RP:Silver and the Bird

Cresente is approached by a stranger after winning a duel.

Whaler’s Bar, Cenril

Cresente brings a pint of rum to his lips, watching the patrons of the bar gather merrily to celebrate what a good fight they just witnessed. Now cleaned up and in fresh clothes, it seems that none have taken note that the winner of the fight is amongst them, silently enjoying his drink against one of the tavern's less occupied corners.

Mahri isn't unrecognizable, if someone were to be looking for her. Tonight, however, the director of the Shrike Division, the assassin arm of the Rogues Guild, wrapped her duster around her deceptively slight body, sprinkled a scent neutralizer over her person and activated the charm around her neck to cast a shadow over her face, completely obscuring her face and voice. The lycan has become Silver in this moment. Entering the bar, it's not hard to sly her target. Cresente seems rather satisfied with himself, as the winged male should be from what she had heard. Her boots were eerily silent on the wooden floor as each step drew her closer. "Cresente," it's not a question. She didn't ask either when taking a seat across from the avian. "Some people have an interest in you and your skills." Eyes that match her alias stay steady on him, but by no means is the wolf unaware of her surroundings.

Cresente had his head turned towards a framed cutout of an ancient edition of the Fishermen's Almanac that was praising that some celebrity or other had endorsed such a fine establishment. It was on the third line that Cresente felt a prickle on his neck. The sensation of being gazed upon. He pretends to still be admiring the bit of journalism when his name is called. "Hm." When Mahri sits across from him, he reclines in his chair and takes a sip of the rum. The avian is in no way relishing in his victory or celebrating, it becomes clear, as there are deep circles under his eyes that had not been quite so visible from the audience stands. He does not look at Mahri at first, instead looking around the room with only his eyes as the mug is to his lips. Satisfied that this stranger has appeared to come alone, he lowers his voice. "If your people have come to ask for a job to be done, do not speak the details aloud. Half upfront, half upon delivery. Double if you require proof of the delivery." Setting his mug down, he withdraws a small pad and pencil from his shirt pocket, writing a few words down and sliding them across the table. 'How many to be killed?' It appears there has been an assumption on his part that Mahri has come to request a favor. Within no more than five seconds, the words disappear from the paper, the work of an enchantment placed long ago.

Beneath her disguise, a brow arches in amusement. Her distorted voice chuckles and the wolf leans forward, "I'm afraid that you have misunderstood. I do not require your services. What I am offering is a chance to be part of an organization which would allow you the opportunity to take jobs that offer more than gold or silver, though you will certainly be paid for your work, but also have a hand in shaping the future history of all Lythridel."

Cresente narrows his eyes and takes back the parchment pad, returning it to its safekeeping. This time, it is his turn to arch a brow, though he seems less than amused. "The future of Lithrydel is of little import to me, but if a collaboration will bring me more opportunity, then color me interested." Taking another sip of his rum, he adds, "And what proof am I to have that this organization you speak of exists?"

Mahri doesn't really care what motivates Cresente. The need for proof is not unexpected. "In two days time, you will receive a message with details. It is up to you whether you accept or not. Payment is rendered after the job is complete." Mahri leaves it at that, standing then and heading just as silently towards the door. 'Silver' will just fade into the night, or so it might seem if one were to try and catch her. They'd just find a woman in a trench coat walking lazily away from the bar, the scent of lycan marking her path to those sensitive to it.

Cresente watches the petite woman as she makes her declaration, though he finds himself moreso interested in the methods used to obfuscate her face from his memory. Just as he feels that he is able to discern whether her eyes are black or silver, the stranger has departed. He had been given similar propositions in the past to what would indubitably be amateurs, but... "Tis the year for new ventures, I suppose." He offers as Mahri leaves the tavern. Cresente cares not as to whether she heard him, for soon his attention is back to his rum, and the musings of a damned old avian.