RP:Who Ya Gonna Call

Part of the Questionable Honor Arc

Background

Fresh from the Plains and Cenril, Thistle was making preparations for the quiet war brewing in the meaner streets of that city.

And Krice was, well, Krice. Who knows with that guy, eh?

Road to Milous

Thistle was out riding, and it wasn't for pleasure. The cranky, bony, ill-used horse she rode was the sort to whom man was an enemy and to whom the rider was more of a burden and a nuisance than any partner with whom he might execute tricks or listen to for commands. He was, presently, engaged in an ears-back walk that had nothing to do with what Thistle wanted. It was, in all probability, because she was trying to hurry that he had decided to drop out of his bone-jarring trot in order to slow to something more akin to a leisurely stroll. Which wasn't what she wanted. She was tight lipped, that single line broken only by irate mono-syllabic words muttered under her breath. She was exceedingly pale for what was her normal skin color, weariness worn in creases upon her forehead and under her eyes. She looked like crap, all told. Old sweat had dried, and newer sweat had dried over that, and perhaps a smell like that earned at a battlefield might linger about her to the exceptionally sensitive. But she had no new wounds upon her, no, just the strain of exhaustion to a dedicated cause.

Krice was exceptionally sensitive, but Thistle's exhaustion was wafting off of her in intermittent waves, carried to the warrior's nose on whatever air currents brushed past her and rushed toward him. Krice came toward the road from the south, moving leisurely with a hint of tiredness etched around his face. Other than that, he seemed none too worse for wear; dressed in his usual black attire with his katana strapped to his back and his chin high. It was Thistle's scent that caught his attention first and he slowed, turning his gold-freckled gaze in the direction from whence that battlefield-aroma came to see the woman, just off in the near distance, astride a rather... unhealthy-looking horse. Poor thing. Krice pressed his lips together and halted right where his path met the southern flank of the Road to Milous, and with his hands pocketed, he waited silently for Thistle to pass; his gaze intermittently returning to her face. Heaven forbid he get caught staring at the young grump.

Goathorse reacted first. Given that Thistle was tired, and focused upon using her not inconsiderable skills as a horseman to get the beast to move at a pace faster than she herself could have gone, perhaps her lack of alertness could be forgiven. Goathorse jerked his head angrily, then tossed it back. Seeing as how he had a fondness for bringing his head back -- especially should she be leaning forward (or, at least, that was her paranoid assessment) -- she was sitting upright enough to not get a sore nose out of it. "Oy," she snapped, gathering up the reins a little tighter. Goathorse was, as cranky horses went, tired of the press of people. Again she'd had to blind him and lead him out of the city in order to avoid unfortunate collisions between him and any other living thing that might in some manner frighten or offend him. Goathorse was tired of being ridden. He was tired of passing people, tired of the bit in his mouth, and tired of Thistle's ability to mount and stay seated despite his numerous tricks he'd picked up under the cruel hands of intemperate masters. So he stopped, suddenly, despite the numerous signals and non-verbal urgings Thistle was constantly giving him in an attempt to move his stubborn ass forward, and swung around. It was a sinuous, upsetting movement that almost pulled Thistle's weight off the saddle. Had, as a matter of fact, done that in two instances prior, but she was better ready for it. "Souls take you, I'll see to it Thlag makes good on his threat!" Which was, as Goathorse came to a stop with his head down and ears pinned back, legs spread wide and stubborn, how Thistle first became aware of Krice. An emotion passed over her face, then another: irritation, uncertainty, and finally fear. But then it was smoothed away, hidden under a mask she'd never fully been able to hold up in front of the warrior. It held now. But there was tension throughout every line of her body, and it did not go away. "Wall," she said, and it was a word saturated with polite neutrality. And her mouth hung open, the moment hovering and stretching as if there were more words she wanted to release but didn't know how to. In the end, she closed her mouth and, knuckles white upon the reins, dipped her head down low towards him.

Krice observed Goathorse's behaviour with a notable measure of bemusement. This poor creature had suffered a lifetime of hardship and didn't want to deal with it anymore. The warrior's left eye squinted subtly as he contemplated this, his lips pressed together lightly in portrayal of distant sympathy. Once the wiry equine settled in that stubborn stance, Krice almost smirked in amusement. Goathorse's lack of health and happiness prevented as much, however; which was further tempered by the fact that Thistle had now noticed him. Lashes flickered as he slid his gaze from the beast to its rider, her face reflected in a cool, unyielding stare that showed no aggression or open friendliness. He was civil with this one, at best. In lieu of the greeting with which he had come to be familiar, 'Wall', Krice lifted his chin an inch higher and narrowed his gaze on Thistle; not in irritation, but in that ever-present bemusement. He didn't understand her. " Brat," he said calmly, and though she was every bit a snot-nosed brat with too much attitude for her size, Krice spoke it on a tone that was almost - almost - affectionate. But who knows? Maybe she'd hate that, too. He couldn't win with her.

Thistle considered Krice, as she lifted her head back upright. It was the first time she'd ever looked down upon him while he stood, and though it was in some subconscious way satisfying, it was also briefly disconcerting. She got over it. She didn't dare do much in the way of movement, not with Goathorse close to outright rebellion, which put her at an odd crossroads. Here she fought a battle on two fronts: there was the attention she had to pay to Goathorse, because he was waiting for her to make a mistake. Then there was the attention she had to pay to Krice, because he was. . .not a threat, no. He'd never outright been that. But there was some distance between them, and he had the most confounding way of picking at old scars that should have remained unseen. She gave Goathorse a little leeway on the reins, not that she'd been pulling him tight there, anyways. And he, like recent events, had been thrust upon her suddenly and without mercy. It changed things. Things she wasn't ready to change. "You said to me once," she started, hesitation evident in the slow way she spoke, "that you act because someone has to."

Krice glanced down to the face of the horse again, reading its body language by mapping out the tension in his muscles just with his peripheral vision. When Thistle spoke, however, the words with which she chose to break her silence commanded his attention and he lifted his chin again--and by the way, if this swap of height difference made any kind of impact on Krice's mentality, it was subconscious, too deep to bother him on any noticeable level. Without judgmentalness, frustration at a lack of information, or any other negative thing, Krice observed Thistle in silence and remained that way whilst waiting for her to speak again, waiting for her to elaborate on her words.

Thistle looked away from Krice as Goathorse took an experimental step sideways. There were no signals from her to him; she was simply sitting on him, in the proper way she'd learned fresh as a toddler to best distribute her weight across the back of a horse without causing hurt or strain. One of his ears flickered forward, and then back. She gave him more slack, and rested one hand between his withers. She rubbed that little patch, and he made a noise deep in his chest that ended in a snort. She knew he wasn't happy. Most horses didn't make any noise at all when they were content with the way of things, and Goathorse. . . she turned her attention back to Krice. "I still don't get you, and maybe I never will. I thought I'd make it so we never crossed paths again. There are so many people, and the city is so big. But the Souls have a different take." Her voice got quieter as she spoke, until the very last was muttered under her breath. She looked him up and down, her expression still pinned under that polite neutrality. "So, then, I meet you at the crossroads, on a day when I'm ready to quit." Her jaw worked, and she remembered the words Katya had said to her two nights prior. The challenge in them. "That's not it, aie," another mutter, as Goathorse lifted his head, ears still back but no longer pinned. She reached to pat him on the shoulder, held the words between her teeth she knew she should say. She was scared. Even with the things she'd worked to achieve, she was nowhere near where she should be, and the thought of her sisters stuck in a situation she could not help or solve was terrifying. It was true, she'd hoped to never see Krice again. But now, here, she was wondering if that choice to cut him and his helpful, insulting attitude away was one that might wind up costing her the lives of her sisters. It marinated there, in her head, and she considered him where he stood. "We're different. We're always going to be different. I don't like it, but you -- aie." Goathorse, relaxing by inches, tensed under her sudden frustration. "I made a mistake with my impatience," she said, finally, and turned her head to look him in the eyes. One hand was fisted around the reins (which was a no-no, and she was too caught up in worry to care), and the other fingers lay open against the shoulder of the horse, leather of the reins slotted through the fingers.

Krice was staring right at Thistle, almost through her due to the weight of his attention, but he seemed aware of Goathorse anyway. Thistle's words inspired bemusement to crease his brow visibly, a subtle expression but visible nevertheless, and his eyes registered a 'cogwheel' affect that almost showed just how his mind was working to make sense of her... admission? Is that what it was? As she came to her conclusion, the man stepped forward without hurry and reached out to slide his right hand under Goathorse's snout whilst the left lay atop it, stroking from eyes to nostrils before adopting a caress half that length in-between the two points. Looking past the creature's head, Krice locked his stare back on Thistle's face and, as always, without anger or hatred, he posed a pensive, " I have no idea why you seem to loathe me so much. I've done nothing but help you whenever you've needed it"--when he has been near enough to know as much, anyway. Krice shook his head, at a loss. " You're a businesswoman. That much is obvious. But I don't do business with people who make my life harder with their impatient, childish attitudes - because that's how you've been, Qu." He lowered his chin just a centimetre, but it was enough to harden his eyes in the shadow of his brow bone. " You get pissed off and frustrated at absolutely nothing." Nothing that he could see, anyway.

Goathorse almost jerked away from Krice, but though his tail pinwheeled behind them and he shuffled a little in place in restlessness, Krice's touch was sure. Goathorse's ears went sideways, unsure, as Thistle's relative paleness was suddenly suffused with a darker color. Her expression remained as it was, but there was anger under that face, in the flush that prickled down her forehead and over the upward press of her cheekbones. She held herself stiff. She forced herself to look Krice in the eyes. She also forced herself to remain silent, because if she opened her mouth she'd be telling him things that she couldn't afford to. And as she almost vibrated with her anger at his perceived inability to think and reason, the images of the slaughtered, broken caravan came back to her. And with that, Leaf's face. And then Iron, her sisters, and the fears that'd been birthed by the realization of the utter brutality the men she was up against were ready to act with. It broke the anger, though what was left wasn't necessarily any better. Exhaustion showed through, and her eyes moved from his hands to his face to Goathorse's withers. Back to his face. "You don't understand. I haven't been able to explain well enough, maybe. Maybe." She closed her mouth again, because she knew if she started she wouldn't be able to stop, and she only had a day before she had to get settled back into Cenril. A day wasn't much time at all. "Maybe I assumed some things that weren't true. I had thought -- but no, you're as foreign as any other, and it was wrong for me to think otherwise. I judged you too harshly. I treated you as I would have treated a stranger in the yurt who has insulted his host. It was wrong of me. You have my hon -- " and she stopped, again, and put her teeth together in a movement almost grinding with its force. She visibly forced herself to relax, for the muscles of her face to go back to the ease with which she'd begun. "I would offer you apology. I was. . .unused to your form of aid, and I was. . .confused."

Krice glanced away from Thistle in lieu of her words, to give her the privacy he knew she probably wanted in the face of his accusations. He didn't want the intensity of his stare to add to whatever emotions were flushing her skin. Besides, the flighty nature of Goathorse gave him something else to focus on. Krice released a very quiet, "Shh, easy," for the horse's benefit, and kept his touch as sure as possible whilst also remaining tentative in favour of the horse's responses. When Thistle spoke, she once more drew his attention, that cool, level stare with its unyielding intensity and its unwavering focus. Yet he was calm, tranquil, and above all patient. The silence that followed Thistle's initial response was allowed to stretch on because Krice knew that she needed it to think; and he genuinely wanted to know what she had to say. Once Thistle had finally spoken her apology, it became clear that there was a slow-moving shift within the warrior, perhaps of understanding, and it eased hastily into noticeable existence once the woman had finished. At length, he murmured, " I didn't mean to confuse you." A beat. " I know, just as well as you do, how nasty and unforgiving and selfish people can be. But there are a few out there who will help others with no want for anything in return." With his right eye narrowing slightly in conveyance of thoughtfulness, Krice lifted his chin, kept his gaze on Thistle, and quietly asked, " Question is... Everything you've said has been accurate. You treated me unfairly when all I did was help you, and I took nothing in return. What made you realize as much?" Was she desperate for help? Did she have a bigger conscience than that for which he gave her credit and, thus, was compelled to apologize?

Souls, he still didn't get it. Thistle stayed quiet, knowing that there would probably never be any easy understanding between them, and hating herself for the apparent need to apologize at all. It was giving in, in its own way, to a person who was so selfish in his own way -- and she was far too gone in her own worries to see how hypocritical the thought was. Goathorse was uneasy, and his ears moved with it; he didn't like tension, and the hands petting him were unusual enough to give him pause in turn. But, for the moment, he showed some form of good behavior as his instincts turned over what the situation called for. He waited. Thistle was considering another tact, because there were words she didn't want to say to Krice. She didn't think he deserved them. "I spent two years, at least, without spending much talk with others who weren't my siblings. You were one of the first. And I had thought that. . .that things were not so different. The people here aren't my people." That was flatly said, a hint of coolness almost turning it into scorn, but she pulled it back into herself as she continued, "And over time it has become quite clear that what I consider honorable behavior, and what tends to," she worked over the words in her mouth for a moment, "count here as honorable behavior are different things. It wasn't that you didn't want anything, Wall," and that word, Wall, wasn't an insult, it was a simple name as might be passed between her people; a last conceit. Her voice went a little softer, "What I struggle with is when someone does something for me and they insist there is no debt. Only someone who is deplorable would not want that debt. It is . . .moral to accept honor debt with pride." There she was, trying to explain anyways. She'd never learn. Ever. The flush deepened a little as she spoke, though she kept herself placid otherwise. "At home, to tell a stranger they are resolved of that debt is to imply they are incapable, or without honor themselves. It is a very deliberate insult. Only children and those too young to help themselves are told such a thing without that insult." She swallowed, and her own stare grew a little more fierce. "Do you understand?"

Krice continued his ministrations on Goathorse, only moving his left hand slowly around the topside of its snout whenever the horse showed visible signs of unease. Krice knew that, whilst Thistle was astride the horse's back, calm and tranquillity was the best way to keep things lest she be kicked from her mount. Dangerous, and no doubt embarassing for her if not painful--and, where embarassment lay with Thistle, trouble for Krice usually accompanied it. As Thistle spoke, she had the warrior's unwavering attention. At her mention of 'Wall', his lips tightened slightly, though reasons for it remained unclear. In the end, he lacked the dumbfounded, empty stare that marked a man without understanding, and thus, his answer was a simple, truthful, " Yes."

Thistle was so very tired. She knew why she'd stopped to talk after Goathorse's little display of temper, and she knew why she'd said what she'd said to him. But now. . .Souls, she was just too tired. She dipped her head towards him, because she knew better than to expect anything else. "Okay," she said, and the fist around the reins relaxed. She looked down at it, taking her left away to push her hair back behind her ears, and then she fitted both hands around the reins properly. She looked back at Krice, still guarded against emotion. "It is right to clear misunderstandings. I'm glad we understand, together. Now I must go to make preparations; by day's end I need to be back in Cenril. Stay well, Wall."

Krice 's lips pressed together in lieu of Thistle's acknowledging response; something akin to... a smile? Whatever it was, it was pleasant and companionable, reflecting the fact that they now seemed to see 'eye to eye'. As Thistle's body language began to change, intimating that she was going to leave soon, the warrior readied himself to release Goathorse's snout; but not quite yet. Instead, lifting his chin, and perhaps due to that inherent compassion that lay deep beneath his stoic exterior, the warrior asked, " Do you need help with anything?" Did she need money for a room? For a visit to the bath house? Releasing the underside of Goathorse's snout but keeping his left hand atop it, gently, Krice crossed his palm over his chest and adopted a wry smirk before concluding, " I promise to let you pay me back."

Thistle went a little stiff, at his first statement, because right then she just wanted to leave and clear her head of some of the weight that bore it down. But then he said something else that had her back to a deep consideration as she looked him over. Her eyes traveled from him to sweep the road and the vague promise of forest further west. The city she desired to spend her day within lay beyond even that. Thistle considered her reply, and the time she spent mulling over the words was as different from the attitudes and honest anger she'd given him before as it was possible to get. The sense of morality he displayed, the things he gave the faintest hint of disdain, of disgust towards was another sort of wall, to her, and one she didn't know if she wanted to circumvent. She licked her lips, found them to be dry and cracked, and sucked them into her mouth to wet them. She caught the lower one between her teeth, worried over it as she felt the dry skin absorb moisture. She didn't know if she could be wholly honest with him. Still, there was always middle ground, and she found a spot that was suitable enough. Her voice, when she spoke, was perhaps a little strained, but quiet. The flush across her face had receded. "There is a woman I hired as part of an investigation I had made. I set her a task, and she was supposed to report back to me by now. I've looked, but it's getting. . .I don't want to endanger her by being too obvious. And more than that, every day there's more to do. I can't find her easily, and there is so much, so much to do -- I already spent two days looking for her. I don't know how much more time I can spend. I need help to find her, yes." She looked down at Krice, but she did not ask. Did not, both because it would have been very rude, and because she wasn't sure just how much help she wanted from him. He was so complicated, so impossible to predict, and at the moment the whole prospect seemed impossibly exhausting. But she'd promised Jerica she'd find her, and her failures thus far had been damning enough. She couldn't have another haunting her at night, in her sleep.

Krice was quiet and patient - always so patient - as Thistle mulled over his offer, and perhaps he may even have been a little pleased. The woman did not seem to harbour any obvious loathing toward him, which meant that, maybe, his additional comment had assuaged the potential for headbutting anger? Whatever the case, when she looked south, he casually diverted his gaze that way, returning his right hand to the underside of Goathorse's snout. When Thistle looked north, Krice followed suit, though only after he had squinted thoughtfully at the young woman's face; and only with the shifting of his eyes. By the time she began to speak, his moon-purpled stare was fixed on her face, thoughtful and attentive. Her words inspired him to swallow, though not in nervousness. By the end, he was frowning slightly, considering Thistle's words. " What does she look like? When did you see her last?"

Thistle looked away from Krice as she remembered. "Short. Shorter than me. Compact, slender. She can disguise herself well, blend in with the poor or dress well enough to look like a competant fighter. If she's still working now, she'll be dressed nice to fit in with the wealthy crowd. Brown eyes. Pale. Brown hair. It's been over two weeks, maybe three?" So much had happened. It hurt her head to even think on it. Thistle looked back down at Krice as Goathorse shifted beneath her, enduring Krice's ministrations, maybe even enjoying them. "I told her to contact me after two. I've been looking when I can but. . ." she shook her head, and there was a hint of anger in her then, under the care she'd taken to maintain a mild appearance.

Krice took note of Thistle's description of the missing woman and worked at hyper-speed through his memory, to search for people who matched that description. After a moment of silence in the wake of her words, the warrior squinted thoughtfully and, overlooking Thistle's anger, and with a modicum of concern in his voice, he asked, " Is it the same woman who was in the alley when you and I encountered those kids? The woman you were with?"

Thistle frowned in thought, though it had smoothed away by the time she said, "Yes."

Krice 's features visibly cracked then and he looked away, glancing hard into the darkness of the east. " What kind of job did you hire her for?"

Thistle watched Krice, and knew more uneasiness to go on top of that which she'd already felt from other things. "Information. Infiltration. I wanted to know more about Haut Monde in relation to some problems Pariah has been having. Gangs." At that moment Thistle realized -- or, more likely, remembered -- that she really knew almost nothing about Krice. She knew what he professed, and that so far he'd stuck to the same pattern of behavior, but she didn't -know- him. Which was no different from almost anyone else she treated with, but then again most of them didn't have his skills in combat. Goathorse, sensing much between the two of them, jerked his head back a little -- not quite out of Krice's hands. His ears went back a little more, and sideways; he was unsure. He was well accustomed to violence, and sensitive to tension because of it.

Krice suspected that Goathorse's head-jerk was in response to his own sudden shift in mood and, thus, worked hard internally to shore up those walls around his concerns. "Easy," he reassured the equine, smoothing his broad hand up and down its snout until it settled. " Haute Monde and Pariah are gangs? If you sent her to find out information about them, then maybe she got snagged along the way." He squinted at the horse, and then up at Thistle, and then looked east again. " Maybe she's just deep undercover."

Thistle stared down at Krice, "If so, then she's going against what we agreed on. Two weeks, and she'd send word. That or I told her I'd find her. She has skills, or else I wouldn't have hired her. She told me she'd find a way to get me word." Her voice had gone a little tight. Goathorse kept his head a little further up than it had been, but he suffered Krice's touch. One ear even swiveled a little more forward, listening to his words.

Krice kept his cool for the sake of Thistle; through the behaviour of the horse upon which she sat. His jaw tensed but he eased it. No doubt Goathorse would sense tension from the warrior, but much less than before. After exhaling through his nose, Krice breathed in and then said, " Maybe she can't get word out. I'll investigate. Where are these gangs?"

Thistle struggled through her recent issues with Byechni to recall what she knew of the other two. Specifically, Haut Monde. "She shouldn't be concerning herself with Pariah much; Haut Monde was what I'd asked her after. They operate within the area at the center of the city where all the pompous assholes with money tend to be. They. . .help reputable men and women find less than reputable activities to participate in. Fighting rings, usually. Substances that are frowned upon. That sort of thing. They're said to be discreet. Their woman who tends to be the main contact, she or one of her subordinates attends most of the social. . .gatherings." Thistle's voice had gotten a lot cooler as she spoke and thought. Then again, she didn't hold the useless wealthy of Cenril with much regard. Mostly she found their presence to be offensive, even on a good day. "I can't remember her name," she muttered, "but they're sure to be at least one of them in any of the fighting rings that aren't openly advertised." She bowed her head towards Krice, and the disdain left her voice. What was left was quiet and worn down with weariness. "I would be relieved to know someone else is dedicating time to finding her. If she's found trouble, I need to know so I can get her free of it." Thistle's lips compressed, and she fell into a darker silence than any she'd spent thus far. Goathorse shifted beneath her, bobbing his head a little. He was growing restless with the changing emotions. He didn't like it.

Krice watched Thistle attentively, listened more attentively, and nodded by the end of her words, his gaze awash with contemplation. " Alright. I'm in Cenril often. Hopefully I can dig up something." Some information about Jerica's whereabouts. Jerica... Stepping back from Goathorse without haste, Krice gave Thistle room to move and lifted his chin as he pocketed his hands, glancing again at the woman. " Get some rest. Thanks for telling me all this."

Goathorse swished his tail, lifted his head, and for a moment his ears went back. Thistle murmured something to him, and he lowered his head a little. Not quite docile, but not rebellious either. She gave a small bow from her seat, cautious of how Goathorse might react. "If you need to reach me, or can't find me, leave word for Katya at Gerard's place. Only if you can't find me. I'd prefer to keep this out of his hair if possible. I'll be finding a secure place after that -- if I see you I'll leave word about its location, for Jerica. She should know." Maybe she didn't want to trust Krice with that information, but out of all the individuals she juggled, he'd proven himself most of all. She didn't bother to comment about her getting some rest. She'd rest properly when she had her sisters in hand. "Tread with care. And please -- contact me in a week. If I need to pull favors. . ." she shook her head at the thought, and the skin around her lips whitened. "I need her found, Wall. Stay well." She moved her hips, tightened her thighs, and lifted her body the slightest degree. Goathorse responded, sullenly, by taking a few steps forward. She sighed. A trot was probably hoping for too much.

Krice listened to Thistle's words closely for they were directions; information on how to discern new information. Thistle needed to find Jerica for her job, and maybe for her conscience, but Krice needed to find her because she was his friend. He glanced from Thistle to Goathorse and then back to Thistle before, with a hint of discontent in his eyes, he nodded once more and said, " You too, Brat. Take it easy." The speed at which the horse responded to Thistle's command would have been comical on any other given time, but for now, Krice was too concerned for Jerica's well-being to let himself be amused by the horse's lack of enthusiasm.

Goathorse picked up his pace into a faster walk after a few more attempts to get him moving. It was probably only that he was hungry, and cranky, that he eventually acceded to her urgings to break into his bone-jarring trot. Thistle's mind was already moving from Krice and Jerica, onto other problems more pressing for the blood that had already been shed. She had to trust others to do their parts in order for her to do her own, and the preparations were necessary in a way they hadn't been since she'd started the rutting thing. Yet, it was Iron and his part that got her to open her mouth and curse freely, for without him she wouldn't have needed to get involved with the blood and the bodies at all.

Krice watched Thistle only for another moment before he glanced east again, into the darkness of Cenril. The city was so... dreary and... it sapped energy. Quietly, without another word uttered to the retreating woman, the warrior adopted near-soundless - but comfortably loose, casual - steps that drew him nearer to Cenril.