RP:Rourk's Weapon Maker

Part of the Questionable Honor Arc

Background

Ezekiel gets himself into trouble.

Thistle was trying to find Jerica after a series of unfortunate events, in order to ensure the woman's safety before taking care of other things.

They wind up having a lot more in common than either would be strictly comfortable with.

Cenril: The Street Fair

The sky was darkening. That was usual, at that time of day, but what wasn't so usual was that the cause wasn't evening, but the unhappy clouds that'd blocked the sky and promised a continuation of that fact. What was worse was that there'd been thunder, and all day there'd been a smudging in the distance that spoke of rain. Given the wind, and the chill in the air, it was likely to be sleet. The street fair, as a result, wasn't terribly full of people or performances. It was a sad thing to see an empty street fair, littered with scraps of paper and old food, and a dismal false promise in the air. What few performers remained were the ones getting on in years or lacking any sort of obvious talent: the ones who couldn't afford not to keep trying until the street was so empty that only the idiotically foolish would keep trying. That was what Thistle stepped into: a corridor of broken dreams and undying fools. It didn't help her mood. She was in a foul one, given the state of the weather and the fact that she'd been lured into that ridiculous part of the city on some errant tip received while digging -- ever digging -- for information. It looked to be a bad tip. Still, she doggedly slunk through the empty platforms and pieces of old paper plastered to the cobbled stones. There was a smell of piss near the door to the theater, and Thistle suspected there'd been a drunk hanging around before someone with balls had decided to move him along. Northwards she stalked, something of an affronted rat to the spikiness of her hair -- freshly washed, neatened, and puffing up as if in warning of the thickening humidity. She was in clothing that was foreign to her, and badly mismatched for it; she was dressed like the servant of a quickly fading riche nouveau family whose ideas of livery were both dated and laughable at best. Or dressed like a cheap, tawdry street performer whose ideas of costume was in all likelihood offensive to some culture or other from which the clothing had come. Though ill in humor, her demeanor and size didn't carry with it much weight while she passed through. She ignored all of the attempts to catch her attention, upper lip curled.

Ezekiel stood limp with a jaded stare, rust-brown eyes locked on Maxine's withered figure. The length of his long coat would slap and wave persistently in the growing wind, almost like it were trying to drag his attention towards more important matters; the storm approaching, for one. "You're to pick a card, Child. Not my features." She snickered, refusing to return his debilitating gaze. Much had changed since the lycan's attack, some weeks ago. Hardly the skittish mage he use to be, now instead one with an adopted lack of self control, and situational awareness. Ezekiel watched the Illusionists' eyes while she shuffled the cards, no apparent attention on winning his coin back, but more so ready to break the ruse she so skillfully weaved. Was she serious? At some point in the dancing display of shuffled cards, the mage glanced around to all those present, and most importantly.. those not. The storm was getting worse, he'd have to retire soon. It was here he'd catch sight of Thistle's gaudy appearance. She seemed to catch more of his attention, than the pile of coins at stake; she was out of place. The always observant, always keen Ezekiel didn't even need to reconsider. "Eyes down here, hun. Pick your card." An ink-faded flier slapped desperately against his ankle, clinging to dear life whilst the growing storm threatened to take it away. For the longest time, he didn't take his eyes off the woman.

Thistle rolled her shoulders and winced. Her whole upper body hurt, muscles tight and throbbing with what she'd put them through. Her arms stayed partially crooked and tight; they'd not relax to dangle at her sides. Not for another few days, at least. She approached Ezekiel, not by design but by the simple expedience that he was standing near to where she was walking, and it was only because of that fact that his stare was noticed at all. That and there were few enough people that his gaze wasn't broken by other bodies. She glared at him, until he looked away; stares were a common enough thing, but the goggles he wore were odd enough that he was worth more than a few seconds of her ire. She looked away, sweeping the dirty, litter-rustling street for anyone else who looked promising. None. Was Ezekiel. . .? Sometimes tips were bad, if they weren't useless. She was at the tail end of a bastard of a day, all but wasted. It was galling to her, that she have such a difficult time precisely when she couldn't afford it. Her lips pressed together, and she slowed to a stop alongside Ezekiel. Not directly beside him, but a little back. Pretending brief interest in the cards, though not with words or anything so obvious, she waited to see what he did.

Ezekiel looked confused for a moment, like a sleep walking victim rudely brought back to reality. He blinked, look at Maxine, then eventually her six cards. Without hesitation, he pointed a gloved finger at the bottom left card and made a reach for the gold. Maxine was quick to try and stop him, but he was quicker to keep her from physically coming into contact with this hand. Even if it meant leaving the pile behind. Maxine watched him carefully while flipping the card over, left hand reeling in the pile of gold. "Terrible luck, wrong card. If you're going to play at my table in the future, you'd best to wait-" Ezekiel did not wait. He instead tapped his supposedly wrong card and shattered her illusion. See, what the man saw compared to everyone else, was far different from anything they could have possibly imagined. Like a synesthesiac to magic, he saw the glowing residue of arcane like one would sound or color. This was a side effect to an accident, some months ago in Frostmaw. An accident that turned him into a living conduit for magic; a living, walking, talking battery. While everyone saw the backs of six identical cards, Ezekiel saw a brilliant light radiating from the bottom left card, much to the same that surrounded the illsuionist. It was a blueish green, accented by a maroon finish. The card now showed the appropriate design, as opposed to the suggested illusion. "My pay, please." He answered her with a tone as equally stoic as the stare he gave. The bags under his eyes suggested he'd been some time without sleep, and quite possibly his patience was thinning.

Thistle wished for her deel, as a particularly strong gust of wind made her sway and slip a foot sideways to keep herself balanced. It was too cold for her clothing, and that didn't help her mood. What did reel her mood in was the sudden flicker of illusion, and it was startling enough for her to blink at the offending card, and then at the hand that'd tapped it. Maxine wouldn't be long to recover, and as she opened her mouth to suck in air for some sort of explanation or counter-argument Thistle took a step closer to the table, looking down at that card with an apparent intense scrutiny. The air whistled around them, proof of the oncoming storm. The crash of thunder that followed the noisome air was moreso, having arrived at the tail end of a brilliant flash. Half of Thistle's words were swallowed by the sound, and what remained was, ". . .call you a cheat." That word was a death sentence for the petty dealers of games of chance, as reputation meant quite a bit when it came to taking peoples' money. The worse it got, the fewer people were likely to be giving it to you. Thistle was staring at Maxine then, with the sort of smile that begged for an argument. She'd been burdened by something of a terrible personality, alas.

Ezekiel may have easily seen past her scheme, but what she did next came as a complete surprise to him. "Third time this week.. to hell with your type. Filthy mages, thinkin' they can shimmy their magics in favor of a quick coin. Lookit' the way e' glows! Guards!" There were no guards here; it was like trying to establish authority in an underworld organization of petty crime. Guards, the word though.. it was enough to jostle the skittish of foes. Ezekiel was the foe in this wild flip in accusation. Maxine was reputable, well known and her word stuck heavier than his. With an instant shot of retaliation, she'd influenced the heart of those few around, and now Ezekiel was the criminal. "Another mage, eh?" The voice of a burly male with the manliest of beards, and a gut to show for stepped in. He staggered Ezekiel with a single tap of his sausage-like finger. The mage went pale in the face, physical contact and social anxieties a mile high were his kryptonite. "S-she's lying.. I-" he was cut off by a two-palmed shove, the bearded bruiser making his statement clear. Without even a second thought, Ezekiel flipped a one eighty and buried his glowing palms in his coat pockets. Just as quickly as he'd broken her illusion, she had broken his confidence. This wasn't hard to do. A daring glance was shot Maxine's way while he move from the stand. Only, instead of exiting the street fair, he pressed deeper into- aiming towards a series of back alleys in which he could lose attention. Something told him he was going to be followed; only he was expecting the large male and his two friends to follow instead. They did.

Thistle made a face then, opened her mouth again, but Ezekiel had already shot off. Tip, or no tip? Thistle frowned at Maxine, but she had no reputation in the north side of the city. Nothing to bank on. But some small bit of information to be used later, assuredly. The frown evened out, and she dipped her head at the woman as she started up the street after the group. If he was part of what she needed, maybe she could help with the escape. She hadn't the bulk to do much else but that; in close quarters she had no desire to play about with a knife or dagger, and her upper body muscles were about done with her nohow. Regret for that, but it could be felt later. It was probable that Ezekiel wouldn't be in the mood to talk until after he'd safely escaped -- if he escaped at all. It was a thin sliver of a promise to risk her life on, and. . .maybe there was another way. "Hey," she called out, upping her pace until she jogged up abreast of the big man. His two friends went ignored, and she flinched at another flicker of lightning. "He's pissed off one of the slumlords. Wanted alive. I've been tailing him, and I'll tip you well if you go the other way." She put on a hard little smile, the kind that said it was as much business as pleasure. Her voice was very low: a stranger's intimacy. She reached into her sash, pulled out a heavy purse, if a little slack. Thunder followed the lightning, four seconds behind. It started to rain.

Ezekiel was able to shoot a glance over his left shoulder while he rounded a corner. The man in charge of this little escapade for beating down a mage seemed hardly impressed with the woman's words of warning. At least until the small purse was brought into play. The bruiser studied her with beady eyes, scratched his stomach and ended with hocking a lugi to his right. He'd hold his palm up demanding while he spoke, "The little rat shows his face again, I'mma wear his jaw for a necklace. C'mon, Whaler before it gets too wet." Oh how easily manipulative money could be. The trio of bone-headed thugs dispersed just as easily as they rallied; so readily were the males of Cenril to dive fist first into a fight. For whatever reason they could find. If Thistle continued on with her pursuit, she'd find him not far off around the corner, sitting on a crate with his back against the ally's wall. In his left hand was a pocket watch, and in his right pinched between index and middle was a cigarette. He blew a cloud of smoke up into the air, letting the rain soak whatever part of him wasn't under an awning.

Thistle's head lowered a little, feeling the sting of parted money she really couldn't afford to lose. She'd have to pull something out of her ass, and soon, or else she'd be back to nothing. If there was anything Thistle detested more than that feeling, it would be a hard sell. But Maxine. . .the illusory cards. That was something handy to know, or would have been if she was in good standing with any magic users who could pull off that sort of thing. The rain was almost as cold as ice as it started soaking into her head, and soon enough it was enough of a downpour that visibility became a precarious thing. Even so, she found Ezekiel on his crate, getting selectively damp. She pushed in under the same awning as he, and put her back to the wall. It was a grimy, stained wall, and she knew her secondhand clothes would oh-so-quickly lose the clean state that would have marked her as a servant. Souls take it, not again. She sighed. "You're not with any of the gangs, are you?" Because while she'd lied to the thugs about Ezekiel's state in the hope they wouldn't want to mess with him (though they were far enough out of the slums for it to not be a definite intimidation tactic), she was looking for one affiliated with those same groups who plagued Cenril like flies on a carcass. And considering she'd just lost money on the man, it figured he wouldn't be the one she was looking for.

Ezekiel was on the verge of bursting at the metaphorical seams, with raw arcane essence. Could anyone see what he did, they'd lose his silhouette in a blinding beam of cerulean light. The rain helped in nullifying the intensity of his power, uncontrollable and untamed as it was. All of this was still so new, and he without the training to manage it. Not yet at least. So he welcomed the rain with open arms, it was a way of cooling him off. Even if there was no actual heat, he could feel it as if it were steam vented from his head. The wind shifted and smacked him across the face with a sheet of rain, he didn't mind. "Would a man so easily crippled by the dominance in a woman's tone and influence, belong to a gang?" This was his mocking half-assed attempt at humor, all at the expense of his loss just minutes ago. "How much did you give them?" His tone was still dry and lacking, his expression blank and most of all- his eyes closed. He didn't even smoke the rest of his cigarette, it would die eventually when snuffed by the melted leather between his fingers.

Thistle snorted, at ease with him because of the scene with Maxine, and because she could not see anything of what he was beyond a man getting pissed on in spots by the rain the awning could not keep away. "You'd be surprised. Not all of them are about brawn and bluster. Maybe it was an act. How would I know?" A dour voice, that. She looked at him from that closer vantage, an opportunity to look down on one taller than she never abandoned. The goggles interested her most of all; his dress otherwise was not unheard of within Cenril, considering the mix of styles that poured in from the docks. Neither was he especially remarkable, though sometimes that was a sign of danger in and of itself. "Ten gold pieces."

Ezekiel dropped the stump of the hand rolled cigarette once it burned out, leaving it to swell with rainwater over time. It was here he'd pull his legs from out of the rain and press them against the sides of his crate while sitting so he was hunched over. The downpour wasted no time in soaking his medium length hair which would eventually hang with a soft curl at the tips. "I'd say you know a lot more than you let on. The way you carry yourself suggests it. Here." He reached inside his chest pocket and pulled out a small purse of his own. Putting his back to her, he'd count out fifteen coins before tucking the rest away, then he'd turn back to sit against the wall. Holding his palm up, he'd present the coins for her to accept should she care. His hands were gloved, but not normal. It was clear they were severely damaged, the leather looking as if it had been melted by an intense source of heat. In the center of each palm was a metal ring, platinum in color and about the size of a silver dollar. Never did he take his eyes off the opposing wall. "Extra, for making my night a little easier to deal with."

Thistle took the coin. She deserved it, as far as she was concerned: even with money as bait there'd been no guarantee the men wouldn't have tried to take more from her hide, or even take offense at her bribe. Never knew in Cenril. As for Ezekiel, he'd neatly avoided her question and given her no safe answer. Whether or not he was actually the one she needed to find was a question that hadn't been satisfied by her means. That, and the fact that she'd no desire to go out looking in the storm, or make the hour long trek back to the only safe place she currently knew, kept her at his side. "You usually get yourself into trouble like that?" She loosely fisted her hand around the coin, lips twitching as she searched for the other purse she kept on her person -- never have only one. That was a motto that she'd learned on the streets, where robbery was so commonplace as to be expected rather than avoided.

Ezekiel didn't mean to avoid the question, he figured he answered it enough with his earlier statement. "No. Not like that." He had a knack for getting in trouble, though mostly the kind that put his life on the line- and more times than enough, required the assistance of a spontaneous hero. Whether they knew it or not: Satoshi and the wolfs, Hanan and the lycan, Seriis and the outlaws.. the list went on. "You normally follow strangers into dark alley s?" Thing about his question, it would say a lot about Thistle whether she'd know it or not. Primarily whether he should remain here on this crate or not.

Thistle was pretty good at getting into trouble. She should've been better at getting out of it too, what with all the practice she'd had, but some things never quite came naturally. "No more'n I can help it." A non-answer of her own, though that was from a desire to not talk about it, what she did. Ezekiel, whatever and whoever he was, seemed to be the non dangerous sort at the moment. And she was probably at the end of that particular lead, and back to nothing. The day was late enough that she'd lost her opportunity. She was tired, and sinking back towards cranky to boot. "I hate rain like this," she muttered, neck craning at an awkward angle to stare up at the sky without getting more wet than she already was. "You been to Hook and Bait in the last few days?" It was more of a blunt question than she should have asked, given that she thought he might be trying to slip her, but she was out of patience.

Ezekiel said, "I enjoy the rain. Gives room for a clean slate. Often times it cools the mind off." Finally he'd turn away from the rain soaked wall and look up toward her, sleep deprived eyes doing a once over as he moved to stand. Socially awkward or not, he was still taught manners. "Crate if you want it, and what do you know know about the Hook and Bait?" Because he honestly didn't know a damned thing. To him, it was a question she was using to figure his standing, be it a low key organization or building of ill intentions. Perhaps one of these a fore mentioned gangs he'd been in question of. At least if he presented the question in a way of testing her knowledge about this 'hook and bait', she could slip and explain a thing or two in her own defense. Either way, she was company on this cold, wet night and he wasn't quite in the mood to dodge through the streets of Cenril looking for a dry place to stay. He crossed his arms and planted his back against the wall, glancing back over occasionally.

Thistle turned her head away from the rain and back towards Ezekiel. Cagey, she decided, and cautious both. Was he hiding something from her? She resisted the urge to spit, and shook her head. She didn't want to be caught sitting either, if something untoward should happen. "It's a shithole," she said, and there was honesty in that, "but cheap enough. If you don't mind what they sell." The return question almost goaded her into walking away, freezing cold rain or no. If she was going to get anything out of him, she'd have to play him about and whittle him down with double-talk until she could catch him out. That he had something to hide was a high probability, but whether or not he was the one she wanted was something that was steadily becoming the more doubtful. Still, she supposed, information was information.

Ezekiel hadn't always been this way. So secret and elusive. That attack three weeks ago, the lycan in Rynvale. That had been the breaking point for the mage, the shift in personality and the way he acted. Too many times had he been taken advantage of, and thrown under the bus for personal and selfish gain. Lita was a saint to have saved him that night, dragging his corpse from off the shop's floor, and into Sanctuary's arms. Since then, he'd kept more to himself than ever. But he'd always have a soft spot for those willing to stick their neck out for him, and in this situation, that included Thistle. "That's right.. where's it at again?" He still had no clue what the Hook and Bait was, but judging by the brief description, he'd assume an inn of the sorts, or some base for a shop selling questionable merchandise. His question was sure to give him away, but that was the goal. He'd fished for information of his own, and now that he had it he needed something to do with it. "What do you plan to do with the rest of the night, anyways?" Again with the derailing questions..

Thistle tried very, very hard not to sigh. "In the slums. Dockside. South of the city?" Her voice had lifted the slightest bit in sarcasm, because that was the sort of question either meant to lead her into thinking he was some out-of-city puke or he was genuinely clueless. Souls take her. She was that close to spitting out curses. She just flat out wasn't in the mood to pin him down to anything, and in the meantime his evasions, genuine yokelhood, whatever, was only stirring in her ineptitude. "Who knows. The day is wasted, so I might as well go get myself slobbering drunk and drag myself back to the compound so Katya can throw water in my face in the morning." She was too wrapped up in her sullen half-temper-tantrum to realize that she'd remembered the mercenary's name. Not that it would have felt much like a victory anyways. Thlag was right, the woman was crazy.

Ezekiel was a mixture of both. Clueless, slightly.. out of city puke, mostly. Fifty six days, eighteen hours and eleven seconds. Because he could actually count the exact time he'd spent here in the wonderful land of Hollow; he still held in his left hand a particularly unique pocket watch. So while he was 'getting' familiar with Cenril, there were parts unexplored to him. This Hook and Bait, for example. "Sounds about how I'd spend the rest of mine, if I could." Only reason he couldn't was because that was his last fifteen gold. Ironic, no? Maxine, the bint had double that now. Ezekiel slid his back down along the wall, the fabric grinding away till he came to a crouch. Here he gave Thistle yet another bored, and exhausted stare, brown eyes trying to study hers. At least till she looked back his way, then he'd just avert his stare and pretend to look at something else like the socially awkward spaz he was. "So really, why did you follow me back here?"

Thistle reached up and scratched at a bit of her hair that had plastered to her neck and begun the first assault of irritation. She'd already begun to chafe. But, at least, hopefully whatever fleas or lice still lived on her body would have a more miserable time than her. "Why can't you?" Not particularly interested in the answer, no, but sometimes the strangest openings lead to pay dirt. She was looking at him when he looked at hers, and she met his eyes before he looked away. An attempt to gain his measure, judge what he was. Slippery bugger, and the fact that he was taller than her only served to heighten her determination to spend the evening sorely pissed off. "Because I'd hoped you'd be a better lead. Souls take the day, and that rutting rat-faced ninner with it." If the reason why he couldn't drink was something fixable, maybe she could lure him into someplace cheap and get the both of them drunker'n they were presently wet. And would be, considering that the rain hadn't slowed at all and the crack of thunder had become less of a statement and more of a depressing regularity.

Ezekiel looked away while he held back a sigh of relief. If that was her only reason for following him down this alley, he could rest easy knowing she probably wouldn't have much else to do with him once they left this spot. At least, that was the general hope. "I probably am a better lead, just not for what you're looking for." He pulled his knees against his chest, boots stuck out in the rain. There wasn't much of an awning to begin with, the two looked rather pathetic sitting out here half in the rain. Ezekiel was use to looking pathetic, so no big deal here. "And since you asked.." he paused, looking at her feet, then away. "I'm broke. Heh. Besides, I'd hate to chance my luck at the Whaler, with that brute headed that way."

Thistle kept staring at Ezekiel, something like puzzled frustration lowering her eyebrows. "You wanted to know what Hook and Bait was. Should I show you, and spend your coin?" A better lead, he'd said. They'd certainly see.

Ezekiel wrinkled his nose, and seconds later sneezed. He loved the rain but he knew like most, if he spent too much time in it, it'd come back to bite him in the ass. The wet one he was still sitting on right now. "I paid my conscious off.. what you do with it is of your own choosing." He glanced back up at her with a bland smirk while scratching at his messy five of clock gruff. "Either way.. I was going to try and find it once you left. Perhaps you could show me what exactly is worth spending my coin on?"

Thistle stared at him, expression cooling into a studious neutrality tempered by the steady burn of her bad day. "If you want to know what's worth spending your coin on, you'll have to find someone else. I don't spend much time in places that have much in the way of worth." Her voice lowered, went a little quieter as if sharing some scandalous secret. There was also sarcasm in there, and no humor in her eyes to soften it.

Ezekiel pushed his lips to the right, all scrunched up like he were in deep thought for a moment. The only thing in his eyes was an exhausted stoicism that painted his demeanor quite well. This was day two, going on a half without sleep. This was week three, in lacking a project, and month one without having been paid for a single, successful job. He came here with just over twenty grand in coin.. where it all went? He probably couldn't even tell you himself. "Let's say I did ask you to show me Hook and Bait. At what cost, would it be to me?" He was poor, and he knew that she knew that. He'd find out right now if she still had any interest in any 'leads' he had. Because he did, just not what she was looking for.

Thistle was used to seeing exhaustion, in all of its shades and accompanying states. He didn't affect her at all. "What do you have?"

Ezekiel answered with a quick shrug, and an even quicker word. "Skill."

Thistle lifted her chin. "With what?"

Ezekiel threw on the counter the one thing that almost always sold. "Artifacts. You could say." He was being vague on purpose.

Thistle made a rather doubtful noise with her tongue. "Why would I spend money on drinks for you, for that?"

Ezekiel didn't even try to cover his mouth while he yawned, using his right hand instead to drag a leather, gloved finger across the cobblestone. A teal glow bled into the stone, and like ink on parchment.. splintered and cracked outwards. He watched the glow for a second, as if letting it suggest his next move. "No idea. I sure in the hell know I wouldn't." Whether she was willing or not, he was going to hunt this place down, and since he knew it was good for a drink, somehow come across the coin to buy one. Or two.

Thistle narrowed her eyes at him. He knew something, and he was determined to keep it from her. That didn't sit well with her. "Giving up?"

Ezekiel groaned while he pushed off the ground using one hand and steadied himself against the wall with the other. The cold made his body ache like an old man. "You'd be surprised at who are interested in these things, these artifacts."

Thistle wasn't shivering. Call it force of will, call it mule headed stubbornness. Or, maybe she was just used to cold. She was staring down at Ezekiel, and there was interest in her gaze. It was not the sort of interest that could be considered flattering, but something a little bit calculating. She snorted and rolled her eyes, and that moment was broken. "Listening to you talk makes me want to be drunk. I'll show you Hook and Bait, and you can talk about your 'artifacts'." A pawn was a pawn was a pawn, right?

Ezekiel was of so much use to her, she.. nor he just weren't aware of it. "Be surprised at who is interested in these things. Clients from all over the city approach me. Almost ready to build a ship." Yeah, like that was in his cards. He didn't even enough money to buy a drink on his own, let alone fund a shop. Baby steps, Ezekiel. Baby steps.

Thistle looked away from Ezekiel, down the alley and through the rain. "What sort of clients?" Cool and casual.

Ezekiel pulled his collar up and stuffed both hands back into his pocket.. the glowing cracks of light from his glove still on the stone where he once sat. "The kind whose intentions I dare not question." he shrugged.

Interest scalded through Thistle. Her instinct had been right, then, and she deliberately kept her face away from him. Among her own people it would have been rude. To him and his avoidances, it was a direct insult. At that time, though, she knew it was a snub most of the city folk didn't understand in the slightest. Right then, that suited her just fine. "I've had enough of this piss," she muttered, "I'll show you the Hook and Bait, and if I like what you have to say, I'll buy you a drink." She pushed herself from the wall, stepping out into the rain. She was soaked through immediately, worse than before, and she stood like that looking down at him with a daring cruelty to her eyes before she looked back down the alley in the direction of the street. "Hope you don't mind mud."

Ezekiel didn't bother to stop and acknowledge her proposition, only muttered, "Fine by me," while he rounded the corner that led back to the abandon street fair. Everyone, even Maxine, had cleared out long ago, and the echos of an eventful day were long gone. Lurking deep in the back of his clouded mind, questions began to surface. What was it he said that won her definite interest, and why did the try for so long to earn it? On any normal occasion he'd have lost her, or anyone, at the first bend. Was his isolation finally starting to wear thin? "I hope it doesn't ruin my clothes.." Sarcastic asshole.

Thistle was well versed with assholes, and his comment didn't appear to affect her at all. Though shorter, she stretched her legs out and passed him, something very much like a sneer twisting her lips. The walk into the bowels of the slums to the south would be a long one, passing street by street from something that approached affluence into the realm of dubious quality. Whitewash and paint, well tended signs and store facades, clean and straight paved streets: they faded the further Thistle walked with him, block by block. The streets were nearly empty for them, and they moved through the rain like ghosts. The rain had begun to clog up the sewers and the edges of the streets, turning into shallow canals in the alleys they passed. With it rose the stink of saltwater and the waste of a well-populated city, until the passing odors of fresh water, old food, and tradeskills copulated into something nauseating. The rain would wash it away, beat it down, but it was not nearly enough. It never was. It was at the far end of Market Street, one foot into an alley that would take them into a warren of them, the endless maze of the lower town from which had sprung up the southern shanty towns and slums that marked an older section of the city, that Thistle paused. There was a half awning under which she made that hesitation, looking back for Ezekiel. She was shivering then, her clothing plastered down so that the genderless shape of her binder was apparent, still doing its job despite the wet. She was mostly drowned rat, bare feet placed for best balance and not at all for delicacy or consideration of the slop she stood in. Her 'new' sarong pants had been stained by the mud, and wet was soaking up past her knees. Despite her shivering, or the rain, she was still looking at Ezekiel as if she expected him to wriggle his way out of it. "Few more blocks," she said, lips still twisted into a condescending sort of smile.

Ezekiel was walking to his death. It was with this mindset, he woke each day. An expectation he was never without, and always prepared to face. It was with this mindset, he managed to live as long as he did. When expecting death at every corner, one's mind was always on edge, ready to flee. Ready to dodge, and act on the whims of whatever it took to survive. Walking through these rain soaked streets, following this shady woman to her shady bar, Ezekiel could only hope for the worst. At least this way, when he met it, he was prepared. This was a man with no confidence, in himself or those around; truly a depressing being. 'Achoo'. He was going to have when this was all said and done. "I'm not sure who is more desperate. I for a drink, or you for information. At some point, do you continue only because you've invested so much time, you'd hate it to be a waste?" 'Achoo'.

Thistle tilted her head at him, started walking again though a little more slowly, if only so that she could get her point across to him with a scowl. "Information, you say. What d'you know about it? What I'm desperate for." Lightning. Thunder. Downpour. She was losing sensation in her feet, and it got worse the longer they walked. A few more blocks, was it reassurance for him or for her? But Cenril was a coastal city, and it'd had its share of storms and some of them had been bad. Thistle had made it through all of them, whether she had shelter or not. Numb feet was just one more sensation to push through, deal with and set aside. Besides, she'd have some sort of liquid rot to warm herself up with soon. Through the next few blocks, weaving their way through the makeshift homes and hollow-eyed drifters whose choice of poison had delivered them past any form of sensibility.

Ezekiel kept his head low, always low, and continued in the wake of her demanding pace. "You don't like me. But you're willing to tolerate and wade through so much bullshit for something that isn't even guaranteed. Admittedly, I can't help but follow.. because of this. Only because I'm that more curious then you at this point." He wasn't good with these kind of things, social interactions. Somethings were meant to be said, others.. not. He was never taught when and what to say.. and when not to say; he was a great example of speaking one's mind.

Thistle didn't snort only because it would have been too much effort while she was much too cold. For as much a miracle as rain was, she always forgot how very much she hated it once it'd soaked her through. Even some miracles became something like curses once you'd gotten too much of it, and in the wreck the city had made of the natural wilderness Thistle didn't see much need for all the rain. "What do I lose? In this rain, even the Hook will be crowded. I'll have to listen to someone yammer in my ear, might as well be something interesting. Hopefully interesting." Conversation was always rough with Thistle, or near enough when she was in a mood with no need for polite niceties. Good manners had gotten tangled up with honor, and the edges of both had been rubbed into a fine blurring. As the days passed, Thistle found it harder and harder to remember why she'd ever bothered in the first place. Why it'd seemed so much like a necessity, rather than something to laugh bitterly over from a past that seemed more like fantasy and less like truth.

Ezekiel said, "Fair enough." before pausing in his soaking pursuit. He reached for that same pocket watch from earlier and popped the copper face open, frowning at what he saw; it wasn't the time. Warily he looked over his shoulder, around the next block- even to the rooftops of the lean-to shanty's. Where were you, death? "How far?" he blurted once the pocket watch was stuffed away. To hell with the cold.. he was going to risk the chance of pneumonia. He still wasn't fully recovered from his run in with the lycan, nor did he have the immune system to be pushing this hard. Just what exactly was he so keen on learning from this woman?

"Few more blocks," Thistle said, and then she was lengthening her stride again, pushing forward to lead Ezekiel on rather than attempt to walk with him in any capacity that could be considered companionable. She'd take him that distance without another word, easily. The mood for banter had slipped from her with the constant hush and trickle, tin slapping consistency of the rain. Under its beating, she could drown all other sensations and sounds. That was her mood, beaten down, ready for glaring, when they finally arrived before the Hook and Bait.

The Hook and Bait

Once inside, it became clear that her prediction had doubled in reality, to the point that there were no more seats left. Even short and scrawny, looking as if she was a beast come crawling out of a gutter, she managed to snarl and claw and elbow her way to the bar through the throng that surrounded it, crushed up against the wall it bisected. She tried to ensure Ezekiel made it there with her, not for his own comfort or safety but because at this point she'd rather have the dubious, cowardly stranger at her side than one who too fondly fondled his blades, wherever they may be. In a place like Hook and Bait, you could never be too sure of where they might be sheathed in your person -- back, or gut, or throat or some other fun place. It was too hot in there, with all those bodies, not that it'd begun to make her uncomfortable, seeing as how she was freezing. It was also roaring loud, the sound of the rain a gentle murmur compared to the noise so many complaining, drunken, worthless louts could get up to. She turned to look back and see if Ezekiel had followed, had made it to the edge. Someone reeled into her back, and she was pressed gut first into the hard wooden edge that formed the short bar top, and if she'd been about to shout for the other man it rushed out of her in an explosion of sour air and worse feelings.

Ezekiel was on the verge of having a panic attack, quite literally. He was by no means claustrophobic; instead, he was people-phobic. More specifically, touching-people phobic. Physical contact of any kind made him pale in the face, the sudden threat of hyperventilating a dangerous reality. He could never explain where this fear came from, only that he never found a way to deal with it, other than avoiding anyone and everyone like they had the bubonic plague. Quite honestly, he nearly ditched Thistle and the bar all together. The mage puffed his cheeks out while he held this breath, crossed both arms tightly and pressed towards Thistle. Every bump, because there was plenty, he treated like they were made of acid. Hissing at every person till they gave him the queerest of looks. Eventually he stood at Thistle's side, only because the gut of a fat man forced him too. "T-this is horrible.." no drink was worth this.

Thistle looked sideways at him and coughed. Spittle flecked the bartop, but it wasn't the worst said top had seen. She wiped her nose and mouth with the back of her hand. "There's worse even than this," she said, though the words came with a little bit of a rasp; Ezekiel's condition was misunderstood with some sort of fickle joy. Thistle took her pleasures where she could, and didn't much care who got trampled in the process. She hadn't always been like that, she supposed, but she was too busy flagging down the bartender with curses and half-formed sentences that wouldn't make sense anywhere but the slums. When she finally wrestled the magical exchange of money into product, it was a bottle that she handed to Ezekiel. Some things even she wasn't willing to risk when it was so busy. "You gonna talk?" She leaned over towards Ezekiel to yell into his ear, close enough that he could hear over the din.

Ezekiel was miserable, that much could be easily read. Everything down to the grimace on his face, up to his shoulders which he tried to keep pulled tight. An empty seat, if a block of wood could even be considered a seat, was taken and the mage took to smashing up against the bar much like Thistle had. "What do you feel like hearing?" He rolled his eyes as a show of thanks when the bottle came and didn't think twice when tipping it back to his lips. He'd wince, hiss, and make a 'Ahh' sound; tasted like fire and piss, the hell was she trying to do to him? He'd be lucky if he didn't catch a cold after this, let alone what ever else he could catch from this bottle and/or drink. The mage slicked his wet, messy hair back behind his ears, hunching even more over the counter. He'd have rather had his ass kicked by those at the fair, then be here.

"Something useful. Anything useful. I'm tired of shit." She took a drink, and didn't look at him. She was listening, always listening to those around her, measuring usefulness in spades.

Ezekiel said to Thistle, "Two men in this bar are carrying dangerous weapons, I'm going to die in exactly nineteen minutes, and Rourk's right hand man is somewhere here." Rourk, just so happened to be head of an organization, a criminal organization, one of many in Cenril. That alone, was more than enough 'useful' information for her to sink her teeth into. "I could tell you many useful things, just what is actually useful depends on who is looking."

Sometimes you get a kicked bull, and sometimes you get a calf. Thistle, at that moment, was giving a sidelong stare to a calf. "What kind of dangerous?" Rourk sounded familiar. One thing at a time.

Ezekiel shrugged. "Would you consider all magic, and all things magical.. dangerous?

Thistle went a little stiff, but she rolled it out of her shoulders. Another drink, burying older thoughts deep in the mud. "I don't know much about magic. Do you?"

Ezekiel said to Thistle, "More than I'd like to. They hold artifacts, devices-gadgets.. weapons. Something to do with the manipulation of some kind of magical property." He shot her a side long glance with a devious smirk. "I should know, I made them."

"Who d'you you sell them to?"

Ezekiel shrugged. "You demand useful information, but I ask- what entitles you to such? I know we agreed on drinks, but dare I go about giving up everything I know for a bottle of watered down moose piss?"

Thistle smirked, but the expression was wiped away soon enough. She didn't know what a moose was. But if there was one thing Thistle understood, it was piss and all of the connotations that went with it. "You asked me what I felt like hearing. This is what I do. You wanted enough out of me to follow me through the rain, all the way here. Hook and Bait. What does that say?" It was strange how much Thistle had gotten used to talking over drinking. How easily it loosened up her tongue. How much she felt she had to prove to the parade of strangers she ran into, dragged down into her world. She turned, so the press of those strangers pushed the side of her ribcage into the bar, when they tried to get past her, around her, or brush her aside or out of their way. But she stayed. Always, getting her to budge took more than a careless or offhanded push. People took Thistle for weak, for being weak. She accepted that as much as she struggled against it. But still, but still. . . "Here's an opportunity," she said, and she wasn't smiling any more.

Ezekiel tipped the bottle back for another drink before setting it back down on the filthy counter top. He always kept his finger around the neck, should someone get so daring as to swipe his drink- or knock it over; both were very likely to happen if he didn't keep his stare locked forward. "Tell me who it was you are, or were looking for. I'll tell you who it is I sell to. Tell me why it is you're looking for them, and I can tell you what it is I've sold." Even if she did comply with his proposal, she'd still be the one coming out ahead, in terms of valuable information. Thing was, he didn't care for what she got, only what he did. He could do so much more with his piece.

Thistle squinted at the bottle she held like it was a chicken's neck. "Odd thing to want to know. Who's . . .whadya say. . .Rourk? That it?"

Ezekiel swished the last bits of his near empty bottle around. "You mean you don't know?"

Thistle gave a perfectly bland smile. She said nothing as she stared at her bottle, let her eyes drift past it and down the bar. There were hands there, sticky spots where liquid had been spilled earlier, and fresh spots all the same. Empty bottles, empty and dirty mugs, containers fresh and full of nasty alcohol that'd never had anything to do with good quality. "I am looking for my brother," she said, so suddenly polite and formal that her words had a stiff, unreal quality to them all their own.

Ezekiel didn't bother to look up and make eye contact, let along any formal bit of respect, the kind most usually had when having a conversation. "And you followed me into the alley because?" He scoffed, pushing the empty bottle back to the barkeep's side of the counter before crossing the wet sleeves around his arms. "I sell my work to Rourk. I sell him many a tool to help in the art of crime, and I do so on a regular basis." He spoke with a whispered mumble, almost leaning in to the point where his shoulder bumped hers. Almost. "Wonder if any of it could tie together.."

Thistle kept her face empty in some mockery of the manners her people had between strangers. "How long have you been here? In Cenril."

Ezekiel glanced at his pocket watch, shook his head laughing, and tucked it away. "Four months. Yourself?"

Again, that smile, chased with an edge of bitterness. "Years. Why Rourk?"

Ezekiel smiled. "Then you already know why. He shows interest in what I craft, in return he pays coin. You living here, know just as much as I how much money is life. 'Least that's what I've came to find out on my own, only four months in."

Thistle might have smirked, but her thoughts were too far gone, washed deeper by their easy back and forth and the chill that still held her bones. "Yeah, yeah. How much does he pay you?"

Ezekiel was impressed. This may have actually been the longest conversation he held, and stuck around for to date. After dredging through the immediate stress of it all- and one drink later, he found this somewhat manageable. The unwanted physical contact shared, that was another topic. "Depends on what I had, at the time. Anywhere from a couple hundred, to a few thousand. Gold, not silver or copper. Son of a bitch payed with gold. I'm sure you see how enticing that is for someone scraping the bottom of the barrel, here in Cenril."

"Having gold at all is a luxury in Cenril," Thistle said, and if there was a shift in her demeanor, in the tone of her voice, it wasn't towards approval. But it was there, and gone, as quickly. "Rourk, weapons. I think that sounds familiar. Yeah. You've some talent to you then, and you claim you're scraping the bottom of the barrel? No. Rourk's taking you for a ride. You don't know the streets at all." And there it was, she wondered, as the surrounding conversations filtered in a little bit at a time: was that part of the deals that had gone south? The stolen poppy seeds, the cavorting smugglers. Byechni. Always Byechni. There was a pair of them, two drunken louts down the bar from her. They were talking about something, out on the plains. She flagged down the bar-tender, swearing as easily as if it cursing was the only language she knew, and got them another round. That was always the easy part.

Ezekiel shrugged. "I'm a bad investor, what can I say. He's a smart man, though. Capitalizes on my not knowing. It'll be his fault, when he uses that as a crutch." He glanced down the bar, and over his shoulder. The stranger and her trace of magic went missing, just like the first. They were easily Rourke's eyes and ears; those were his devices after all. Could have possibly stole them from one of his men, but that was unlikely. "Ever take a crutch from a crippled man? They fall down easily. Imagine if I were one of these crutches, one of Rourk's. Imagine how he'd feel if one of his was taken from him. Build an addiction, and there is soon to be a dependence. The dependent, can be desperate." He took the drink by the neck, and tipped it back. "..thanks."

"You don't like him, do you?"

Ezekiel answered with a rather stoic tone. "Does anyone ever like their employer?"

"I wouldn't know. But, maybe, being able to choose makes it easier."

Ezekiel said to Thistle, "If I could choose, do you think I would stay with Rourk?"

Thistle reached out and shoved at a man trying to get close to the bar between her and Ezekiel. He slapped her hand away, but she didn't flinch despite the stinging. She was used to bruises. The man went around after giving her another shove. Her ribs hurt. "You want to break him? He has enemies. They all do. I'm sure someone would take you in, and use you up in another way."

Ezekiel didn't even bother to answer, mostly because he didn't have one. Silently, he worked out the solution in his head, but failed to communicate this across to the woman smushed just off to his side. Everyone had enemies. Working with one, to take down another.. only brought in twice as many as before. Like bacteria, they multiplied. The more well known and successful you were here in Cenril, the more hated and susceptible you were to death. "What's your brother's name?"

Thistle smiled, but this one was not so polite. It was all edges. "Why? You want to help me find him, rather than let Rourk keep you all caged up?"

Ezekiel remained hunched over his little wooden block for a seat, his gut still smashed against the counter. "My business with Rourk is my own. Keeping an eye and ear open for your brother, has nothing to do with Rourk. I was simply curious- you seem to think I have this vendetta against the man. I dislike him like the rest, but so long as he continues to pay me, I'll keep building." He shrugged, looking as if getting ready to stand up soon. There was only so much bumping and pushing he could tolerate, double so when it was a borderline phobia.

Thistle was still smiling right up until she put the bottle to her lips and sucked it dry. Once through, she put the bottle on the counter and showed Ezekiel her teeth. "It's interesting. Maybe you should follow the direction your weapons are going, and where they wind up. That way, when your buyer pisses off the wrong people you won't be the one spilling blood." The two Byechni men were too quiet for her to hear, but she'd heard enough before that. She knew the significance of the bits and pieces she'd been hearing all week. That was how you stayed alive, on the streets, when you made no alliances among the powerful. You had to stay ahead. "And then, if you stumble across the name 'Byechni' and you change your mind, leave word for Katya at Gerard's place. They'll know where to find me. Thanks for the information." The smile, along with her face, disappeared briefly as she stepped away from the bar, behind another man. There was a moment as she took two steps forward that she turned back, and could see him. She inclined her head, whether he was looking at her or not. "May your horses be well, Master Maker." Then, she was heading for the door. She'd need to get some sleep, if she was to be up riding on the morrow.

Ezekiel kept his back to her while she left, tipping the last of the bottle away. He thought long and hard about what she said, but said nothing about it. Not for the rest of the night. Instead, he'd simply wait around till he was sure she was at the door before making his exit. Ezekiel activated the artifacts wedged so neatly into the palms of his gloves, his figure lost in a subtle blink of light. A random patron would cross in front of him one moment, then there was nothing to be seen of him the second. It was like he was never there.. teleportation, so convenient for someone so antisocial.