The Luxury of Shame

Faraday
The music was fast and furious. Fiddles soared and sunk, the crests and troughs pervading throughout the entire tavern, filling every corner with their lively beat, coaxing and seducing the current inhabitants to make merry their visit to the [TAVERN NAME]. Many were on the dance floor, enjoying themselves thoroughly, whirling and reeling in time to the music. Many were simple commoners of the city, off the job and in search of a time. Without fail, the vast majority were also single.

Faraday of Port Legann had not been born a commoner, but rather as a noble. Circumstances in her life had, however, had given her access to the world of the commons. And while she was not simple, she most certainly was single. She was also currently on the dance floor, prancing about and occasionally being mashed up against one male partner or other. Which was not entirely displeasing - there were some very fine men in this tavern tonight.

The air was filled with gaiety, and Faraday was no exception to this; the feeling was contagious, comparable to how the swell of the music had set her feet to tapping and had forthwith prompted her to join in on the fun. The scent of sweat and food permeated, and the combination wasn't all that bad; a few wafts of smoke could be detected, and a permanent whiff of woodsmoke lay underneath it all. It smelled, Faraday thought, like a happy place where people could meet in peace.

Which was chiefly why she was there in the first instance. The [TAVERN NAME] was the meeting place that had been arranged, and Faraday, ever eager to do things, had arrived a bit earlier than was really specified. No matter, though, as she was perfectly able to pass the time mingling.

Pascel
The tavern was not one he often frequented. It was much livelier than the handful he usually stopped at down in Prettybone, and not entirely to his tastes, but business had taken him away from his usual haunts, and this had been the most convenient place to stop in and take his supper at.

Pascel Strivelyn did not care for revelry at the best of times, and this night was no exception. When he had stopped in, there had been little dancing and the music had been soft. The upswing in activity had occurred within the last hour or so. The progression had been slow, and he had been absorbed enough in his thoughts that he hadn't immediately noticed. Only recently had it reached its current chaotic decibel. And as he was well settled in his position, not to mention preoccupied with a half-drunk mug of cider and a handful of messy sums on a scrap of parchment, he remained and did his best to tune out the gaiety occurring not ten feet from where he sat.

Enough tables had been pushed together and out of the dancefloor to put a bit of a barrier between him and the revelers. He sat in the corner, his back to the wall, one of the few remaining figures at the tables. The candles that had burned merrily earlier had mostly guttered out, darkening the area even further, casting shadow over his face, which was otherwise lit only by the distant flicker of the hearthfire. His expression was typically unreadable. He was focused on the sums, going over previous sales and living expenses, his toe absentmindedly nudging the small dog that lay at his feet. Culatta, at least, was enjoying the music. Or at least she liked watching the dancers. It was apparent by the wag of her tail and and the attentiveness of her eyes that she would have liked to join them in what she probably saw as a game. She knew better than the stray from Pascel's side, however, and simply lay at his feet, under the table, keeping an eye on the happenings of the tavern.

Faraday
At some point, Faraday decided to take a breather and retreat from the dancing lines. When the reel ended, a lively tune that accompanied a dance called "The Scanran Snake Step," Faraday broke away from the crowd, bidding her partner of the dance a farewell with a smile and a word of thanks. The young man had looked a bit disappointed to see her leave, but the feeling mustn't have lasted overly long, as she was soon replaced by another lass.

A cursory scan about the inn detailed that Eiphram, the man she was waiting for, was not amongst the rest of the people. He could have been in the dancing crowd, but if he had been, there would have some sort of communication already established. That there hadn't been lead Faraday to deduce that the former soldier in her employ had yet to arrive. She'd give him another hour. And then she'd leave to visit with others and try to sniff out what had happened to him.

The scan also revealed to Faraday the dynamics of the inn as they were thus far. Many were on the floor. The tavern keeper was at his keep, manning the drinks and keeping a watchful eye on the doings of his establishment. Several folk were at tables, enjoying a meal, kicking back their feet, or talking earnestly amongst themselves. And then there were those that had gone off to the side to sit alone. There several of those types, actually. One was bent over some sort of parchment, determinedly scribbling onto it. Another sat with him arms folded, a scowl on his face as he watched the revelers. Another, a short little lady with an unforgiving set to her face, was reading something; in one hand was the book, and in the other, a small dagger was out, the blade whittling its way into the wooden table as the woman twirling it at the hilt.

Three totally different people. And they all looked like the last thing they wanted was for someone to sit down next to them and begin speaking.

To Faraday, they represented a three-way dilemma. Her only issue was deciding which one to go say hello to.

She weighed the three of them in her mind, guessing which was the most interesting of the three. The woman would probably threaten her, and the encounter wouldn't last long. The dark man looked as it he'd like to bite her head off as soon as talk to him; and while Faraday like danger, she wasn't keen on starting a fight... Which left the scribbler man!

Decision made, she flounced over to the object of her intentions, skirting around the wall of tables and making her way to his own. With a whump, she sat down in an empty chair and slammed a hand on wooden surface."Well, hello, Mister! Mighty fine night, innit?" She flashed a smile. She was all grins, tonight.

Pascel
He took another sip from his cider, letting his gaze drift temporarily up from the sums to scan the room almost instinctually. His gaze measured strength and weakness as it went, picking out obvious or potential weapons, and eventually as it returned to his table determined that there were no formidable threats amongst the dancers. Not that he had expected any. The circuit of examination was automatic; practically unconscious.

He returned to his sums, but only a moment later some motion stirred him from them once more, his body remaining still but his eyes flickering unerringly to a lone figure making their way in his direction. A girl. He had noticed her before, as he had noticed everyone else, and had seen little to note but her obvious youth and enjoyment. As carefree as a girl could be. He had expected her divergence from the other dancers to mean that she was seeking food or heading home, but instead, her path was taking her in the direction of the back tables where he made himself a recluse.

Culatta perked up as soon as she noticed the girl, a heartbeat later than Pascel had. He felt her stub of a tail beat enthusiastically beside his toe.

He kept his eyes on his papers as the girl approached, thinking that it was always possible she would think him absorbed in his work and leave him be. But if she did think so she obviously didn't care. She took a seat at his table as loudly as a person could, slamming into the chair and then slapping the tabletop. He did look up then, a definitively unfriendly look in his eye, unsmiling as she spoke to him.

"You could call it that" he said coolly, assuming that if he kept his responses brief and unfriendly she would soon take the hint and return to the dance floor. Culatta, however, was eager to make the girl's acquaintance. She wiggled over to her and, putting her front paws on the girl's knee, proceeded to make herself as adorable as possible looking up at her. Pascel could feel her little tail beating against his leg. Damn dog.

Faraday
The decided lack of amiability from the man should have clued Faraday in and told her to leave him alone. Immediately. However, Faraday had never really been very good at listening to orders or going with the flow. Not ever. When she had been a small child, she'd played in the Lower City of Port Caynn with the rats and rogues; never mind that her father was the Deputy Provost of Port Caynn, or that her family was as blueblooded as nobility could get, with exception to such families as Trebond and Goldenlake. Faraday's mother had raised her daughter with all the intentions of introducing her to society and taking the court by storm. She dreamed of ball gowns and son-in-laws. Faraday knew of these... And she had absolutely no intention of complying with her mother's dearest wishes.

No, Faraday wasn't one to keep the status quo. She liked rocking the boat, and she liked rocking it hard. And she was most definitely the type to drag her feet on the rug and kink it up. Observer that she was, when she had a mind to, she meddled with an uncommonly perverse sort of glee. Irking people amused her a great deal. And unless she missed her guess, this fellow was just waiting to be pissed off.

But first things first. "Helloooooooo!" High pitched and friendly was the greeting that she gave the creature whose paws were currently propped up against her knees. It was a canine, smallish, black, and cuter than a button. The dog had an exuberant grin on its face, and the small, lithe body wriggled at intense speeds. Her ears were floppy, and Faraday couldn't resist reaching down to fondle one to them, and action that encouraged the dog and caused it to turn its head and furiously lick her hand. Faraday smiled."Well aren't you just precious?"

The woman slapped her hands on her lap twice in succession, and said, "Come on!" The dog needed no further encouragement, and with a well-practiced and very graceful leap, she was quickly situated in Faraday's lap, wiggling all about and trying to reach up and lap at the human's face, inciting delighted giggles and demanding further attention. "So cuuuuute! And what am I supposed to call you?" She directly towards the dog, but it was clear that her question was addressed at the human, whom Faraday presumed to be the owner.

Pascel
Pascel almost scowled outright at his dog's enthusiasm, but at least the girl was focusing her attentions on Culatta instead of him. Maybe he would get the opportunity to ignore her after all. His gaze returned to his sums, and his pen to the paper, only to be interrupted once more by the girl's obnoxious squealing. He almost snapped the point of the pen off on the table. His teeth gritted and he looked over at her, to see his terrier wriggling joyfully on the girl's lap. The headache that had been lurking in the background all day long threatened to come pounding to the forefront. He made a mental note never to visit this tavern again.

Putting down his pen, he resisted the urge to rub his temples, turning his head a fraction to give the girl a look. "Her name is Culatta," he said. "And if you don't mind, I'm working." Since she hadn't gotten the first hint. If he was lucky, her inability to catch his tone originally was due to stupidity, not spite, and that she would leave when it was spelled out for her. Although it could be argued that harassing an ex-rogue out of spite was fairly stupid in and of itself...

Faraday
"Culatta!" exclaimed she, rolling the name around in her mouth before expunging it from her facial orifice. Each of the syllables was exaggerated and spoken almost individually; it really was a wonderful word to say aloud, and both Faraday and the dog itself seemed to be quite enthused to hear it. The woman responded with a delighted beam of a smile, and the dog trembled happily, scarcely able to control her happiness. Dogs, like many animals, had an extra sense, a sixth sense if you will, that always seemed to allow them to tune into the senses of the humans around them. And Culatta, bless her soul, was definitely picking up on Faraday's happiness. Picking up on it, absorbing it, processing it, and multiplying it by tenfold.

Rubbing the dog's ears affectionately - firmly enough that the skin was pulled taut and light enough that she didn't cross the threshold into abuse - Faraday cast a sidelong glance over at the man. "Then, by all means, continue working," she said. She returned her attentions to the black dog, who at that present was butting her head against Faraday in hopes of of becoming the sole object of the woman's interest; the brunette was more than happy to oblige Culatta's wishes. She slipped the cranky man another sidelong glance from the corners of her eyes.

As far as men went, he wasn't all that bad-looking. His chin, though pronounced, had a solid cast to it that balanced the narrow jaw-line and flaring cheekbones. Thick eyebrows hovered ominously above his eyes, giving him a hooded look that only served to reinforce his general demeanor; that of an unfriendly man that looked like he might growl... Kind of like a grizzled old bear, Faraday thought. And swiftly on the heels of that thought, came the decision to dub him Mr. Bear; sure, she could just keep thinking of him as 'the man' and 'he,' but she did so love nicknames and codewords. They were so much fun!

A number of questions had entered her mind. Who was he. What was he doing in the corner by himself. Why did such a crotchety man have such a lovable canine. Questions that he probably wouldn't answer. Questions that Faraday felt a mild interest in learning the answers to. Some, she could answer in part. From his clothes, well-made yet simple as they were, she determined him to be a wealthier man of the city. That he could afford parchment reinforced this, and inclined her to belief that he was involved in a business of some sort. Yet, in determining these details, all Faraday accomplished was raising more questions...

Faraday, as much as the chair and the wriggling lump of joyous flesh that was Culatta permitted, kicked back, fully intending to sit where she was for the duration of her wait and ponder. She'd had her fill of dancing, and was content to watch and rest. Part of the reason she had chosen this spot to retreat to was for it's relatively panoramic view of the inn; she could see everything that went on from this vantage point. Better yet, she would have a corner to her back, and her only possible threat was this man. But he seemed harmless enough, and in any case, should the desire to rid himself of her presence move him, Faraday was more than equipped to handle an attack. And the best part? Doggy. 'Nuff said.

Pascel
The girl didn't take the hint, and he wondered if she was being deliberately provocative or if she was just that dense. He examined her out of the corner of his eye, and found that she was casting him a similar glance, both of them engaging in a seemingly superficial observation. But there was something trained about her eye. Trained, or at least clever, reminding him of the men and women he had dealt with years ago. The similarity both rankled and intrigued him. No casual party-goer was she. No, there was an ornery kind of intelligence in her pointedly casual expression. Was she trying to get on his nerves?

Immediately he began to speculate, and a moment later had to very purposefully squash the many questions that cascaded into his thoughts. He did not need to know about this girl. Where she came from, who she was, what business she had in this tavern and at his side, none of that mattered to him. None of it should have interested him. But curiosity was still at the forefront of his priorities, an inappropriate curiosity that he ought to have eliminated years ago. Those instincts should have left him. But as much as he liked to ignore them, they still niggled in the back of his mind, whispering ideas.

Clearly she thought herself capable of self defense, to be out alone at this hour and to be chatting up a potentially dangerous stranger. So a young and capable female, with reason to appear (or at least attempt to appear) just as average as anyone else. Something in that reminded him unpleasantly of himself. He felt an unwelcome sense of sameness, almost kinship, an association that made his teeth grit involuntarily. He was done with that sort. The kind of person he had been, the kind of person she reminded him of and might well be....

"What's your name?" he asked abruptly. He made no attempt to be polite. He was not trying to make conversation, or make a friendly overture. But he wanted to place her. He needed to stick her in a box with the rest of them, classify her like a preserved insect specimen. Then maybe the sense of unease would lift.

Faraday
The lass of Port Legann had been in the process of snuggling with the adorable animal that was known as Culatta when the man snapped at her, demanding to know her name. Well, well, well... Faraday wondered just what had sparked this sudden personal interest in her. Her initial reading of the man had been, well, that of a man who would rather people leave him alone. Someone who wouldn't want to reach out. And now... Hmmm...

She looked at him head-on. Paused in petting the rapaciously enthusiastic terrier. Resumed her administrations of affection. Quirked a quite smile at the puppy-dog for good measure. All the while, she debated on what to tell him. If she wanted to, she could probably tell the truth - whether or not he'd believe her, she couldn't say. She'd probably be better off giving him any number of her usual aliases, but that begged the question as to which one she should use...

Faraday turned her gaze back to Mister Bear, making a decision right then and there to go half-way between. "Th' name's Faraday," she said, "most folk be callin' me 'Day,' though; yer more than welcome to do so, as well." The woman had her doubts about whether or not he'd take her up on that offer, but, hey, way she figured it, it wouldn't hurt to put out the word in the slight minuscule chance that he might actually do so.

It was really an interesting contrast, the older man and the younger woman that sat at the same table, together, and yet apart. A casual outside viewer would look in and see two people isolating themselves from the rest of the revelers; perhaps they were lovers, they would think, or maybe friends. If they were keen enough, they'd observe the aparent ease in which the woman seemed to be at, and they'd notice the tension that seemed to waft off of his skin like smoke, and they'd especially note his frown - they would, however, really have no idea as to what was going on, and really? Most probably wouldn't even give a fly whit either which way.

Unless they were like Faraday. People-watchers. Folks that enjoyed observing the comedies and tragedies that life had to offer. Sure, life was meant to be lived, and Faraday did her fair share of the task, but sometimes, when the crazy got too crazy, she found that she needed to kick back her heels and stare at some people. When Faraday was younger, she and some of her friends used to sit on the roofs and watch the people down below, be it in the market or at the wharves, and if entertainment wasn't presented to them, they would make their own; create stories for the people who rushed by, invent conversations for the people too far away to hear, and challenge each other and figure out which passerby a person was looking at based solely on the clues given. Ah, the memories... What was strange and borderline creepy for some was a treasured lifestyle for Faraday and like-minded folks, and in all honesty, she wouldn't give it up for the world. To each their own, eh?

Most people didn't like the thought of being observed. They liked to believe that they lived in their own little bubble, and that only a select few could peer into it and see what was going on. The thought that there were eyes watching them, analyzing and cataloging their every move, why, it disconcerted most. Honestly, most people thought they they were the only ones who watched and listened - if they knew just how under-scrutiny their everyday lives and actions were, they'd probably get that queasy pit-fall feeling that always seems to accompany realizations of sudden and disturbing nature.

It was while she was thinking these thoughts that it occurred to her that she had been staring at him, eyes on the man while her hand still went through the motions of lavishing attention on Culatta. She had also been waiting for him to, oh, respond or something. Maybe even return the courtesy and state his own name (she liked that idea.). On the heels of that realization was the mental inquiry - what did he feel, being the object of her attentions. Did he even feel? Silly question, of course he did; he wasn't dead, after all. "And your name is...?" She finally said, fishing for a name. She couldn't keep thinking of him as 'the man' or 'Mister Bear' forever, now, could she? Well, she probably could - he'd probably never move beyond her impression of a grizzled bear. Then again, he might - one could never know how things were going to turn out. Except for Seers... But that was a topic for another day.

Pascel
She didn't seem terribly surprised by his question, had probably been plying for a similar inquiry with her silence, and still the girl gave him a deliberately measured look before answering. She thought it over for too long. If she was a simple inn girl, as she seemed inclined to present herself as, then why the delay? Hunting for names? Silently formulating the rules of the game? In the few seconds it took her to reply, he found himself toying with the edge of his work, made fidgety by the many questions milling within.

He tried to dismiss the questions as paranoia. It was foolish to deny the instincts that had kept him alive to this age, but he didn't want to play the game. Even as he was curious he despised the curiosity. He had his work. He had his money. What did he need with mind games and tricky street folk anymore?

'Faraday,' she said. Day for short. Why did she offer up the nickname? An attempt at intimacy, a technique to build camaraderie put cleverly into play? Either way, whether it was friendship or manipulation, he had no intention of using it. To use friendly names, to establish a connection, was to forge a bond that could break you. It was one of the most basic lessons learned on the streets. He almost curled his lip. If that was her best shot, than she was a fool, or she was taking him for one.

He dropped his gaze from her, dismissively, eyes flickering back to his papers. He let his body language communicate his disinterest and didn't bother to follow up his question. But of course, she had to persist, and asked him his name. He almost didn't answer. But to ignore her outright, especially when there was no outright sinister intent to her question, would be rudeness at a level that he usually skated under. You could only be so unfriendly until you were outcast. "Pascel," he said shortly, not looking up.

Faraday
What was he playing at, Faraday wondered shrewdly, her eyes not missing how he dropped his eyes just so, his fingers playing with the the papers on the table, almost idly flipping back and forth the fraying edges. Agitated, who him? Bemusement flooded through her, though she was careful to keep the emotion from creeping onto her face; that would not aid her cause. Or maybe it would, she thought, considering the thought as it oozed into her mind like a slimy little streetmonger: in your face, demanding attention, and vocal in its intention to get you to buy whatever it was selling.

The man seemed to be trying to keep from showing inner thought. As did they all. It wasn't working, and something was obviously tweaking at his tail. Oh, wait, that was her. Har, har, har. She was just too funny. Shame, though, that he didn't seem to appreciate her humor. Point of fact, he wasn't even deigning to look at her. He did give her a name though, she was pleased to be able to say.

Pascel. It didn't fit. It sounded like it belonged to midget Carthak hunting around for treasures in the Commons. He looked more like a Bruce, or a Fergus. Dick might even work. Richard, y'know, like the king. 'Course, the king didn't look like a Richard, either, but never mind that at the moment.

Faraday had been leaning back in her chair, but suddenly, she scooped Culatta in her hands and, leaning forward, plopped - quite gently so, actually - the dog onto the table. One armed propped on the table, the adjoining hand resting under her chin, the other hand furiously scratching the dog's back, much to her tail-thumping delight.

She stared at him. Actively stared at him. Mayhaps she was a little drunk on the fumes being emitted in the air, or maybe she had floated off into the deep end without even noticing it. "I think I'm going to steal yer doggie. She's a real doll, an' that's a fact. Might hold her ransom, too." So, he didn't want to be friends, eh? Too bad Faraday didn't care, not one whit.

Pascel
He had withstood the girl's harassment for this long, but at this latest attempt to get a rise out of him, he felt his patience gutter out like a candle. It was one thing to be needled for information and tempted by old ways; another thing entirely for a strange girl to actively provoke him. Until now she had been playing the ignorant common lass, but now the girl was being blatantly provocative, feigning either insanity or drunkenness when she was obviously neither. She was either purposely insulting his intelligence or seeing how far she could stretch his tolerance. She wanted a reaction? Fine. He would give her one. No longer would he sit idly by and let this girl dissect him like a dead thing.

His mug had been half raised to his lips; he set it down now with a hard clink. "You are playing a fool's game, girl." No longer was his voice casual. It was not the voice of a merchant; this was the tone of a throat-slitter, a bloody-hearted bargainer who had faced the death of friend and foe without flinching. It was a voice reserved for whispering in shadows and delivering death threats.

He turned to truly face her now, his face invisible to the milling dancers and mixing crowd. None but she could see the new threat in his eyes. "I don't know, or care, who you are," he said in a low voice. "Royal spy, sniffing Puppy, rogue, or simply a nobleman's daughter who thinks herself clever to harass strangers in seedy taverns- it is no matter to me. But I want no part in your ridiculous game."

He leaned forward further, lowering his voice until it was almost inaudible, putting his arm across the table as if to box her in. A casual onlooker might have thought it an intimate gesture, but the expression on his face made it clear that he meant to have his next point heard and understood. She would hear him. He would cut through that scheming, empty head of hers and let her see the real face she was socurious about.

"I will not be provoked," he hissed. "I will not give you information. I want no part in whatever you are playing. Do you understand me?"

Before he leaned back, he finished with another whispered bit of advice. "I'm sure you think yourself capable of self defense, otherwise you would not be so fearless in your meddling. But do not flatter yourself into thinking that you can best someone who is your better in age and experience." He let her contemplate that for a moment, then finally retreated, resting casually back against his own chair, his next words more conversational and even friendly in their tone. "And do not fool yourself- should I give the word, your new-found friend would be happy to relieve you of one of your fingers."

He took a final sip from his mug, then stood, gathering his notes. As he tucked them into a hidden pocket, he said, in a tone that suggested casual acquaintance, "Now run off and find some new game, brat, and leave me be. I, and my dog, will be going home."

Faraday
With the slam of the mug on the table, Faraday felt a rush of pleasure at having finally achieved her goal - menial and irrelevant though it was. She had gotten a rise out of him, and had entertained herself in the process, whiling away the time at the expense of another's evening. Faraday was a decent person in most regards, but she had a mean, vindictive streak that colored how she interacted with the world. It was playful to a certain extent, and at times humorous, but it was only too easy for her to cross pass the thin, transparent line between joshing and jerking. Everyone's line was a little different, and it was located at differing stretches depending on the person. Pascel's, it seemed, Faraday had already reached. Which was a shame. Meant the game had essentially ended.

Her interest in him, however, had not, as he would no doubt be disgusted to learn. Rather than stay a merchant, the man had changed into something more dangerous, something that had seen in the dreariest, most filth encrusted and capriciously violent sects of the city. His tone spoke of blood, and his eyes spoke of a pain promised, something far beyond her imagination.

She felt a prickle creep up her spine and fizzle out between her shoulder blades, leaving a prickling sensation in its wake. The man had thought to turn her away with none too carefully veiled threats, and if he had known her at all (which he didn't, and probably didn't care to further his education of), this man would have just up and left, and forgotten all about threatening her. Faraday had gone toe to toe with some of the skeeviest rats around, and she was no stranger to the men that went bump in the night and compared to the tales mothers told their children to make them behave.

She had stopped petting Culatta, of course, choosing to casually fold her arms over her chest loosely as if sitting back to get ready to pay attention, hands close to her knives if need be; she didn't expect to need them, but, y'know, there was that saying, better careful than dead. And Day, contrary to how it may seem from time to time, actually did like living.

The dog, keenly aware as such animals were, had gone still, waiting. Faraday waited, as well. At the sudden change of demeanor by the man, Faraday had let go of her jolly facade, her face going carefully blank as she listened. A part of her, naturally, laughed at him - Faraday would probably laugh in the face of death, should its cold reach wrap around her. Another part of her, the part that had honed into survival instincts and careful intellect, gave the man his due. He was on a tirade, and way she figured, it was best to let him vent.

He loomed in, and Faraday's eyes narrowed just the slightest, for sakes and appearances outwardly impassive. She, however, wanted to laugh at his seriousness; aye, wouldn't be provoked, he wouldn't - which is clearly why he was threatening her. "Cystal clear," she enunciated, just as seriously as he had asked, but without the malice that Pascel had conveyed. In response to the unfavorable contrastment, Faraday merely quirked her lips; he could assume away - the only way to know for certain what the outcome of an... Encounter, between the two, was to live it out. Not that she particularly wanted to fight, but Faraday had to confess that the thought of such piqued her interest.

When he leaned back into his chair, she settled back into her own seat and crossed her ankles. He seemed quite satisfied with his work, enough to be even a little bit friendly in his delivery - not that he really fooled anyone, least of all probably himself. "Of that," she said, eyes flicking to the terrier that had scooted toward Pascel, "I have no doubt." His response? To stand and turn to leave.

She smirked at his advice, and gave him a salute with two fingers. "I'll be seeing you around, good sir. Have a nice night."

Pascel
He could see by the look on her face that, although she had accepted the warning, she was not afraid or necessarily repentant. He would have liked to do a proper job of this; a knife to the throat in some dark corner would have gotten his point across better, some flashy demonstration of his skill and willingness to draw blood. But this was not the time, nor the place. He didn't need to make an enemy out of a simple nuisance.

He hadn't missed the seemingly casual crossing of her arms; she had weapons. Some distant, niggling part of his old self wanted to see her use them. That shadow of a rogue was curious about a girl who would bait a stranger and not flinch when they slipped off the casual facade to threaten her life. It wouldn't have minded seeing who she was, or what she could do. That old self, the Rat, wanted to find her again, preferably in some anonymous back alley with steel in hand.

He would have grimaced openly at the thought if she hadn't been sitting before him. He suspected that she would take any show of emotion to be a minor victory, and incentive to pry further. Better to remain mum, and let the matter drop. He did not intend to see her again. The old rogue would have to remain satisfied with this brief encounter. Perhaps this would sate its appetite for a while.

Culatta, who had been observing with a cocked head and somber expression, got to her own feet as he stood. At the snap of his fingers, she leapt down from the tabletop and made a circuit of his ankles, glancing from him to her new friend with quizzical eyes. Her tail made a tentative wag. He ignored her, wanting to blame the dog for this unpleasant encounter, because that would be easier than facing up to certain truths.

He let the girl have the final word. Without a response, he turned, avidly aware of her gaze on him and of his own lingering curiosity. Grim-faced, he swept out, mixing temporarily with the revelers on the way to the door. There were more of them now; the night was just beginning for these more light-hearted individuals. The stink of sweat and alcohol wafting off of them hit him in the face, and lingered even after he cleared the door and breathed night air. Beyond, the street was empty and dark, the air cool. The more familiar environment did not soothe his arousal, in fact exacerbated it; this was the kind of night he might have found himself working in, years ago. He eyed windows as he passed them. Locked doors. Exits and back alleys. Looking for weakness, looking for opportunity. Old habits, ones that he had thought himself past relapsing into, ones that this damn girl had him slipping back into.

He cursed once, under his breath. He resisted the urge to retrace his steps. Squashed the feeling of unfinished business. And, with one inconspicuous backwards glance that could have barely qualified as such, he slipped into the comfortable shadows and was gone.