he shows her, the drow apparently enjoying the subtle torment of the 'keep. Of course, he has to join in. "Rum. With ice. 'On the rocks', is that what you call it? But make sure the glass is clean-- I don't like seeing smudged fingerprints in my drink." Do they even serve ice here? Seriis supposes he'll find out when he gets that glass.

The issue of cleanliness would have been the bigger concern of the two, though Thistle privately doubted they had ice. Good thing Rat hadn't descended; that embarassment while she was present might be reflected onto Thistle. But she wasn't, and it hadn't, and the 'keep was offering an expression towards Seriis that might have been considered servile if you squinted and didn't look at him straight on. His upper lip was curled just a little, and he turned away. The other 'keep, younger by the look of him though hard to tell under his not-too-often washed skin, was pressed into service. By the look of it, he'd been ordered to find a clean glass. Thistle felt satisfaction in watching them squirm. She had, after all, been more often than not on the cringing and wheedling side. Probably there'd be some regret later when Seriis wasn't there to tacitly encourage her in her little petty acts -- what -was- it with the rich, snobby brat? Somehow, he reminded Thistle of humanity more than some of the humans like certain righteous walls did themselves -- but that was then and in the now she was maybe actually enjoying being a spiteful bitch. Surprising. Was that what being alone and friendless was doing to her? Turning her soft? Not something she wanted to think about just then. Time for questioning her sanity could happen later when she was alone and not having to worry about charades and facades. Shortly after that thought the drink was slung down the bar top, almost tipping at one point as it hit a sticky patch. Thistle neatly reached out and caught it before it could fully tip. Handling alcohol in such a manner was fairly second nature, and she made a show of inspecting the glass before she slid it towards Seriis for his own. Was the 'keep's face just a little redder than it had been? How delightful. "Is this to your liking?" She asked, voice artificially low in that false whisper that is meant to be overheard.

If he had a choice in the matter, Seriis might have gone for the barkeep instead. He could have cleaned up all right, were he actually clean. It's not that the drow dislikes women as a whole, but unfortunately, some personal and uncomfortably (and sometimes painful) memories go hand-in-hand with the type of female that seems to frequent this establishment, as common as the damp in the walls, and he can only tolerate them for a short time before he feels the need to escape. He didn't expect to have to face his one true fear in the slums of all places but...well, he really -should- have expected it, all things considered. All he can do now is bite his tongue, hope he doesn't run into a particularly domineering one, and keep up the act, and thankfully he's pretty skilled at the art of deception. Were Thistle not here, he reluctantly has to admit that he'd have probably lost his nerve by now; but then, were she not here, he wouldn't be anywhere near this place to begin with. He doesn't think about that. Sniffing, Seriis finishes smoothing his hair out, adjusts the collar of his coat some, and tactfully ignores the warbling lyrics of the musician. At least it's easy to block it out when he can barely understand a word coming out of the man's mouth. Is that a reddish tinge darkening the 'keep's face or is that just his imagination? Seriis blinks at him once before graciously accepting the glass from Thistle, lifting it to eye level so as to inspect it closely. If he focuses on that, he might resist the urge to laugh. "Acceptable enough. Let's see about the drink itself." He smiles, lips curving against the rim of the glass as he takes a small sip, then nods his approval.

Thistle gave forth an ingratiating smile to the 'keep, pretty much as unaware of Seriis' discomfort as it was possible to get. They'd not much longer to wait, however, and before Thistle could come up with some new form of torment that could net her petty satisfaction at the expense of the 'keep, Rat sauntered out of the door. An experience to see her, as always. Burn marks marred the right side of the woman's face, heaviest around her visibly melted ear. Her nose had been partially reconstructed -- a healer's work, possibly -- but it was upturned and pinched, drawing to mind a rat or fermin's snout. The rest of her was albino, complete with colorless skin, hair, and devilishly pinkish red eyes. She was all dolled up in her slumlord finery, complete with semi-tailored pants, vest, and a luxurious if slightly tatty fur cloak. All of it was black, making her skin appear to glow, and the awful scars on her face that much more noticeable. She looked to be a daimon, and Thistle privately suspected the woman was not fully or altogether human, but finding out had yet eluded her. One day. Rat was a strikingly tall woman, slender like a willow tree with long fingers and carefully manicured nails. She walked like a man, but was undeniably female from the cut of her body to the curves of her face. Even her hair was kept long, though presently it was neatly tucked into a modest bun. She wouldn't have been beautiful, even if she had been unmarred, but she was very visibly striking. Magnetic. Charisma oozed from her smile, non-sexual but predatory all the same. She was the antithesis of her followers, the opposition to the decadent lifestyle they pursued. It made her the more noticeable, classy for it: a grand lady amidst the house of thieves. She used it like she used any other tool at her disposal: a means to set people on edge, to knock them off balance. The first time Thistle had met her, she hadn't been expecting a 'she' to begin with, and Rat's casual elegance had almost driven her to speechlessness. Now, though, Thistle looked Rat up and down, face going pleasantly neutral. She nodded, got off the chair and swept her arm towards Seriis. Before she could introduce him, Rat had bypassed her to tower over Seriis from two feet away. "I am Alessa," she said. Thistle couldn't help but be surprised; she hadn't known the woman's real name. "You can call me Rat, if you prefer. It is an honor to meet one of the drow face to face. Had I known. . .but ah, good help is hard to find." She bowed then, a pretty line of her body extended towards the younger man with a cleanliness of execution even Thistle could appreciate. But the mannerisms, the casual disregard for -her- put her on edge. "What may I do for you . . . " Waiting for Seriis to introduce himself, rather than Thistle taking care of the introductions. Which was fine on one hand, considering that Thistle had forgotten his name. Bad on the other -- Rat was trying to edge her out. Sneaky, conniving -- Souls take the woman.

Seriis does not choke on his drink. Perhaps, then, he passes the first test, even if it is only one conjured by his own imaginitive mind after he first sets his gaze on Rat. They have not even been properly introduced yet but if anyone here is the woman they're looking to meet, it's definitely got to be her. She is everything he expected and nothing at all how he envisioned her, all at once. A moment is spent simply staring wide-eyed in a manner than is probably equal parts rude and flattering, in an odd way. The boy is actually struck speechless; a rare event, truly, but one he's quick to recover from as she approaches and addresses him. He doesn't miss the way she cuts Thistle out from the get-go, as if she is not present at all. Typically polite, Seriis allows the woman to speak first, casting Thistle a quick glance before he follows up with his own elegant, gentlemanly bow, an arm folded across his chest as he dips his head. It's not something expected of drow, but of nobility, and Seriis is very much a nobleman at heart...beyond his usual entitled behaviour, that is. She's tall, and he has to crane his neck up quite a bit in order to meet her gaze, but it also means he can utilise the height difference to quickly catch her hand and offer a brief kiss to Alessa's knuckles. Seriis is all charm when he wants to be. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Alessa's quite the fine name. I am Seriis, the secondboy of the royal House Al'Reim. I enjoy many things, and tournaments are certainly one of them. By lucky coincidence perhaps, thanks to this girl," he says smoothly as he straightens, gesturing gracefully toward Thistle, "I happened to learn of some particularly fine fighting...stock of yours, the sort I'd probably feel quite confident investing in. It's been a while since I watched a good match, and she told me I would not be disappointed by the entertainment your fighters could offer. I do hope she's correct."

Thistle would have bridled if she hadn't known it would please the smug little -- "Girl?" One delicately, finely curved eyebrow lifted, and those red eyes were suddenly focusing on Thistle. Smirk. Point for Rat, since Thistle had to swallow her sudden and overwhelming anger at that one word. Further comment would have been crass, and Rat was anything but that. Her attention was langorous as it settled upon Seriis again, as if he was its natural end. Flattering little -- Thistle stood a little straighter, reminding herself to look cool and confident. Whatever Rat thought she was getting out of the matter, it -was- a charade. Seriis would have his little entertainment out of the day, perhaps even an in to the Cenrili underground if he so desired, and Thistle would have her information. "Fighters?" Rat repeated the word as if foreign, voice all crushed silk and velvet. There was a trick to the way she spoke, one that Thistle hadn't seen repeated in any other woman. Rat had a voice that was almost deep for a woman, and textured pleasantly. She made no effort to be sensuous, made no airs upon herself, and never tried to seduce anyone. For it, for that mystery she put off, she became an embodiment of sensuality. It wasn't necessary sexual, but it was entirely of the senses. Thistle had been drawn in by her voice, those careful, elongated looks. Sexless by vow, and made nearly insensate to even the art of flirtation on execution of that vow, Thistle -felt- that draw. Was intrigued by it. Rat was a dangerous woman, if ever there was one. It occurred to Thistle that maybe she should have warned Seriis, but it was easy to forget just how Rat was, once you were out of her tender and vicelike grip. Whoops. "Ah," Rat continued with hardly a beat spared despite Thistle's thoughts, "I can only assume you mean my beasts. They are quite the specimens. I have no doubt they might provide a draw to one of your. . .exquisite tastes." The slight pause was spent in a brief admiration of Seriis, as if together they had determined the value of some rare and delightful wine. "I shall have them sent for, if you would care to discuss business in a more comfortable venue?" She snapped her fingers, and Jevan was instantly at her side. Slouched, but timely. He dipped to her in a crude facsimile of a bow and was out the door quicker'n spit. Thistle was biding her time, a half vacant smile keeping her lips from being a fully disapproving line. Neutrality, pleasantry. She slid her gaze to Seriis, tilting her head forward just the barest fraction.

Thistle would have bridled at Rat if she hadn't known it would please the smug little -- "Girl?" One delicately, finely curved eyebrow lifted, and those red eyes were suddenly focusing on Thistle. Smirk. Point for Rat, since Thistle had to swallow her sudden and overwhelming anger at that one word. Further comment would have been crass, and Rat was anything but that. Her attention was langorous as it settled upon Seriis again, as if he was its natural end. Flattering little -- Thistle stood a little straighter, reminding herself to look cool and confident. Whatever Rat thought she was getting out of the matter, it -was- a charade. Seriis would have his little entertainment out of the day, perhaps even an in to the Cenrili underground if he so desired, and Thistle would have her information. "Fighters?" Rat repeated the word as if foreign, voice all crushed silk and velvet. There was a trick to the way she spoke, one that Thistle hadn't seen repeated in any other woman. Rat had a voice that was almost deep for a woman, and textured pleasantly. She made no effort to be sensuous, made no airs upon herself, and never tried to seduce anyone. For it, for that mystery she put off, she became an embodiment of sensuality. It wasn't necessary sexual, but it was entirely of the senses. Thistle had been drawn in by her voice, those careful, elongated looks. Sexless by vow, and made nearly insensate to even the art of flirtation on execution of that vow, Thistle -felt- that irresistable draw. Was intrigued by it. Rat was a dangerous woman, if ever there was one. It occurred to Thistle that maybe she should have warned Seriis, but it was easy to forget just how Rat was, once you were out of her tender and vicelike grip. Whoops. "Ah," Rat continued with hardly a beat spared despite Thistle's thoughts, "I can only assume you mean my beasts. They are quite the specimens. I have no doubt they might provide a draw to one of your. . .exquisite tastes." The slight pause was spent in a brief admiration of Seriis, as if together they had determined the value of some rare and delightful wine. "I shall have them sent for, if you would care to discuss business in a more comfortable venue?" She snapped her fingers, and Jevan was instantly at her side. Slouched, but timely. He dipped to her in a crude facsimile of a bow and was out the door quicker'n spit. Thistle was biding her time, a half vacant smile keeping her lips from being a fully disapproving line. Neutrality, pleasantry. She slid her gaze to Seriis, tilting her head forward just the barest fraction.

Seriis blinks. "Yes. Girl. Because she's probably younger than me - I'm older than I look." And so much more than that, too, but giving it all away would ruin this entire game of deception and that is simply not an option. If there's one thing the young drow dislikes more than women, it's losing to them. He'd figured 'Girl' would be safer than calling her Chu, because Seriis is absolutely certain that is not her real name and he's reasonably sure she has more pseudonyms than he has concealed knives. Standing stiff-backed as though he feels that extra quarter-inch of height might somehow be useful, as if the added elegance to his posture might make a difference, he allows his gaze to flick once more to Thistle and resists a disgruntled scrunch of the nose. There are far more dangerous aspects to Rat than her cronies or her disreputable establishment and he was never truly warned of these - he's finding it increasingly difficult to resist the allure of her voice, the timbre a euphonious, tempting mix of sounds that his ears can't quite get enough of. Goddamn women. Seriis clears his throat quietly, canting his head slightly to one side. "Absolutely. I'd like to see what I might be, ah, investing in. And as inviting as the bar is," he says with a sidelong glance to the 'keep and a small, saccharine smile, "I think matters of money would be better discussed in a more...private location." Another subtle look at Thistle and he almost frowns.

Thistle was about as unamused as Rat was amused. The concept of Thistle's gender, her idea of dress and inability to be drawn out when it came to her private workings had been a source of amusement for Rat and her women. Thistle, luckily, was much harder to embarrass than Seriis was -- not that Thistle knew that, of course -- and had taken the subtle jibes and outright insults in stride. She knew how to deal with those. But somehow, in front of her -client- it was another matter altogether. Rat inclined her head, eyes lingering on Seriis before she turned with a smooth gesture towards the door. "Upstairs contain more comfortable arrangements, I think you'll find. If you'll follow me? I must ask you leave your boots outside the interior; I find mud to be such a tacky decoration. Don't you think?" Rat herself was wearing slippers made of silk or some other outrageously expensive material that was nonetheless worn down. "Ah, but you do not have boots to take off, do you? Be a dear, and wait, and I'll see to it water is brought for you to properly cleanse yourself." Tone turned dismissive, and Rat's eyes had gone sly with it. Thistle found herself inclining her head, her expression gone a little brittle without her express command. Rat turned back to Seriis at the doorway, "Seriis, isn't it? Yes, I will show you the way and your . . .compatriot can follow us shortly." Water, indeed. Thistle swept her gaze across the bar, at the flunkies suddenly looking elsewhere. No one was getting up to fetch water. Thistle grit her teeth, and smiled. "If your staff is incapable, perhaps I should fetch it myself?" But Rat wasn't looking at her. Rat was waiting for Seriis.

Oh, right. His boots are still completely caked in mud from the slums. It's one of these things he would normally find aggravating that he's totally forgotten about amidst everything else, too focused on acting, on remembering their story, on keeping up appearances. "Oh, I must apologise for tramping mud all over the place. Admittedly, I almost forgot... my attentions became otherwise occupied." And, while it is surely dwarfed by Rat's sensual draw, there is a subtle appeal in the sounds of the drow's own voice; the sort of tone that might make a girl blush and giggle, like every second word of his contains an unspoken compliment that must first be unravelled in order to be properly understood. Seriis exudes an air of enticing mystery that seems commonplace amongst his kind, judging by the nonchalant way he displays it, in a casual manner similar to Rat herself - it's usually buried under the more pressing sensation of warning and danger that tends to capture the senses faster. Here, at least, he can let it all out and perhaps use it to his advantage. He leaves his glass on the bar top, leaning against the counter some as he reaches down for the lace on his boots. One follows the other and then Seriis is standing there in his socks, a good inch or two shorter than he already was, and very much aware of the fact that his socks are uncomfortably damp from the mud. He holds the boots at arms' length, gingerly, by their laces. "I'd greatly appreciate it if these were clean by the time we're finished here," he drawls, wondering if that might push someone into action. "Mud is not really my style." He passes them on to the barkeep, who was unfortunate enough to be standing closest, before reclaiming his drink and sauntering off after Rat, with barely a glance back at Thistle this time. He can only hope she'll manage to follow him soon enough.

Rat was, for her part, entirely consumed by the visage of Seriis, of the possibilities enfolded within his sleek and dark frame. Wary, as well: she of all her people understood what each known race within the bounds of the traveled lands was and was capable of in turn. The drow were particularly gruesome in story, and despite the charm he exuded there was still that tantalizing hint of danger. But Rat had leashed Tooth and Claw, and the energy it took to harness such beasts was intriguing to her. Thistle, on the other hand, was just plain dour as the barkeep gingerly took the boots. Both of them, she decided in the undertone of hidden thought, were plumb nuts and throwing off the kind of sparks she thought more likely to see between whores and their customers rather than two individuals embarking on some sort of deal. -What- deal? This was completely not what she'd bargained for, and the smallest seed of doubt slipped in as Seriis . . .abandoned her. Yeah, that's right, the little shit flat out left her there. Thistle stared for a moment at the door, promising an uncertain and rather hazy revenge for that atrocity before she turned to the barkeep. That time, there was no such thing as friendliness, no false pretenses at it, as she momentarily forgot the quality of fear and its consequences. "Would you happen to know where I can get. . .water?" The pause was a necessary one. Thistle had almost forgotten what she'd been about to ask for. The expression he'd given her in return was equally as without pleasantry, equally as expectant. "Yes," he said, and smiled without moving the slightest hair. Rutting barkeeps. Rat, meanwhile, was leading Seriis down a narrow hall, into a side door that lead into a reasonably spacious foyer for what was, after all, a former whorehouse in the slums. A curving staircase on the left was their destination, and Rat lead him in that direction. A few of her cronies were lazing in the foyer, though perhaps they weren't necessarily cronies given the strung out way they gazed through Rat and Seriis both, not acknowledging the presence of either. They were soon left behind. At the top of the stairs was an overlooking balcony with a series of doors set in behind it. They were all closed. Rat lead Seriis to a set of double doors at the furthest left, and opened them for his perusal. "I hope it is to your liking," she murmured, dipping her head slightly. The room beyond was decorated in a faded, peeling wallpaper of what had formerly been deep azure. The floor, formerly carpet and now covered in a dizzying set of mismatched if color coordinated rugs, was soft and thick underfoot. Perhaps the question of how regularly cleaning was accomplished might pass the mind of the one treading on them, but the room was set like a particularly grand receiving room from another time entirely. There were numerous low-slung divans set near with pillows and cushions, and a small desk with a cushion behind it against the far wall, again low enough to be easily accessible from the ground. The room was not large, but not claustrophobic for its lack of largesse. It was also notably scattered with old, worn artworks certainly left over from its former glory or stolen from a more recent glory of others. There were two sculptures, a few paintings, and most notably a window with glass yet intact. A minor miracle in the slums, that.

Seriis allows himself to be led away from whatever shaky form of reassurance he might have derived from Thistle's nearby, visible presence, utterly oblivious to her astonished stare on his back. It all falls to him, here, he thinks to himself. There is no room for error - there will be no one else to distract Rat if he slips up and for a moment, the scholar nearly regrets separating himself from his only other ally in this place. And she's a tentative one herself, at that. He follows in silence, inhaling long, calming breaths that lift his shoulders with each breath in and relax them a touch more with each breath out. Perhaps if he tried to act like his brother...but Seriis shakes his head immediately at the thought, knowing it would only cause him more trouble if he mimicked his elder brother's brazen flirtatiousness. No, that's not his style, and he has to do this his own way. Reaching the receiving room, Seriis takes a moment to become distracted by the interior and quietly appreciates the room's design, from the busy colours in the rugs and furniture to the soft architectural flair found in the cornicing. It is, in truth, a marvellous space, of faded grandeur and rich wealth, mostly forgotten now. "It's just fine." His fingers trace the dusty gold-leaf frame of a painting; the portrait of a beautiful woman whose demure smile is locked forever into the oil canvas. "...So," the drow murmurs, turning to face Rat, composed and with a faint smile of his own, "a woman like you, in a place like this. When I was told I would meet a person named 'Rat', I expected...less. Much less. In fact, I expected to be dealing with a loudmouth drunk-- some inbred street trash with a shaky leash on the rest of his gang, maybe." He'd probably have less trouble with that kind of person. "I'm pretty glad I was wrong. I also feel like Alessa suits you better." A small shrug and he changes the subject smoothly. "Do you make it a habit to train beasts, then?"

"I could. . .track mud all over your fancy-pants hall? Yes?" Thistle's threat wasn't an idle one. She took a few steps for the door and found that the man left at its wooden side had inched sideways just a pace, enough to be ready to block her. At that moment, Thistle was suddenly and achingly aware that she was in a room full of unfriendly men and women, and the smile that was plastered across her face when she turned back to the bartender had a lot more edges in it than any expression she'd worn since picking up Seriis in the first place. Had it been a bad idea? Maybe. Could she trust him? That was the rutting question of the whole rutting day. The barkeep was still smiling at her, silent and boots still in hand. "Tell you what. I'll wash the damn boots and my feet and you can go back to your mooning. Alright?" And that was evidently what the barkeep had planned all along: the boots had to be washed before Seriis was ready to go, and it was never wise to put off such a delicate task, because powerful people were always unpredictable. The boots were thrust out towards Thistle, and she took them with a curl of her lip as the barkeep lead her towards the kitchens where, presumably, she could get some rutting water and get the whole mess over with. Seriis, she thought with a very specific form of anguish reserved for those she intended to square with via some humiliating method at a later time (conveniently forgetting that he scared her on a deep, visceral level). Rat, meanwhile, was lounging in the doorway like a cat might lay across a treebranch, the length of her body draped in a way both predatory and graceful. She listened to his flattery with a dead sort of expression, the sort a snake might grace a complimentory weasel with. Mixed insults were noted with that same deadness, a faint and perfectly posed smile sculpting her lips with a social grace that might naturally seem out of place on a slumlord. "I find it is in my habit to train all sorts of questionable individuals. But ah, perhaps you speak of my shifters. They weren't the first, of course." The words hung a moment as she slid the door shut and wandered across the room, taking a divan and sprawling over it with artful, practiced elegance. She watched Seriis. "They are, presently, my best." Not her last either, the second silence said. A fine line she walked, a fine line indeed. "If it is violence you seek, I've no doubt they'll please you. Though leashed, they are creative in their interpretation of boundaries. I feel I should apologize in advance for their manners. They are. . .base creatures, I'm afraid."

Seriis is watching Rat intently as he himself is watched. They do not resemble vermin but instead regard each other as two powerful large cats might, sizing up the opponent while maintaining a languorous, easy, and altogether off-putting demeanour, not ones to waste their energy with open threat displays. A sudden attack could come out of nowhere, but it is just as likely not to. He wants to make sure she doesn't have an edge on him, wants her to hesitate, to wait and wonder what he might do. But curiosity may kill the cat. The atmosphere in the room has altered just a little, almost imperceptibly, and then he nods and smiles. "The shifters, yes." It is never wise to take your eyes off someone you don't trust but in a show of typical drow arrogance, Seriis does just that and casually turns his head to peer out of the window instead. It's a bit small, and the ledge below it is not very wide, but he's comfortable enough in his own abilities to decide it is not beyond his skill. It would make a good emergency exit, should he find he requires one. He boredly studies the view, what little of it there is, listening to her speak. Slowly, Seriis is beginning to understand that, beyond even her allure, the main threat of a woman like Rat to himself is her particular fondness for collecting dangerous things-- and taming them, even. The drow's lips press into a thin line at the thought of his suffering a similar fate to the two shifters. "There's no need to apologise. I don't expect manners from animals." After a moment, he turns away from the window and sinks onto a divan, resting an arm against a pillow and reclining just slightly. There is elegance there, as if he's posing for a portrait. "Are they difficult to train? And what about the price? I'm sure you want more than a handful of silver for your finest specimens." The question hangs with quiet expectation and Seriis glances toward the door, once.

Thistle was, at the moment, not frowning viciously down at the boots as she wiped at them with a damp cloth. The bartender had graciously hovered over her shoulder as she put her feet into the same metal basin, helpfully offering tips at cleaning the boots. It was obvious he was delighting in her uncertainty of how to clean the rutting things, as certainly the boots she was used to were not made from the same materials. And she'd never cleaned them. Wiped them off, sure, but getting Cenril's mud out of shoes was wholly outside of her experience. It took her several minutes to get them to a somewhat presentable state (at least one the bartender didn't give her doubtful humming noises at), after which she quickly scrubbed her feet and stepped out of the metal tin. She left puddles in her wake, but she didn't rutting care. The bouncer at the door shuffled out of her way after a ten second staring contest which neither of them won, and then she was stalking through. She turned back, stuck her skinny neck through the doorway. "Hey, 'tender, where's your boss?" The boss in question had propped the right side of her face up on one of her hands, studying Seriis as he gazed out the window. The pose he took was appreciated. Not openly, not in a manner so crass, but quietly. Approval. It was not something Rat gave so clearly or easily in most cases, but it was there, flickering in her eyes as she studied the lines he made of his body, the arrangements of limbs and torso. "What did our silly little runt tell you, I wonder? I am not selling my fighters, no. Your role in this arrangement would be as sponsor. You see, my beasts are so enthusiastic they sometimes forget how to behave. Their ticket price for entrance to the entry level fights is twenty thousand gold." Her mouth formed a moue, and she tapped the full curve of her lower lip with an idle finger. "Each, of course. It would be so wasteful to spend my resources on such a fancy, don't you think? But for you, surely, such a thing would be a trifle. In return for your sponsorship you would of course have a good seat guarunteed in the owners' boxes for each of their matches. Maybe some small say in what fights they entered." If the legality of things was questionable in Cenril, the ability of laws to be upheld dubious, there was still a danger in displaying power too openly. Where the law might not cut any individual down there was a host of predators waiting, and watching. It wasn't just about the fights for Rat. No, she was far too canny to simply want to watch blood being spilled. She smiled pleasantly at Seriis.

Seriis ' body tenses just a touch when he realises his apparent slip-up. "Mm, not selling, no. I got a bit ahead of myself in my excitement, sorry." He waves the mistake off with the brazen nonchalance of a posh, entitled brat who isn't wholly apologetic for his slight offence, who is so unused to apologising out of politeness that he isn't totally convincing, and who, overall, is far more interested in the idea of seeing some shifters beat people up. Seriis is a good actor, of course. "It really has been a long time since I saw a fight worth watching." When the price comes up, his brows rise in a look that might have been appraisal and remains entirely unreadable beyond that. He schools his features back into a more neutral expression, but his lips are already quirked in a feral smile. "They must be worth the price. That's all I ask, and I'm sure you can deliver." If it benefits her in some way, she's sure to, he muses as his smile widens.

"Don't let the Rat sweet talk you into something before you've seen the merchandise." There was Thistle, hanging off the doorway before she sauntered inside. There were the two rich folk making nice, or at the least two folk richer than she, all flopping loose and careful on their little cushioned chairs. Thistle opted to stand as she came free of the door way and stepped inside, letting it shut behind her. That Rat's men were willing to let her remain alone in a room with a drow and a person whose business had, it was rumored, gotten a few gang members killed said something. Either about Rat's confidence in their business, or her confidence in herself. Confidence was a fickle thing, Thistle knew that from personal experience. Rat's eyes flickered, but they remained on Seriis. "And where -did- they go, I wonder, that it's taking your man so long to find them? Aie, the fights won't be fun at all if they can't even show up because they're too busy crawling up some other banger's nose." Thistle was walking forward, pulling the scrap of cloth free from her sash. With Rat on the divan, Thistle was taller. For once. She let it drift down to land on Rat's chest. "A souvenier," Thistle said, as Rat plucked it free with her left hand and looked at it briefly before she turned her attention back to Seriis. "If there is anything in this room that you find offensive, Seriis, I can see to its removal. I desire my guests to be comfortable, after all."

Seriis has to restrain both a snappish, petulant retort and a sigh of relief when Thistle presents herself in the doorway, interrupting his and Rat's 'making nice' with her remark. Seriis is not sure he would call it that himself, because the underlying tension is still there and his gut is coiled up tight in his stomach, taut and ready. He is not relaxed, but he's doing a damned good job of looking it. In the end, he settles for leaning more heavily against the cushion at one end of his divan, almost but not quite slouching, and doing so in a very graceful manner anyway. "I don't know if you notice but I haven't actually said yes yet." His smile takes a faintly wicked turn before he shrugs and adds in afterthought, "I wondered where you'd gotten to." Absently the boy takes note of her wet legs and the water droplets she's spreading across the rug-covered floor, and he scrunches his face a bit. Maybe Rat catches that expression and misinterprets it for disgust, because she's quickly asking whether or not he's taking offence to anything in here, blatantly referring to Thistle. Seriis blinks. "I do hope to see your shifters soon." He ignores the question in favour of focusing on what was said previously; what is more important, and what will hopefully ensure Thistle remains in the room.

Thistle blinked. Client, she'd told Seriis. He was her client. She wasn't his servant. What a spoiled bratling, still, this boy she'd picked up off the street. The comment he'd made earlier hadn't escaped her, the one about being older than he looked, but really how much older could he be? He was a brat. She'd treat him like one. Assuming, of course, he stayed petulant and didn't turn into the murderous little killer she'd seen in the alley. Thoughts for later. Rat still held the scrap of fabric with its sewn device. She opened her mouth, but Thistle cut in. "We happened across the most interesting thing this morning. Several bodies. It was because I mentioned that I thought I might know what had caused the deaths that he grew interested in your. . .pets. I thought they looked like Tooth and Claw had chewed on them, a little." Rat stilled for the span of a full second, almost too still for life. For that flicker of time she was an alabaster statue, lifeless but for the intense red of her eyes and the scar that marred her. But then, finally, she was looking at Thistle. Her expression was not quite cold, but the charm she'd shown Seriis was entirely absent. "Is that so," Rat said. Thistle wandered to the window in an unknowing imitation of Seriis. "We found the bodies on West Arril," Thistle said, looking out the window. Rat wasn't stupid, she looked down at the device she held. Her voice was slightly bored as she responded with the vocal intimation of eyerolling: "And it was the Byechni who were killed on West Arril?" Yes. The Byechni. Thistle had heard of them before, but she couldn't have been sure about that device. "My client was interested in how they died," Thistle didn't turn away from the window. Rat had let the scrap of fabric fall to the floor, her eyes a little narrowed as she looked at Seriis.

"It was quite the scene. There was a certain...artistry to it, the kind I rarely see outside of my own people. Not quite as fine, of course, but the artist's brush is always less refined up here." In truth, the boy had almost forgotten about the bodies he happened across this morning by (un)lucky chance. The gruesome murder that spawned this entire misadventure in the first place had faded to the back of his mind, slipping subtly out of focus in the same manner a coin was moved from his pocket to the palm of the woman downstairs. Now Seriis is faced with a mental rendition of the scene once more and frowns, the nauseating stench of death and blood clinging to him like a phantom. His drink, too, was forgotten so he sips at it quickly, but regrets it almost instantly. He's been put off more than food, it seems. He shakes the residual image away and turns his attentions back to Rat, noticing the abrupt but small change in her expression, the sudden lack of everything he had read in her before. Byechni? Managing to hold his tongue instead of asking more questions, Seriis glances between both women while wondering absently who the Byechni are, and looking expectantly to Rat for more information. That is their entire purpose for being here, after all.

"I see." Rat spoke the two words with a certain gravity that Thistle didn't like at all. Her lips had twisted up again, though Thistle couldn't see it, but it was there in the luxurious folds of her voice. It pressed to her like the softest of rabbit fur, but she held her gut icy against it when the words made themselves clear. "Did our little runt here tell you that Claw tried to take her arm off? She stabbed him in the face for the trouble, of course, but if she hadn't -- " Thistle turned, bracing her arms behind her against the ledge of the window. "Are you boring your guests, Rat? What a breach of hospitality. If you can't turn up your pets then I'm afraid my client will want for something else." But Rat had sat up a little, her arm still propped up as if waiting for her head to fall onto it. A few hairs had slipped free of her bun, and they framed her face in a pleasing manner. Thistle wasn't glaring, but it was close. "You can still see the scars on the runt's shoulder. From the bite," Rat drawled the words out, long and smooth and terribly soft. Thistle almost reached up to cover said shoulder with her hand, but she flexed them agains the ledge instead. "I think the disembowled bodies were a better show," Thistle said, voice as quiet. But Rat wasn't watching her any more. Rat was watching Seriis.