Nothing Like Drinks and Good Company

Pascel
The moon was a thin white sliver in a cloudless sky, and the night was still, darkness pooling undisturbed like ink in the streets. Hearthlight and candlelight shone out of many a tavern, and within them could be heard the sounds of fiddle and drum, echoed by the cackles of night-revelers and drunkards. It was late, but as far as many were concerned, the night was still young.

For Pascel Strivelyn, the night was just beginning, although he did not know it yet.

As far as he was concerned, the night was over, and bed awaited him. He had had his fun. A little celebration; or as close to such as the ex-rogue ever got. A large sale had been the cause for tonight's festivities; a sale large enough to ensure food on the table for him and the dogs (and hay in the loft, for the horses) for many months to come. Self-satisfaction had brought him to his favorite tavern, (his favorite being the one where he was left the most alone and the drunkards were the quietest) and he had enjoyed himself courtesy of a handful of beers and a glimpse down the front of an especially friendly barmaid. An attractive lass, and made more attractive by her willingness to accept his polite refusal of her.... company. Not that he hadn't considered it. But he had his affairs to get on with, and as always he was phobic of the inevitable entanglement, and so he passed on her offer.

Still, as he strolled along now, pleasantly tipsy and vaguely aroused, he let his mind drift back to the thought of said 'company'. He let his subconscious trickle down avenues they hadn't seen in some time (nothing wrong with indulging in some harmless fantasy) and breathed the fresh night air. There was, as always, the vague stink of the Lower City to it, but he was in far too pleasant of a mood to be deterred from his enjoyment by such a small thing.

As he walked, his mind drifting back to the barmaid's chest, and what else lay beneath her dress, his feet took him on a slightly different path than he had intended. They went the way of the old rogue, down a shortcut he had once made a matter of habit, and he was distracted enough to let them. The path they took him by was still familiar, down to the very cobblestones, despite the years that had passed since his last visitation. The path, the surrounding wall, the very feel of the night - all was familiar. Everything from the bent old tree in the passing sidestreet.... to the sudden sound of shifting cloth around the corner, the scrape of unfamiliar shoeleather on the earth and the sudden stink of alcohol as a mugger leapt from the shadows, knife held high and catching moonlight above him.

His mind barely strayed from thoughts of sex as he moved, sidestepping the blade and the assailant's clumsy forward lurch, his own knife in hand and swinging out before it truly occurred to him what he was doing.

He felt the blade dip, smooth at butter, under the skin and then slice out with a thin tearing noise, almost inaudible against the sounds of rustling cloth and the choking noise his attacker made as he clutched at his gut. Blood gouted. Pascel's hand wavered, ready to lay off if the mugger was finished, but then with a gurgling snarl the man charged again. He didn't think. He reversed his grip and deftly pocketed the blade between two ribs, where it sunk in without hesitation and held. Another knife was in his hand a breath later, but there was no use for it; this time the man sunk to the ground and was silent. Pascel had hit his mark.

Coolly, he rolled the body with a booted foot and examined his work. The first slash had been sloppy, made out of surprise. Shallow but bloody, and a sprayer; in the aftermath Pascel found that there was a thick stream of damp rose down his own coat, rising all the way to the collar, where it had painted his own throat red. Grimly he shucked off the coat. He couldn't wear it in public now, even in this dense darkness. Scanning the other wound, he reached down to free the blade and found it lodged too deep for easy removal, as well as slicked thoroughly with blood. Eventually he managed to wiggle it free; as he lifted it, gore slid down from the blade to drip from his wrist. He wiped his hand on the mugger's tattered jacket and turned to his knife.

He went about its cleaning casually, methodically, as if it had been a daily ritual for the past several years instead of an occasional habit. The night made him feel like the Rat once more; the blood, the drink, the woman. He felt distantly tempted to rediscover old haunts and toss dice. He didn't have to go home quite so quickly, not when there was so much potential in these dark streets...

If only he didn't have to check the urge. A tiny frown creased his brow, as he sobered somewhat, and he knelt to check the body once more. He didn't bother to look for a purse; a man like this had no money. But he did find a relatively clean handkerchief, which he used to begin mopping the blood from his collar, loosening his shirt ties for easier access. A good thing his shirt was black; the stains could be passed off as beer if anyone questioned it.

As he cleaned up, the seed of a tune grew in the back of his head. It swelled into a chorus, and it occurred to him that he recognized the song; one from the old days, composed by an old friend with a knack for the fiddle. The lyrics had been risque; he'd contributed a few verses himself. He had forgotten he even knew it. A ghost of a smile crept over Pascel's lips, and as he teased a drop of blood from his earlobe, he began to whistle.

Faraday
As a favor to Constantine, Faraday had been trailing the cove commonly known as Big Barty. He was, as his name suggested, quite large, being both overly tall and quite robust in the girth, a gift from his life-long drinking habits. Yet, despite his substantiality and his obvious inebriation, he moved swiftly and with the ease of a man long since accustomed to dark alleys and impaired mobility; it was easy enough to follow him, make no mistake, but Faraday had actually found herself surprised that he had moved with such linear determination; he hardly stumbled or staggered at all! It was most interesting, and she resolved to visit taverns more often and seek out life-long drunkards - did they all have this ability? Perhaps later that night, she would go.

Or perhaps not. As she'd stayed behind, hidden in the darkenings of the streets and the shadows of the alleys, Big Barty had forged onward, plowing around corners much like a speed horse might change direction, spinning so abruptly and with an almost magical ease of motion. It had been impressive the first time around, and even the second, but the night was wearing on, and the man had as of yet shown no sign of halting or stepping into a building. In fact, he seemed almost of the inclination to wander aimlessly throughout the city proper for as long as the night lasted, or until he passed out in a puddle of his own vomit in some obscure back alley.

This inclination of his was rather vexatious. Faraday liked watching people, but she preferred to watch things develop, change, evolve. This Barty, he was up to nothing, nothing at all. Walk, stagger, look around, take a swig out of the booze jar he carried at his hip, rinse and repeat. Actually, scratch the rise part. Judging by the odor and the general dishevelment of his person, the Lady rather suspected that Barty partook in just one bath per year, and even then, that was a maybe. She also doubted that he washed his hands after visiting the privy, horrifying a thought as that was.

More horrifying still was the reason Faraday was following him. Well, alright, perhaps it wasn't horrifying, but it certainly was convoluted and thus frightening in its own way. See, the thing was, Faraday had spent a lot of time at the Court of the Rogue - she was good friends with the Rogue, aye, and was thus privy to things that a number of folks within the organization weren't. And she'd taken it upon herself to look around, listen, see what's going on.

Months ago, there had been a split in the Rogue, which was always dangerous, even in the best of times; in an era where the nation was dancing on glass and marbles and the city functioned with an ever-present hum of unrest and instability, it was disastrous. And it was happening. Folks weren't sure who to support; on one hand, there was their Rogue, the man as had looked after them for years, supported them through the hard winters and gave them homes and jobs when their family members never came home from the wars. The Rogue took care of his own, as he should. On the other hand, most felt he wasn't dealing with the Dogs well; many feared for their lives and their livelihoods under Con and beneath the newer, harsher regime of Corus's enforcers of the peace. And then there was the matter of the leaders of the other group, of their popularity with many and their connections with the underbelly of the city and the with the common every day mot and cove. Peopleliked them, liked their messages, and indeed many supported their claim to rulership of the Rogue out of true belief that their claim was substantiated.

Obviously, Faraday supported her old friend. Just out of principle; she'd met the others, after all, and none of them were as easy on the eyes as King Fisher himself was. Who ever heard of a king that was ugly? And then there was the little itty bitty matter of loyalty. She actually liked the fellow, and she liked him being in charge of the criminals and lesser folk - it gave her a direct window into that world, a window that she valued and appreciated more than she could ever enunciate.

And then there was the matter of the other folks themselves. The only purpose they'd served thus far in Corus was to cause a ruckus and create more chaos than the battered people wanted or needed. The very fact that, by their actions, they had split asunder the city, cast them in the light of evildoer, or at least wrongdoer. Tortall was already unstable, and its people already had enough trouble as it was without them all having to worry about the loss of yet another source of food, money, clothing, and protection. During the wars, the Rogue had risen to unprecedented levels of popularity and power, and they'd done in the people's time of need what the crown first neglected and then failed to do: they'd cared for them.

It was a shame that most people seemed to forget this; living for the moment had its merits, aye, but that folks could just dump their tried and true Rogue like last week's butternut bread was unthinkable - at least, in Faraday's mind. Likely, they were fearful, unsure of what the future held, a sensation that had been an oh, too familiar bedfellow for many throughout the past few decades. It was understandable - the minds of men were often weak and ruled by their emotions and fears - but it was inexcusable.

Faraday was, if anything, loyal. To her family, to her friends, and to her country - though most wouldn't think it to know her; she often projected herself as a free-agent, which she was in a way. She had a code of honor, twisted that it might be, and she adhered to it like cockleburrs to a horse's tail, and much more tenaciously so. And she had no problem with forcing her code on other people.

Her oft-hidden loyalty was probably one of the key factors as to why she was following Big Barty. The favor to Con was a part of it, but only a small one; it wasn'tactually a favor, Con didn't know about it, and she wasn't collecting a debt from him to be cashed in at a later date. No, she was following him because a little birdy - several little, very trusted birdies, in fact - had whispered into her ears rumors of Bart's split from the Rogue.

That in and of itself wasn't shocking. People were switching sides left and right. But the opportunity to trail the cove and see what he was up to and what he knew was too sweet to resist; she'd known Big Barty for a time, and had even sort of liked the fellow, and it wasn't hard to guess where he'd spend his nights. Once found, she'd paced behind him, all the while thinking of what she'd do when she finally found a good place to jump him; probably after she'd seen who he met with and where he went.

In theory, that should have worked out well. Wait a while, make note of activity, and then, bam! find out what he had to say. But as the night wore on, the woman began to think that he might not be involved with anything. He had, in fact, at some point begun mumbling to himself and had yet to make a stop, excusing his brief communion with a street corner light to take a piss. Fruitless, and actually somewhat boring.

It was always when one ceased to pay attention, even a little bit, that things happened; such as practically a law of the universe. While Faraday was relaxing, under the impression that nothing would happen, mistaken though that was, Big Barty wound up charging forward into an alley. By the time Faraday had positioned herself to watch the doings, a knife-fight was wrapping, with the victor standing over the loser, attempting to tug the knife out of the body.

Dark though the night was, the moonlight did afford a meager amount of lighting that permitted Faraday to observe small details. The victor was tall. The victor was trim. The victor was most likely not Big Barty, lacking both a flask on his hip and a bodacious belly. It also did not escape her notice that there was a large pool of blood welling out from underneath the loser, whom presumably was both dead and the remains of Big Barty. A fact that did not please Faraday, not in the least - save for a very small, very brief, token flash of satisfaction that the traitor had bitten the dust, and brutally so.

Mostly, however, she was displeased. And she intended to make her displeasure known. As she slipped out of the shadows toward the person, she freed her blades from their wrist sheaths with a deft easiness born from years of repetition and palmed them. The victor wasn't the only fellow who liked playing with knives. As she made her preparations, she heard a tune breathed out into the night air, and, despite herself, she quirked a brief, grim smile. It was a tune from one of the funeral dirges sung by the Mithran priests as they said last rites over the bodies; the melody seemed out of place in the dark of the night and sung with such vigor.

She parked herself in the middle of the alley, a good ten paces away from the figure. Her hip was cocked ever so slightly, as if she was at ease; her hands were on her hips, loosely wrapped around the flesh. In the shadows and faint moonlight, all that could be seen was her silhouette. "Have you any idea what you've done?" she whispered lowly, the words calm and only slightly infused with her irritation.

Pascel
Barely had he reclaimed his blade when he became aware of a second presence; almost before he heard them he had cocked his head in the right direction, catching the faint whisper of cloth and a light bootstep on the walk. He did not turn suddenly, but angled his head to observe the dark shape that came and stopped a short distance down the alley. He registered their height, their bearing, the sound of their breathing, and the tiny shink of metal as they armed themselves. Interesting. Whether it was the night or the liquor, he was more curious than cautious, wondering exactly who might be so invested in the death of a back-alley drunk.

{C}He faced them casually, mirroring their own cocked stance, letting his weight rest on his stiffer leg, ready to potentially use the more flexible of the two if this odd stranger decided to do something with those shiny blades. At once he made several judgements; they were slight, which might have pegged them a young boy, but the confidence of their grip ruled out youth... a woman, then, which was peculiar, and a potential advantage, although he was too wise to bet on it. An incident in his youth involving a particularly quick woman and a fork had ensured he would never again make that particular mistake.

"Only defending myself, as is my right," he answered them finally. "And what business of yours is it? Friend of yours, was he? Lover?" Despite the obvious sarcasm of his words, his tone was light, even civil. And in contrast with the apparently calm tone, his muscles were keyed for action, and he could still taste adrenaline lingering from the attack. He was interested. He was even pleased by the turn of events the night was taking; he had enough beer in him still to welcome such a moonlight chat. Not reckless, but ready.

Faraday
As was his right. Faraday had to give the person that. When someone attacked you, as the person insinuated had happened, a person had every right in the world to draw a weapon and defend themselves; it was a rare case indeed where one would simply stand by and allow another to stab them, repeatedly, with a sharp object.

{C}Still, she was unhappy about the turn of events. Hours of time, wasted, and for what? Encountering a mysterious blade-happy figure in the dark of the night.

That thought took her aback, and her mind began to tickle that idea, the cogs of her ticker slowly shifting gear one by one. Mysterious stranger, in a dark alley, late at night. It had promise - and, despite herself, Faraday found herself not only curious, but bemused. Nothing new, that.

"Neither," she told him, most traces of her amusement/curiosity wiped from her voice. "All the same, he was mine." She was perfectly serious, too, the archaic terminology rolling off her tongue like butter. Every bit as sarcastically as the man across the alley, but with perhaps a little bit more humor, she groused, "Did you have to kill him? Knocking folk unconscious works rather well in stopping attacks, I hear..."

Most might have thought it strange that Faraday would be so open and cavalier with a complete stranger in a potentially dangerous situation; they were probably right, too. Faraday wasn't worried about stranger danger, however - it was dark out, and it seemed that both of them were wearing dark clothing (all the better to hide from each other with!). And in any case... The man didn't seem hostile, and she wasn't getting any sense of immediate danger. It was no time to relax, of course, but neither was she wound up right as a bow and ready to let loose. She trusted her instincts and her abilities enough to not require such alertness.

Pascel
How interesting. Still the figure seemed more interesting in chatting (whether she thought she was interrogating or just venting her sleep on him) than exacted any kind of vengeance. He suspected that she was just as curious as he. They were two of the same; shadowy strangers in some abandoned alley, involved in a mysterious and bloody business. He wondered if she was one of the Rogue's, or even of the Shadowman - or a free agent of her own payroll, selling her services as sneak or killer to the highest bidder. All idle speculation. There was no way to tell from a voice and a few lines of conversation, and it was impossible to see anything significant of her in the darkness. He supposed that the opposite was true; he still stood deep in the shadows, and there was no lamplight to speak of for blocks around. Even the tiny moon was masked behind a thin tendril of cloud. Which was how he preferred it; best to keep his identity a secret unless there was good reason to do otherwise.

"If knocking him unconscious would have worked so nicely, why didn't you try it before he decided to stick his knife in someone?" he suggested, his tone still casual, as if he were giving a piece of advice to a friend. He dropped his knife from its position of readiness to knock it against the wall, scraping chunked gore from the blade - a seemingly meaningless gesture, but the shift from a defensive posture to this one was as close to Pascel got to calling truce and initiating a friendly chit chat. He didn't expect her to suddenly charge him. She wanted something out of this conversation - answers, entertainment; it was unclear which. And she wouldn't strike (if she did at all) unless she had it.

Faraday
"Ahhhhhh..." she said in response, her muscles twitching imperceptibly when she heard the scrape of metal on stone; it was slow, languorous, and it served very well in getting a message to Faraday: I mean no harm... yet.

{C}She supposed that she should move around, attempt to mask her exact location from the other as a safety measure. Her feet even wished to do so, flexing as they were in their shoes. Faraday sternly told them no, however. Why bother? The alley wasn't roomy enough to allow for any significant maneuvering of self, and wherever she went, excusing out of the alley, he'd be able to find her. And if she left the alley way, why, she'd surely lose an interesting opportunity!

"...Ahh, but that would defeat the oh, so illustrious purpose of tailing his sorry arse, yes?" Her voice had adopted a light tone, so very at odds with the shadows and the cadaver just a ways before her. "Shame, I'll have to tell my little birdie this was all for naught, too..."

Pascel
He put a tone of exaggerated sorrow in his voice. "A pity you should have to disappoint your master," said he. "I should hate to think that you may catch grief for my error. If only I could make it up to you- perhaps you desire to loot the body? I found no coin on the corpse, but perhaps there is treasure smuggled within. It wouldn't be the first time a servant attempted to make off with wealth in his gut. And it would explain why such a lowly drunkard is sought by someone important enough to employ such a skillful sneak. Unless, there is another reason...?"

He was being deliberately ridiculous in his theories, in hopes that humor could wrest a nugget of truth from his shadowy new friend. Why someone would be so invested in such a bum was a great curiosity to him. His only guess was that it somehow involved the Rogue; an unpaid debt, perhaps, or a valuable secret that they meant to wrest from the man. It was almost too bad that he had killed him; he would have liked to find out himself the truth, directly from the dead man's lips.

Faraday
Faraday cocked her head to the side, thoughtfully listening to what he had to say. On the surface, there was the literal statements, which came across as thoughtful in his own right, and perhaps even possessed of some level of genuine concern. The tone, however, set the scene; he was playing the game with her, and perhaps even mocking her - she had let her mark get away, after all (yes, death constituted as having 'let them get away.')

{C}"Mmmm, yes, master's do tend to be put out when a subordinate comes back with naught to show for their time, don't they. Alas, riffling through his pockets was the furthest from my intentions..." She trailed off, leaving the stranger free to ponder her intentions and desires of this night. If he was smart, he might even pick up on them! After all, why did, typically, a person follow another at a careful distance into the dregs of a society in the dark of the night? It wasn't for the vistas, that much was certain.

It was funny, how she had matched her tone to his, ridiculous in its sorrow and all the more entertaining for their mutual pretensions. She hadn't even done it intentionally - it had just happened; remarkably similar to how babies came about, if one took the time to think about it. Which was unlikely to happen in this instance, but from a metaphorical standpoint...

It occurred to Faraday that she could perhaps salvage this situation, if she was careful as to how she went about it. Gleaning information from folks could be a risky business; some people were more private than others, and preferred to keep a tight lip about things they may or may not know. It was rather suspected by the woman that the shadowed man would likely not be overly amenable to such probings... If she wanted anything, she'd have to dance her way up to it.

"Ah!" she exclaimed suddenly, with all the air of surprised pleasure, following with a softer, "Ahhh... But perhaps there is something you could do to make it up to myself," she spoke, her voice low and deliberate.

In a split second decision, rather than simply ask straight-out what she wanted, the woman instead opting to travel down a more prolonged route. "Ah, but no, likely you would would. It is much to ask of a mysterious stranger from another," she affected an air of the utmost sorrow, regret, and disappointment, so thick and tangible that it bordered on near triteness. The fellow would probably pick up on it - how could he not? - and sense where she was headed with this. Ah, the powers of suggestion... Of course, those could very easily be ignored, and more easily so be tromped upon. One could hope, however...

Faraday was a strange one, that much was certain. She was enjoying this little tête-à-tête, and was actually reluctant to permit it to come to an end, random encounters late at night be damned. It was so very rare for her to meet one such as herself, who enjoyed the game and not only participated in it, but played it very well.

Pascel
Something close to a smile crept over his lips; he was amused, and pleased, to hear her mimicking his tone. It seemed she was interested in more than pursuing her work.... or at least inclined to take a more playful approach to it.

He doubted that she was one hundred percent into the game, however; someone who went to the trouble to stalk a target this deep into the night would be unlikely to abandon their search in lieu of pointless banter. More likely she sought to salvage something of her goal through conversation with him. A pity for her, as he was no local, and knew little of the going-on's on the Lower City..... not anymore, at least. And he had never seen the drunkard before in his life. Still, he was inclined to play it up a bit; he was having fun, the kind that he hadn't allowed himself in several years of sobriety and willpower. He intended to take advantage of this temporary lapse in judgement.

"Oh, don't say that.... I have been drinking, after all; I'm highly suggestible." He affected a drunken stagger, meandering a few steps closer to her, in what was half joke and half careful maneuvering. It was a test to see if she was being genuinely light-hearted; in which case she would overlook their narrowing proximity. And perhaps he could work her into a corner, into a better light, and get a real look at his mysterious new friend. For he was curious about her; part of him wondered if he would recognize her face, perhaps from some old branch of the rogue. Maybe they even knew each other. Had thieved together. Slept together. She wouldn't have been the only one....

"I may be up for it, especially if what you suggest is..." he let his voice trail off. "...mutually beneficial."

Faraday
Oh, he'd been drinking, eh? That made one of them, and fact that Faraday was morethan willing to take advantage of. Drunkards tended to have issues regarding their judgment, and often served to provide openings that wouldn't otherwise be available. Not that he man was an opponent. Not yet, at least... Never hurt to prepare for possible outcomes. Which is also why she wasn't going to rely on the fact that he might be drunk. People lied to her all the time. She would err on the side of caution.

He staggered toward her, for all the world the drunk he proclaimed himself to be. For a moment, she thought to step back. Yet, she had already ruled that out as an option; she could choose to remain where she was, but that left a sour taste in her mind, a sort of unease that crawled down her back and sunk its talons in her sides before worming its way into her belly. No, she'd rather move; that way, if he brought something to her, she could also bring something to him; it took away from any possible advantages of his, casting away his ability to set the scene and chose if there were to be an altercations, and where. And it kept her from getting too antsy in a dark world where she could barely see anything. She could have killed for a Gift that augmented her sight.

She stepped further into the alley, and further into the shadows, sidling over to the opposite side of the walling. "Suggestible, is it?" she crooned, her voice drifting through the air to the ears of the other. Each step of hers was deliberate, slow and languorous. He was making sure she knew where he was, and it was only fair that she extend the same courtesy towards him. "I can't say how mutually beneficial it would be," she continued, "but I could most certainly make it worth your while.

"You ever twitter like the sparrows?" she asked; doubtless, she wouldn't need to explain any further. Birdies, a term that had remained constant throughout centuries, were a valued addition to any player's arsenal in a game, and while Faraday certainly had her share of informants, it never hurt to gather more, regardless of how conventional a first meeting they had.

To be honest, she had asked rather casually, despite the slight sharpening of her tone. Such things were never certain, and she honestly couldn't care either which way he decided; point of fact, she actually rather thought he'd decline. He had that vibe about him. If he did by some chance accept, she'd move from there... And if he didn't, well, it'd give her further time to chit-chat and maneuver around.

Pascel
Perhaps noticing his attempt to herd her, she moved in the opposite direction he would have liked, deeper into shadow and masking what little of her he had been able to see a moment ago. So much for seeing if he could recognize her. It bothered him - there was something vaguely familiar about her. Maybe it was just her sneaky vibe, so similar to his own, that brought on the feeling. But the way she moved seemed more recognizable than that, and especially her voice niggled at his memory. But he didn't know anybody like her in the Lower City. Barmen, sure. A handful of prostitutes, a beggar or two. Nobody like this one - unless she was a barmaid moonlighting as a secret-dealer. It wouldn't be the first time a foolish girl took up with shadowmen or rogues in order to boost her payroll.

{C}But even that didn't fit. She was entirely too practiced, too confident, too light on her feet. She would have been entirely out of place toting mugs of beer and winking at dirty-faced patrons.

He didn't like not being able to place her, and his better judgement should have sent him out of the alley and away from whatever plot the girl was involved with, but his better judgement happened to be taking a little holiday (courtesy of perhaps one too many beers). The steed of reason was gone, replaced by the horse of curiosity, and it had the bit between its teeth.

"'Twitter like the sparrows?'" he echoed. "How fortunate for you- 'twitter' happens to be my middle name." So she was in the market for sources. He wondered who she was reporting the 'twitters' to, and just how high up the totem pole she stood in whatever organization she pledged to. "So tell me; what are you in the market for? Sordid affairs? Secret passwords?" He was curious to see what degree of information she was hunting for. It would help reveal her status, and perhaps he did even have something for her... although he was reluctant (even in his slightly inebriated state) to genuinely sell information. What remained of the old rogue in him was disgusted at the idea. And if she worked for the Rogue, he had no intention of sending any help that way given his grudge. He would just have to wait and see where this dance took them...

Faraday
His response to her query afforded a small amount of shock, and the woman's brain changed direction and motion as fluidly as a well-trained steed might perform a flying lead change, the execution flawless, the change subtle and seemingly effortless.

She had been prepared to go any number of directions depending on the man's answer, and had been most prepared for him to refuse, in which instance she likely would have coaxed what little more (likely largely irrelevant to the grand scheme of things) information she could from the man, and then they would have parted ways. His acceptance, while not in part unplanned for, was not the course of action she had presumed she would undertake, and it left her thinking how she might go about further communications with her mental adversary (for make no mistake, a battle of wits was at hand.)

"More fortunate than you, it might seem," she responded, her tone light, a slightly sharpness of delivery seeming to verbalize the dry wit she found herself bemused with; "One does have to wonder what your parents were thinking when they named you."

The most minute of inflections could be heard upon the words. To the casual listener, or to the uninitiated, the sentence was innocuous enough and certainly relevant to the conversation at hand; to a trained player of the game, one with either experience to their name or an excellent mentor, the words were more than they appeared to be. ''"Do you work for an organization?" ''she had asked, though not in so many words. "Have they a name?"

Chances were, no one was listening, and such precautions were not needed - but one did not stay in the shadow and survive for long without certain measures of security. You never knew who was listening in, and what they might do with the information that they just so happened to 'overhear.' And it was a measure of the others' skill and perhaps even an indication of their training and origin if and/or how they could read the the signals and adapt to communicate.

Really, it was a shame that they weren't standing face to face with the added chance to employ body language, as well. From the readings she had obtained, Faraday gauged her new friend to be well versed in the language of the shadows, and she had a sneaking suspicion that they could have a good deal of fun in their communications. Just because it was work, didn't mean that she couldn't enjoy it, after all.

Pascel
Her peculiar emphasis keyed him into an apparent hidden meaning to her words. Clever of her, and paranoid, suggesting that she took no chances that someone might be listening. Professional, and telling. She, then, was used to subverting the attempts of spies. A sensitive business she must be in. But just how sensitive...?

{C}He thought over her words, picking out the two with obvious significance; 'parent' and 'name'. Either she wanted his name, or the name of whoever she assumed he worked for. He almost smiled, hiding the expression out of instinct rather than necessity, for it was very dark. She then recognized him as one of her own profession. However, she was missing the key point; he was no longer employed in her line of work. He considered toying with her, hinting at some affiliation with the shadowman himself, but then decided against it. He didn't know who she worked for, after all. It would be a poor idea to declare himself when he didn't know whether that declaration would name him an enemy or an ally.

So he decided to tell the truth... of a sort.

"Oh, I don't hold a grudge against them," he said, his tone nonchalant. "They are dead after all." And let his emphasis tell her that he had no master, if that was what she desired to know.

Faraday
Dead, was it? {C}Faraday squinted at the darkness, wishing all the more so that she could advance and see the man she conversed with. Most people had a tendency to forget or disregard physical cues - a twitch of the lip, a shifting of weight - and they thus missed out on a good deal of silent conversations.

What did he mean, dead? There was no established codeword between them, no way to know for certain what the word actually meant. The organization was no more? He had defected? He was a lone agent? There were many possibilities...

And yet, there were only a few. The man obviously had skill, and experience; he'd picked up on her word play with practiced ease - this was not something generally found in lone agents. Working alone allowed not for the constant touch and go that organizational agents encountered, and she had yet to meet a lone wolf with such skill. Of course, then again, there was a first time for everything... Her instincts, however, told her that the man in the shadows had been a part of a group, and she chose to trust them. She had blessed good instincts, and the fact that she was still alive was a testament to such.

It only took a moment to formulate a reply of her own; "I am so sorry for your loss," she said, infusing into her voice a smidge of sincerity that was, if one was careful to listen for, a bit hollow and really quite fake. '"How many years'' has it been since they passed away?" '''What she was getting at, even she wasn't sure; a length of time, to be sure. She really didn't need specifics - that's what investigative skills were for, after all.

Bathed in darkness as she was, Faraday suppressed the urge to lick her lips. It had occurred to her that perhaps the man was a mage, gifted with the Sight and better able to see in the dark than she. She had read of such, and met a few Sighted folks at the University - but it had only just occurred to her, and the thought made her a bit uneasy. She vowed to be on her best behavior from then on - sloppy, thinking that shadows would completely hide her.

Pascel
He wasn't sure if she got his hint, but who could tell, when speaking in such coded language? Why would it be important to know how long it had been since he was affiliated with a group? Unless... he almost grimaced. The new Rogue. If he had split when the group recently, it would indicate a dislike of the new leader, which would give her a definite indication of his loyalties. {C}Unfortunately for her, the truth was nothing that cut and dry. He had left the Rogue years before its recent change in leadership and had no opinion (good or bad) about the new man.

"Long enough," he said simply. "I rarely think of them." And let her take that how she liked. The inquiry, and the memories drawn by it, had sobered him somewhat, and now he found himself reconsidering what he was doing here, talking to her. Thinking of the old Rogue, and old betrayals, reminded him just how ugly this world was. Why was he poking his nose back into it?

"Why so curious about a stranger?" he asked suddenly. There was nothing playful in his voice now; it was absent of all pretense. "It's strange. Most folks I meet are more eager to speak of themselves than to question others. What about your own family? I trust they are in good health." His tone was almost sarcastic now. The message was clear; fair is fair. She would tell him something about herself or he would call off the game. He stepped towards her again, fingering his blade, letting it catch the light but taking care that his face did not. Not a threat, but a reminder, to her and to himself. This may be a game, but it was a dangerous one.

Faraday
Communications had closed down! It'd happened a bit sooner than she'd have liked and a bit later than she had expected. She wasn't sure if he had imparted another hint, or if he had completely and totally shut down communications then and there. If she hadn't been so cautious, she would have narrowed her eyes slightly and stared at him. Blight it all, she missed not having visual cues!

The field of query shifted, and it came to be that Faraday was the one being quizzed. How delightful! It had been some time since someone had presumed to ask of her questions and demand answers. Even the flashing of the blade was refreshing to the woman.

"Fair is fair," she conceded. "They're well, thank you for asking. My father passed away a few years ago, and my eldest brother has taken over the family business. Our cousins are most displeased with this change of leadership, but, yeh'know, between you 'n' me, I think they're secretly rather pleased. Father was, well, not exactly the best of patriarchs, rest his soul."

She was almost cheerful in her addition; "That talkative enough for ya, sir?" If he was a bright one, and he had certainly shown himself to be so, he'd pick up on what she meant right away. The biggest family in Corus was the Rogue. And the cousins? Why, the Dogs, of course. Everyone knew that there was a fine line between the keepers of the law and the breakers of the law, and it was commonly accepted that one really couldn't exist without the other. Over the centuries, the two factions had grown intertwined - they functioned together, though both served entirely different purposes.

Pascel
He was a little surprised that she so quickly obliged his questioning; either she thought he knew something useful and was eager to dig it out of him, or she was enjoying the conversation too much to let him kill it. Either way, she gave him quite a bit of information.

She was, then, involved somehow with the Rogue or the dogs... or both. By referring to the Rogue as her father, was she placing herself amongst them? Was she, then, one of his old kind? It almost put a damper on the conversation, picturing this girl in the place he had held years ago. She was young, younger than him, if he was any judge of voice and shape. He wondered what she had suffered to bring her into the arms of the organization... or if she had suffered anything at all.

"I see," he said, without inflection. "Always a pity, a death in the family. It must have been a tumultuous time for you." He let the words be almost an inquiry, wondering if she might have aided personally in the change of leadership. He wouldn't have doubted it - she was clever enough to be high up in the organization, skilled enough to be a right hand man (or rather, woman). Not to mention young enough to have known little of the old Rogue but the tail end of his reign.

"You know, some would say that a change of leadership is healthy, but what I tend to find..." he continued. Revealing perhaps a little too much of his own opinion, but he thought he would throw her a bone, seeing as she had been so generous with her own information. "Is that the more things change, the more they stay the same. Don't you agree?" He let a sneer into his voice, remembering the corruption of the organization in his time, doubting that it was any different now. But she was young, and lacking his scars, and doubtless she was as idealistic about it as he had been.

Faraday
"Mmmmm," Faraday voiced, letting the sound roll out. The cheer she had previously exhibited dampened, and she spoke with a more somber demeanor;"You could say so, sir. But, then, it's been an interesting life all around, wouldn't you say?" She practically waved in his face that not only was she monkeying around with the Rogue, but she also had her fingers in other pies.

Make of it what he would, Faraday didn't think he'd really be able to get anything too terribly useful from that.

If she had been a horse, she would have raised her head, perked her ears forward, and flared her nostrils upon hearing what the man said. Hello, hello, personal commentary!

"Certainly, it has been said that history repeats itself." If only he knew."Same old dung heap in the Lower City. Same old mountain of gold in the royal coffers... The players shift, the times change... But people are still starving. Still dying in the name of honor and glory. She tossed him another bone. See if he could figure out which sandboxes she liked to play in.

Idly, she moved to the right, side-stepping away from the depth of her shadowed sanctuary. Maybe, if she maneuvered some more, she'd be able to catch a glimpse of the man.

Pascel
His eyes narrowed, and he wondered just what she was hinting at. An 'interesting life all around', was it? Which meant exactly what? Clearly she was trying to show him that her role wasn't as cut and dry as he had been assuming, but he could dredge no further detail from such a vague turn of phrase.

Her next words were even trickier to decipher. In critiquing the rich and referencing the poverty of the Lower City, it sounded as if she was aligning herself further with the Rogue... but it didn't fit. Somehow he couldn't place her easily within the rats. The girl was hinting at something else, something entirely more convoluted, and the more she hinted at it the more he grew suspicious of her. What exactly had he stumbled into?

"That's all very true. But for someone who speaks so strongly of death and starvation, you seem to be fairly well off." He wondered if she thought herself an avenging force, aiming to restore power to the people and take the rich swine down a few pegs. If so, he could hardly fault her moral direction, but he did fault her for whatever logic had brought her to that conclusion. If it were possible..."It's a pity," he began, and then trailed off, and didn't continue. "A pity," he repeated, half under his breath, and fell silent. A pity that he couldn't shake some sense into her, teach her what he had learned, tell her to get out before the life got to her.

But why would he? He was forgetting himself - this was a stranger in black, they were isolated in an alley, and he had been in enough situations like this to know that this was no friendly chitchat. He was being naive. Too much drinking, too much time alone. Perhaps he needed to find a whore if his need for company was driving him to chat up dark strangers at these hours.

"This has been a lovely chat, but I have business to attend to that does not involve cryptic conversations with strangers," he said, perhaps a little too bluntly. But he had lost his taste for games. He'd had his fun, and it was time to leave this dream of an old life and return to reality. "I'll be on my way." Just as she began to inch out of the shadows, he slipped back into his. Some remnant of his initial curiosity wanted to do the opposite, to see if he could get a look at her face, but he squashed it.

Faraday
She had waited for him to elaborate upon just what it was that had moved him to feel - what was it, pity? Alas, it was a wait in vain, and indeed it seemed to mark a sudden change in the man, as he - almost abruptly so - declared his intent to break off their brief liaison so soon after it had begun.

"Off you go, is it?" She listened hard as she spoke, intentionally slipping into a softer tone for just that purpose. If he left, she was of the mind to tail him. It wasn't really like she had anything better to do at this particular point in time; the hour was quite ungodly by a good many cityfolks' standards, and the task that she had been engaged in had up until just shortly consumed much of her time and attention. She was at the moment unexpectedly free to pursue whatever might strike her fancy. Faraday felt compelled to add - much more so bluntly put than her previous statements - "Not even going to tell me--"

A sudden and raucous disturbance alighted into the night, shattering the solitude Faraday and her stranger had thus far enjoyed in a single instant. Faraday hissed under her breath, breaking off in mid-speech to do so. With perhaps a tinge of irony, she muttered, "Time to go, indeed."

And she darted off to the side, opposite from the direction the uproar had occurred. It was far to close for her liking, and every instinct she possessed demanded that she get as far away from it as she could. Dogs tended to suspect folks as was out late at night and dark back alleyways, and they had a nasty habit of sticking their noses into things that didn't look right to them. Dogs were an unnecessary complication that Faraday didn't particularly care to deal with, ever. They complicated things.

Pascel
He slid his blade into a convenient sheath, still accessible if she chose to pursue him, and began to slip away. He wondered if she might follow. She was obviously the investigative type, and perhaps he had revealed too much of himself; enough to make her curious. He hoped not. It was late, and if he had to go around some strange way to lose a tail it would take him much longer to reach home. His whole schedule was bound to be disrupted...

There was a sudden noise, and immediately his blade was free of its sheath once more, his body twisting in the direction of the disturbance. For a moment he thought it might have been her, but then a dark shape bolted past, and he heard the sound of booted feet from the direction she had come. He cursed. Dogs, or some sort of patrol, and he had no intention of being discovered just feet from a fresh body. Self defense it may have been, but given the time and the circumstances, he wasn't keen on the idea of trying to prove intent. Not that he was ever keen on anything involving Dogs.

These thoughts took him only a moment, and then he spun on his heel and took after the girl, whose footfalls he could hear receding down the dark street. There was a shout, and a door swung open; light fell before him and cast relief on the mugger's remains just as he skipped over it. His boot spattered in blood. He ran on, as whoever had opened the door shouted to the coming Dogs, cursing under his breath as his leg was jarred, spotting the ground with blood as he went. Of all the inconvenient circumstances...

Faraday
A Dog whistle sounded, and Faraday sped up. Blight and pox it all! Suddenly, a door in front of her swung open, with it coming a shaft of yellow light, soft enough to be inviting yet bright enough to pierce the darkness.

Faraday didn't even really have to think; she just veered off and brushed past the man who had opened the door, ignoring his grunt of surprise. "Shut the door," she advised him as she entered the building.

The room she stepped into was quite full, if rather quiet. Late as the hour was, most people were drinking or gambling; either they were sodden near to the point of entering a coma, or they were quite engrossed in their game. No one seemed to really be paying attention.

Perfect. Blending in would not be a problem.

Pascel
Pascel saw his 'companion' dodge into the open doorway, too quickly for him to get a glimpse of more than dark hair, and followed her example. He heard her advise the man at the door, but went a step further, and yanked the door shut behind them as the befuddled-looking man looked on. He didn't stop to see if they would be pursued inside. Pushing past the few curious sorts who came to see about the commotion, he scanned the room. Dark enough that he could become indistinguishable in the crowd, boozy enough that there would be no one sharp-minded enough to finger him at this spot.

Except perhaps... He looked for the girl, and it occurred to him that in this lighting he could get a proper look at her. One could debate the good and bad of revealing his face, but he could be tied loosely only to blackmail and unprovable unsavory connections. He was as criminally clean as someone of his background could be... at least in recent years. But her? Going on their little chat, he suspected that she could be easily tied to much less innocuous going-ons, and if it came down to it, he would bet that the value of her identity outweighed his.

He looked, and- there! He spied that head of dark hair, and its owner, trying her best to blend in. Before she could weasel her way through the crowd and out of reach, he seized her by the shoulder, and wrenched her around. "You-" he began, and then found himself shocked into silence.

Then, "You," he said again, his words a hiss, and his fingers dug into her shoulder. His emotions swung between anger and shock. "You're the girl from the tavern," he almost spat. "You- You-" Again he wavered, this time between 'bitch' or 'wench' or 'idiot', and eventually landed on "Faraday. That's your name, isn't it?" And what was she doing out here, in a place like this? Playing her games like in the tavern where she had threatened to steal his dog? Then she had been such a child, obnoxious as they come, with no obvious intent aside from his harassment. Measured against the cunning sneak of tonight, he didn't know what to think. Had he underestimated her then, or overestimated her now?

He cursed the drink for making him susceptible, the night for being inviting, and himself for taking the path he had. Most of all he cursed her, for involving herself in his life and complicating it for a second time. Maybe he ought to kill her and avoid making it a third time. A castaway thought, but a tempting one.

Faraday
How close had she been to eluding capture of any sort when the hand grabbed her shoulder? Faraday couldn't say, though she'd be willing to venture that it was a very near thing.

The grip was strong, and actually a bit painful. Even more painful was the fact that Faraday had been caught unawares by the person - sloppy, sloppy, sloppy. It was all of the desk riding, wasn't it, she thought bitterly; making her forget basic lessons, like always keep a spare eye about you, and watch for mages.

"Whadya-" she started to snap at the aggressor, preparing to do some arm-wrenching of her own before catching sight of the person's face. There was a flutter of recognition, and she bit back what she was going to say even as he let loose a question of his own, and soon after an utterance of his own recognition.

She had met this man before, once, at the [TAVERN NAME]; the one with the dog, who had reminded her of a bear. Culatta, her mind supplied, conjuring up the exuberant form of the terrier she had fawned over. And the owner had been...Pascel, her mind dredged up, hanging it up in the metaphorical air as she mentally scanned over their previous encounter.

Yep. Pascel it was.

The man was spitting mad. Well, she could understand why he was peeved; she hadintentionally toyed with him for the duration of their first encounter, and most people didn't take kindly to that; he in particular had seemed quite grouchy, and she had no doubt that such probably went double for the man.

He fumbled for something to say, and eventually conjured up her name. Oh, how touching, he remembered.

"That's the one." She looked him in the eye, wondering what she might find there. They were hard eyes, and at the moment, they were livid. Lovely. "And you're Pascel." Faraday titled her head slightly to the right, and her eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. "I do believe that I said I'd be seeing you around."

Pascel
Pascel saw that she recognized him, even as she seemed to debate the merits of admitting it. She didn't react immediately, physically or emotionally, and instead wore a shrewd look that struck him as more familiar than the face alone. The girl looked him in the eye. She made up her mind about him. And then she acknowledged him by name, cool as could be, and it would have been a neutral greeting had she not thrown in that little jab at the end. ...believe I said I'd be seeing you again. She just couldn't resist, could she? Even now, in this place and these circumstances, she had to needle him. He was beginning to think that she had some desire to endanger her life ingrained in her personality. He let his fingers tighten on bone, knowing that it hurt (her deadpan expression to the contrary) and glad of it.

"So you did," he said. "Foolish of me, not to believe you." His own voice was not as civil. It was cold as could be. "And what an incredible coincidence, that we should meet again so soon, and at such a time and place." Such a 'coincidence' that he wasn't sure it was one. Upon their first meeting, he had found her obnoxious, and little more. He had suspected no intent but ill-advised curiosity. But now, after finding her sneaking around the same alley as him (a truly spectacular coincidence, if it was one), he began to feel an old paranoia. Had someone sent her? More specifically, had someone from his past sent her? Was he being sought out, spied upon?

He had always known that it was possible. In the years directly following his break with the Rogue, he had been especially paranoid, wondering if some old enemy would track him to his new life. Or (perhaps worse) an old friend.

Ordinarily he might have let her be to play her games, but if the stake was personal, he couldn't afford to let her slip away. He had too much as stake. Too much gained, too much to lose.

"And such a happy coincidence," he continued. "Why, just yesterday I was just thinking to myself that there were some questions I'd like to ask you." As he spoke, he put his arm around her loathsome shoulders, letting her feel the scrape of hidden weapon sheaths, casting a casual picture of a man and his companion to any who might be observing. He turned towards the door and exerted pressure, as one might direct a stubborn horse. "It's a little warm in here, don't you think? Why don't we go for a little walk?"

Faraday
Yes, well, foolish or not, Faraday couldn't blame him. Complete stranger, annoying to boot, informing him that they'd be seeing each other again: she wouldn't have believe her, either. She would have followed up on her, though. Of all things, thatwas foolish.

She felt her lips curve into a slight smile, tight and yet quite amused. From the way things were worded, Faraday got the distinct impression that he was not altogether pleased with this 'incredible' coincidence; of all the pubs in all the towns in all the world, and she had to walk into his...

She was mildly surprised when he wrapped an around her own shoulder, and for a second she tensed and thought to break free of his grip. That he threatened her as he did so didn't make her feel all the more inclined to stick around. Such was the instinct of a rogue, to bolt when danger was near and dear, insofar as the metaphor went.

The man suggested that they step outside, and she reassessed her inclination to break free. It might be better for her if they were outside, in an environment with less witnesses and less light. The man had a limp, and if need be, she could probably easily outrun him. If she wanted to. She wasn't sure, yet. If the Dogs were still sniffing around, and they encountered she and Pascel, questions that she didn't want to answer would be asked, and then there was the off-chance that she might be hauled into a kennel and locked up. Faraday's mind spun, following that line of thought. Granted, if she was locked up, she could probably pull rank and get herself sprung. Better to do it there, rather than out in the open where this man could hear and make note of her identity. Of course, if she was thrown into the same cell as he, he might find out anyways... Unless she was able to pass a message on to someone with connections... In which case...

She broke off that line of thought. She was getting far too ahead of herself with a situation that hadn't even happened yet. The bottom line was, outside was perhaps a better place to be. And if Dogs came sniffing around, she'd rather be outside with a direction to run in than inside and trapped by all the people around her. The possibility that someone might try and stop her existed, and she liked to avoid stabbing people when she could. It wasn't likely in this neck of the metaphorical woods, but one never knew; people had a tendency to surprise her from time to time.

Taking a cue from her - what was he? Companion? co-conspirator? partner in crime? none of those were really correct - Faraday leaned into the man and slung an arm loosely around his waist. He was sure to feel the wrist sheaths that held her own toys. The smile she adopted was loose and a tad dopey; she attempted to infuse that same quality of stupid into her voice. "Mmmm, indeed, yes, let's." She used her own body to tug him forward towards the door.

It was as she'd thought before; two could play at this game.

Pascel
He had wondered if she would go along with his nudging or not. He hadn't expected an easy acquiescence, nor had he expected her to cause a fuss when they were both trying to avoid attention. What he got was fairly par the course. A bit of play-acting, a subtle threat, and an apparent willingness to delve deeper into a dangerous situation.

They got no more than a few cursory glances as they went out. They weren't an unlikely looking pair, were even well-matched, although he was thinking in terms of weaponry and general skill. He reminded himself to be cautious; ire and paranoia aside, he still remained unknowing of her real ability. If she was so agreeable about going outside with him, that meant at least she thought herself capable of escape. Perhaps more.

When they reached the door he released her. There was a dead end to their right, a street to the left, and he put himself between her and an easy escape. There was room on either side of him, if she wanted to try and make a dash for it, but he doubted she would take that chance until she had satiated her curiosity.

"Tell me who you are working for," he said bluntly. "You're somebody's sniffer dog; I want to know whose."

Faraday
He released her, and she was only too happy to go. He immediately stepped into the center of the alley and used his body as a wall between her and the exit in his direction. The direction she had been sent actually had no exit, being blocked with a solid and really quite tall brick wall.

Pox. A dead end.

As she spun around and backed towards the wall (an action made acceptable to her by virtue of knowing there was no empty space behind her with which to be used for to initiate backstab), her fingers sliced up and reached for her wrist knives, readying for an attack.

An attack that did not come. He stood, bristling to be sure, but without overt aggression. There was no tell-tale shink of metal being drawn, nor was there any glinting of metal. Of course, there were ways to conceal both, but instinct told Faraday that such was not the case with the man. She didn't sense a killing intent. He was more angry than murderous at the moment, though experience told her that such could easily change in the space of a few moments.

She assessed where they were. Dead end to her back, freedom in front of her, and a large, angry man standing between her and her only way out. Well, there were three exits, but two of them were closed doorways; opening them would take time that she could ill afford, and while he might limp, he was quick enough that she'd likely not be able to escape down either route before he was upon her. No... If she wanted to escape, she'd have to get by him, slip through an opening on either which side of his, and dart out into the streets. If she could run, she could elude him. But she needed to be able to run, first.

It hadn't gotten to that point, yet, however. He hadn't yet offered to attack, and she didn't feel threatened to the point of needing to flee. She still felt that there was something to be gained from this encounter... What, she didn't know, but her instinct whispered these sweet nothings to her, and dutiful little spy that she was, the girl listened. She hadn't yet died in listening to them, after all.

Having made a decision, the woman's panic-level shot down; she remained tense and ready for action, however, her attention attuned to the man she met in a pub moons ago.

The man in question fired a question of his own at her, and Faraday raised her eyebrows, though her face betrayed no expression except the default set of mild amusement. If he could see her, he wouldn't see much of note; if he couldn't, great. Better safe than sorry. "I," she began, "am no one's dog, much less a sniffer."She threw in a manner of offended indignation. '''"I'm a watcher. More inclined to use my eyes than my nose." '''How's that for the truth?

She folded her arms, hands sliding up her sleeves and resting where her wrist sheathes were bound to her limbs. "Furthermore," she added much more coolly,"Were I to be working for someone, or even with someone, the chances that I would tell you are slim to none. I find myself in fact a bit insulted that you would even stoop to ask."

Pascel
It seemed to occur to Faraday that she may have a reason to be concerned. He could see her eyes flicker left, right, up, and down, searching for an easy way out, assessing her options. They weren't good. She could go for a door, she could try to scale a wall, but in both cases he could snag her before she got too far. If she tried to go around it would go much the same.

But despite her lack of options, her need to be difficult apparently continued to outweigh the risks of the situation. He gritted his teeth as she spoke. Her words grated on his ears; her denial, her feigned offense. Did she ever speak without dancing around the truth? Was the girl capable of conversation that didn't involve games and deceit? Perhaps a cutting edge was the only way to provoke her into honesty.

There was a soft metallic click, and a blade slipped from its clasp into his hand. He did not brandish it, did not advertise its position, but she would see the threat. "I am losing my patience with you," he hissed. He advanced a step closer. The surrounding walls were angled in such a way that as he came nearer, the space on either side of him shrank. One more step.

"Let me be honest with you, Faraday," he continued. "Whether sniffed or watched, I have a certain unease about being observed. If you don't say something to alleviate that unease, somebody is going to stagger out of that tavern in the morning, and step on your eyes."

Faraday
"Unease, is it?" She was a bit familiar with the concept, being involved in the doings that she was. Point of fact, she felt some unease in the very situation she found herself embroiled inside of; dead ends and useless might-as-well-not-be-there escape routes did wonders for one's state of paranoia, as well.

Neither did it help that the man had drawn a blade. It wasn't that she was afraid of a fight. Oh, no, never that. But she did so hate stab wounds, and it was irritating to go to healers and explain what had happened. Had she been a page, her excuse would have been some or other along the lines of 'she fell down the stairs. As it was, she was left with she was in the kitchen and her knife slipped.' 

People had a tendency to look at her funny when she mentioned such things. She rather suspected that the healers didn't believe a word she said. They took her money, though, and that was all that mattered...

She drew a blade of her own, the right blade and her weapon of choice. Voice light and as precise as the razor edge of her father's barber shear, Faraday continued,"You know what makes me feel, what was it, unease?" The small, shiny, and really quite dangerous object was used to point in the general direction of Pascel, functioning as a sort of accusatory finger. "Folks threatening me for seemingly no reason whatsoever. I don't like it, not a whit."

Pascel
Prompted by him, she drew her own steel, but instead of just holding it as he did she pointed it straight at him. Like any cornered animal, she was bristling and ready to defend herself. And as she drew herself up, some of the mask slipped, and her casual arrogance faded in lieu of more honest hostility. Good.

He lifted his own blade, holding it up at the level of her face, at an angle that suggested he was more prepared to cut than to stab. More inclined to peel the answers out of her than to end their stand-off in one decisive blow. She would recognize the intent.

Still, some uncertainty flickered in him. As her mask slipped, he felt truth in her words as well as her hostility. He liked to think that he could recognize a liar, and his inner alarm bells didn't ring out when she accused him of threatening her for 'no reason whatsoever'. There was none of the snakelike oozing in her voice. Cornered thus, she seemed to have dropped the game. Could it be true? Was it possible that their meeting was just a coincidence and she was innocent of stalking him?

"No reason whatsoever?" he repeated. "No reason like running into the same meddlesome stranger in two very different places? No reason like having one's identity and safety compromised by said meddlesome stranger?" He struck a quick blow in her direction, his blade scraping against hers for all of a second before withdrawing. A threat. And he stepped forward again, pushing her back still, determined to scare the truth out of her if she wouldn't give it otherwise.

Faraday
The flash of metal was swift, and it was reflex that shifted her hold on the blade and brought it up to block the attack levied at her. She skipped back a few steps, bringing her knife in front of her, casually ready to raise another defense.

"Meddlesome?" She almost took exception to that. The word has such a negative connotation, it implied that she was invasive and bothersome and--

Well, who was she kidding? She was that, and more.

The almost serious stance she had taken in the conversation wavered. '''"I'll have you know, it's said that 'meddlesome' is my most endearing quality." '''And it was, in a way. It was in part what had attracted the Trickster to her - him being a officious and interfering sort himself, he'd seen of him in the girl, and he's taken her under his wing.

Of course, that likely wouldn't have endeared her to the man. Most people were wary of the gods, and to be honest, she couldn't blame them. They were an overbearing lot.

Not that she wanted to be endeared to the man before her, she really couldn't care less, but it was a thought she had, and instinct that whispered to her. Mere observation, it was.

Moving on. Threatening postures and glinting blades were at present her most pressing matter, and there would be time to ponder the multitude of thoughts that lurked within her mind.

"To be honest? Tis but mere coincidences." She stood her ground against him for a moment, eyes boring into him, reluctant to give him more ground for all that it brought him closer to her. It was not a hard gaze that she gave him - experience had taught her to keep soft eyes about her, enabling her vision to be flexible enough to keep an eye out on any subtle motion that he might initiate. It wouldn't do to die in some back alley behind a pub at the hands of an angry stranger.

"If you'll remember," she added as she stepped once to the side, crossing her left leg in front of her right in a careful motion, "I was rather busy following someone. A someone that a certain someone killed. I find that I must applaud your nativity, in thinking that I might simply just leave you alone."

Pascel
Threats hadn't cured her entirely of her need to voice clever retorts. He found that he didn't mind it terribly; he preferred this kind of exchange to ones where the interrogated wept in a corner and pleaded for their life. At least she was capable of rational discourse at knifepoint. It made this easier... if more irritating.

"All right," he said, and let his knifehold droop, although he kept his hand tensed and ready for her first wrong move. "Coincidence, is it? I suppose it's possible. And it's not completely wrong of you to pursue someone who robs you of a hard night's work. I'll give you that. But," And he said this last bit sarcastically. " 'I applaud your naivete' in thinking that I would not react negatively to the possibility of being followed and spied upon."

He regarded her for a moment longer. "Tell me," he said abruptly. "Why should I believe you when you say that it's coincidence? You haven't given me any sign that you're worth trusting. In fact, you've done the opposite. And if being meddlesome really is your 'most endearing quality', I don't have much reason to let you out of this corner without a mark on you."

Faraday
He lessened his hostility, and warily, she did the same. An eye for an eye, aye?

"I guess I can't say I blame you," she began. "Paranoia is a healthy thing to have, I suppose." She supposed. And the Eastern Lands was a bit of earth. Faraday was nothing if not paranoid, and, she added to her list of traits, a bit arrogant, as well. Of course there were going to be people who were as paranoid or even more so than she. "I must point out, however," in this, her voice slipped into an acerbic flavor, "that I never did say that I felt it wrong for someone such as yourself to be hostile. I do, however, rather feel that you could have handled it better.

"Furthermore, you really shouldn't trust me, not in the least. I would think you a fool for it. And while I've formed a number of opinions of you in our short, short acquaintance, that you are a fool is not one of them."

There was a faint sounding of a whistle, and Faraday flinched involuntarily. Sod it.

Pascel
"Handled it better." His lip twitched. "I understand. Next time I'll ask you out for drinks and we can discuss it frankly over a nice ale." His voice was rich with sarcasm.Handled it better. She couldn't be the street-hardened spy she presented herself as, if she expected a stranger of the Lower City to react to her attentions with anything but a knife to the throat.

And, he reminded himself, if she was no street-hardened spy, he had no reason to be holding that knife to her. Especially because, from what he had gathered about her, she was more likely to be made curious than frightened by such menacing. And he didn't need to make her any more curious than she already was. In fact, it may have been a misstep to take it this far. Perhaps that hated curiosity of hers was already aroused. If he was lucky, she would be frightened enough not to pursue him beyond this. Not, he thought grimly, that it was very likely. She didn't seem to have very strong instincts for self preservation.

Then came the whistle. He cursed, but in the same breath came a sense of relief. Here was the perfect way to relieve himself of her interest without cutting a piece out of her. He tucked his knife away and backed off casually. "Thank you for educating me on my conduct, and on who I should and should not trust," he said, a quick parting jab. "I'll be sure to consult you again should I have need of expertise greater than my own. On second thought," and here came another lip twitch, halfway to a smirk. "I don't think I will."

It would be best to lose himself once more in the crowd. There, his only chance in being found lay in the girl ratting him out, and he doubted she would. He got the feeling she didn't want to be placed at the scene any more than he did.

He backtracked to the tavern door, and as he popped it open and its light fell upon the street, some niggling sense brought his eyes back to her. Just for a moment. His face was inscrutable. And then he ducked in, the door shutting behind him, and its light cut out from the dark street.

Faraday
He didn't seem to like her allegations of his inability to deport himself properly, which, of course, had been her intent. Often times, when people grew mad, they lost a sizable portion of their self control, which was in and of itself a mixed blessing, and in addition to this they had a tendency to lose focus and objectivity. Not that it was strictly true - but in the vast, vast majority of encounters, she had found that the reasoning skills of people deteriorated inversely with the levels of anger they experienced. And people that lacked reasoning skills tended to be people that made mistakes and left openings for her to exploit. In as precarious a position as she was in, this could well mean the difference between winning a fight handily and experiencing the wonderful sensation of a knife in the gut.

As the case turned out to be, she needn't have worried. The sounding of the whistle marked a backing out on the man's part - as little as he liked her and her apparent spy tendencies, it seemed that he liked even less the prospect of a run-in with the city's peacekeepers.

He made a slightly belated retort in addition to his previous comment, and she registered the poke. She thought about responding in turn, but decided against it on the basis that he would probably feel more secure if he got to have the last word.

He was welcome to it. The second chance encounter with the man had aroused within her a curiosity, a desire, to find out who he was. Such encounters didn't justhappen, as he had been more than adamant to point out - but where she knew that she had not been following him, she had to wonder if it was not he that was following her. He just happened to be at the club where she was to meet a correspondent, and he just happened to be in the alley that her mark had wandered into. And he just happened to kill the wretched man and put a crimp in her machinations.

Yet he claimed that it was she that was in the wrong, that she was the one who had evil designs upon him and was up to no good (well, obviously) - and she hadn't thought to ask him if it was not he that was tailing her, rather than the other way around. He had sounded sincere enough, but she'd been around enough players to know that the really good ones could hide behind masks and play folks like the fleshy fiddles that they were.

Which intrigued her. Indeed, she would be finding out more about this Pascel, and she would be asking him in person if he had not met her by chance - and for the first time this third meeting would not be a coincidence on her part.

Pascel, oblivious to the inner thoughts of the woman's mind, picked his way back to the tavern door. He opened it and made to enter, but for the briefest of moments, the man turned around, and Faraday met his impassive gaze with a small smile, one corner of her lip tilted upward in an almost deprecatory lilt. She lifted her unencumbered hand and casually saluted him with her index and middle finger.

And then he twirled away, shutting the door and taking the light with him. She, in turn, began creeping down the wall, the first of many steps she would enact to evade the Dogs.