• Graded • Midnight Menu

[Limbo]

The hare was almost done. After being skinned and gutted, the unwanted remains were left aside, whilst the edible parts were left for Kasoria to decide what to do with them. A second meal, for free. After some cleaning of the remains, Kovic deemed the animal ready to be cooked. It would go into the pot whole. Even if a great connoisseur of the culinary arts, the suited man was not much of a cook. However, this did not hinder his capacity to add spices. He looked and looked, and shortly after his quest for spices began, it failed. How would Kasoria own spices if he didn’t even own a leaf with which to clean between his ass cheeks? With the mission failed, Kovic simply inserted the bare hare within the boiling pot, winking towards his companion.
“I am chatty because you are the host, and I must entertain you. I believe this will be a good meal,” he mused, already fantasizing with meat in his mouth.

There was nothing that suggested Kovic was a guest. He moved, talked, and acted as if he was the host, be it in the Outer Perimeter or even Kasoria’s ruined home. Many mortals believed themselves to be special in some way, to have the right to own property or lie to themselves about their place in the world. These false assumptions did not infect Kovic. It was as if being stripped of empathy or emotion had granted him a higher understanding of the world. In many cases, it had; at the end of the day, the one strongest is the one still on his feet. Warriors often spoke about this concept when depicting battles, but they were limited in their vision. Perhaps he was arrogant about his beliefs. Surely not. One look at Kasoria proved it; even if extremely superior in battle, he failed at other aspects of life. Socialization and fraternization were out of his persona.

That is why Kovic had the likings of a host.

Before the mortalborn could protest, Kasoria had already filled a second glass of the liquor. With pursed lips, the suited man joined his companion on the table, sitting in front of him. A dubious look was shot towards the glass. He only remembered one occasion in which he had tasted alcohol, and it had had grave consequences for his fragile biology. Regardless, being a good guest, he took the glass and rose it.
“And may tell no tales,” he replied, with a smile. Then, the mortalborn, as feminine as a bearded man could get, as fancy and posh as the wealthiest son of a merchant, took a sip so insignificant it was pathetic. “... Even if I drank alcohol, I’d rather stay sober before drinking this…”

A sigh.

Kovic locked eyes with his companion, offering a fixed smile. This was not an ordinary man, he thought. The assassin turned hobo could hide it well, but every so often, he’d drop hints about what hid beneath the muck of his features. There was a man in there, living beneath the skin. This man was not a murderer, not originally, and perhaps longed for a different occupation. Or had longed, before that man was killed. Now only remained the non-resistant parts, those that accepted that hey, it’s another body I’ve left behind, but another bag of coin. I was nothing personal, just business. Just doing my job. All those human parts, those that still longed for some sort of fain happiness, hid beneath that sinister coldness he no doubt wielded when taking care of business. He shuddered to imagine said veil falling upon those lively eyes this very moment.

Then the question came, and the veil slowly began its descent. The job called, and Kasoria knew well enough how relevant one’s profession was in life. With a sigh, Kovic brought his palms together atop the table. His smile faded a bit, yet he refused to look away. His eyes, both striking and arresting with their intense blue palette, demanded attention.
“Do you know the idiom ‘black sheep’?” He began, tone that of a storyteller. “We often use the term ‘black sheep’ to describe people that do not fit the general masses. It’s rather common to hear the expression thrown around, but not many people know of it’s origin. You see, shepherds came up with the term. Black wool cannot be dyed, and so it is rarely a product of general interest. However, that is not the reason for the expression.

“You see, sheeps move in masses. A flock of sheep stays together as they moved through the fields. If one were to be spooked by whatever, and started to run, the rest would follow. They follow one another, but not because of them having some sort of shared mind. They follow those like them, that look like them. Black sheep, however, are different, and they know it. They too want to follow one another, but black sheeps are generally rare in a flock. So, instead of following the white sheep, they spot a shade or a dark rock in the distance, and they think it is one of their kind. Another black sheep. And so they run off, split from the group, and try to find their own spot.

“What is a shepherd supposed to do, then? Chase after the lonely sheep over and over again? No. That is impractical. There are usually two options when it comes to this. The first one is to have a dog, someone that ensures the flock to stay together. The other one, and the most common in this trial and age, is that of slaughtering the lamb when it weighs a bucket of stones.”

A pause. Let it sink in.

“You are a black sheep, Kasoria. However, you don’t have the to choose between chops or dogs, for you’re an individual able to make conscious decisions based on knowledge and fact. You’ve got the third and best option.”

A slight tilt of his head, and a kind smile.

“You can change your color.”

[Kasoria]

Paps wasn't wrong about the meal. Going by the smell of it, anyway. Meat and vegetables and flour were all congealing and cooking together wonderfully. Every few bits and the scent would shift slightly. Some fresh percolation of organic produce combining or breaking apart and a new dimension would be added. Kasoria wished for a moment that he had some sage or rosemary to hand, but his cupboard was bare. He was a simple man, after all. Easily sated by basic fare.

A simple man, his mind snorted. Only because you choose to be.

Coward.

It must have been Paps, bringing out this side of him. A mirror to what he could have been, perhaps? Unlikely, though. Paps was flashy as fuck, indeed, but his history was as much a mystery to Kasoria as the true name of Fate. He could have been noble-born or gutter-spawned, either one wouldn't have surprised him. But as the man moved around his kitchen, slinging quips and carefully setting aside guts and bones an fur for the future, Kasoria couldn't help but see... something he could be envious of.

Then the actor spoke. He told him a story and Kasoria listened, staring at him with shadowed eyes from behind a curtain of hair. He liked to read. He liked to learn things, even trivia and history that had little impact on his job. He cocked his head to one side as Paps told his story, imparted his knowledge, and had to admit that no, he did not know that.

Kasoria knew people often thought he was stupid. He wasn't. He was simple, or he tried to keep his life as such. And he'd been alive long enough in a world savage enough around people damned enough to know when he was being very obliquely, very gently, very carefully warned.

Threatened. You mean threatened.

Not yet. But it's probably on the way.

The stew pot hissed and bubbled as Paps finished. Not much water left, by the sound of it. The last was being slowly enslaved and converted into their dinner. Soon there'd just be steam left behind. Kasoria reckoned he could smell... no, it wasn't burning yet. Once he got that charred waft of flour sticking to the bottom of the pot, then he would get up and serve them both.

He thought this but did not take his eyes off Paps. The man was a salesman, a trade that was brother to an actor more than any other. An actor sought to convince your soul of a persona, a character... the salesman sought to convince your reason of a great deal. Both complemented each other. The corners of Kasoria's mouth twitched, rose gently, mostly hidden by his hair. Paps was good at what he did, that was a certainty. He projected concern and wisdom and kindness, even to those who knew he had little of either in his breast.

Don't play the angel of mercy, my boy. I've seen what you can do.

"Sounds nice," he said, after what seemed like an age. He turned his empty glass upside down and placed it in front of him. No more. All done. "Being able to choose."

That's what he envied. Saying that word bought the vague concept into focus, like something glimpsed through dirt suddenly revealed to his eyes. Kovic's charm and gregarious nature weren't the true attraction of the man; it was that he was free to be what he wanted to be. He could leave the city tomorrow and never return, and no regret would he feel. He could stay forever and do much the same. No bonds of oath or blood held him back, as far as Paps knew, and the little man hated him for that.

Just for a trill. But sometimes that's enough.

"You see that?" He pointed at the gladius hanging next to his bed. The fact it wasn't within arms reach of him with a halfway-stranger in his house, should have told Paps a lot. "It's doesn't belong to me. I carry it, I use it, but the where and the who and the why... that's not me. It belongs to my master, and we both know who that is."

Kasoria took a deep breath that seemed to cast away the pantomime they were engaging in. Paps was a fine one for metaphor, true, but Kasoria rankled even as he spun his tale. He wanted things simple. He wanted things plain. He was tired of men who hid their ill-intent behind stories and yarns and never said what they meant. He had enough secrets in his life... or, more accurately, one massive secret that would never even be uttered, let alone hinted at.

"I won't sit here and lie to your face and tell you that being a... black sheep, makes me giddy with contentment every time I awake. But it's what I am. I swore myself and... and I keep my word."

The killer held onto his resentment, his envy, letting that show on his face more than his uncertainty. Paps was sharp and watchful and those two things alone made him dangerous. Even failing to mention his son wouldn't be enough protection: anything that could imply another reason beyond blind loyalty and quaint nobility... he'd sniff it out. So Kasoria had to play his own role, of a-

Simple man. Just a stupid thug who loves and admires his boss and would never betray him.

It wasn't entirely a lie, he would tell himself afterwards. Vorund didn't treat him like a serf or slave, underpaying or abusing him because of an oath that could only be broken by death, or explicit words. He was paid well and treated like the valuable weapon that he was. The old man was even friendly to him, and for the full quarter of his life that Kasoria had been in his service, if he had to name anyone whom he would call a friend, well...

"Until death takes one of us, or your word ends my oath." He nodded, smiling a touch at the veracity of his memory. It was still sharp, after all, and that was always a nice surprise to a man growing older. "Those were the words I spoke when I pledged myself to him. So unless he frees me from it, or he dies, I'm staying where I am. As I am."

He shrugged, and there was no sadness in the quick, bouncy gesture. The world was as it was, and sometimes it could not be changed. The killer sighed again, and pushed the hair from his face, over the top of his head, tying it into a rough tail with it's own length. He didn't want it dipping into his stew, after all.

"You smell that? Stew's ready." Kovic braced to move, but the little man slid out and up in a single, already-prepared movement. "Ah-ah. Not going to give me shit for being a bad host, then cook and serve, asshole. Sit. Drink. Wait. Food's on the way..."

He backed away from him, and only turned away when he came to the pot. His position had been made clear after all. He didn't know who the handsome man in his house served, but if he was hinting that he should change sides... their name whispered through his mind again. Made it tense and chilly. Would Paps really be aligned with... them?

You see him working for a street gang or breaking legs for puff-peddlers?

No, Kasoria did not, but he did not know for sure. So he filed the information away and ladled steaming, mouth-flooding stew into one bowl after another. He carried one in each hand and a stale-but-serviceable loaf of brad between them as he walked back to the table. He dropped it onto the table between them as he did, and it landed with a sound like a soft brick. The killer rolled his eyes at Kovic's expression when he heard it, sitting back down.

"Oh, don't make that face. Can't have stew without bread, and that's all I've got. It's just a little... tough."

They were playing again. Acting again. Deceiving each other again. Careful words had been spoken, and blunt words answered them. The air had been cleared and then polluted again by what they were, and what was coming. Kasoria sat across the table and stared at the man, smile tinged with sadness... but it did not last. No use mourning for a life he'd long since lost.

They'd said their pieces to each other. Made their positions clear (one, admittedly, less artfully than the other). Now was time to eat.

If they were lucky, maybe they'd wait until tomorrow to try and kill each other.

[Limbo]

Life surprised you in many ways. Having listened in silence, politely, Kovic reflected on both Kasoria’s words as well as the man himself.

He spoke many truths, qualities he couldn’t share by the great gap between his nature and that of the mortal before him, and yet the two seemed to speak in a language, in a selection of words that managed to close the gap between the two beings. There was an array of emotions shown with every phrase, a whole subconscious message sent out for Kovic to receive, encoded, and struggling to decipher it. When two men gathered and spoke, what they didn’t say was multiplied tenfold for every word they muttered.

Sadness, longing, disgust and some vague hints of regret is what he assumed was Kasoria’s unspoken message, emotions that mingled and emerged from the filth in which he laid buried. In this emergence, Kovic could read a part of himself. He too was buried in filth, but it was not in the façade of a filthy man living in a cobweb-riddled home.

What Kasoria did not understand, or did not understand just yet, was that freedom and choice was not something relevant in life. They were variables that didn’t quite fit in in the equation, details that only stretched the resolution of the problem of life. Kovic had been born free, but he too was a slave. His leash was that of his nature, and that leash was shared by every living creature. A plant could not move, rooted in place, yet it could not change its nature, always sucking from the earth and baking in the sun. An eagle flew overhead, free to traveled wherever it pleased, and yet it too was a slave to its nature, always lurking, stalking and preying upon lesser creatures. A plant would never hunt down a rat, nor an eagle would dig its beak into the earth and suck to survive.

Mortals believed themselves different. They believed their capacity for thought or logic was something that granted them further opportunity. In a way, it did, but they too were living creatures. They too had its nature. Kovic knew, and even all his terrible might, his capacity to mutate, or the will to evolve, had not allowed him to escape the most basic principle, the one axis from which all life rotated. Choice mattered when it was offered to minor decisions. Live here and there. Wear this or that. Marry this one or that one. These choices did not compromise nature. They complimented it. Find a man and follow him. See how he lives, what he dons, what he eats and who he beds at night, and you'll see his nature having contaminated every aspect of his life.

Did it make a difference if he was here or someplace else on the morn? It did not. Would it matter if he tossed away his suit and manners and became a man lusting for bravado? It would not. This he knew from experience. Everyone was a subject to their nature. Kovic’s nature made him eat and devour. Did a choice really matter if the outcome was always the same? Kasoria could believe he could escape Etzos and perhaps forge a new life. Perhaps earn coin doing some honest work, like chopping wood or tending to cows, but would he ever stop being a killer? Would he ever look into the eyes of a man and not see openings in the guard, or ways to break him like a girl broke her porcelain doll? Would his hands ever forget the heat of blood, or his eyes forget the crimson river that could escape the depths of a man? Men did not change, and even if Kovic wanted to help them, sometimes he saw his own impotence with his own Domain.

The only escape was either death, or a life within the mind. It was that why those discontent with life hid beneath their blankets, discontent with life, and wept in silence. They didn’t understand this sorrow did not come from bad choices, or a lack of choices. This grief came from the fact that choices did not matter, and most died without knowing.

Good for them.

“It’s very rude to put your weapons atop the table, you know,” Kovic remarked once the bread struck the table, chuckling. After removing his jacket and placing it on the chair rest, he rolled up the shirts of his black shirt and fought hard to break the bread in two. There was no doubt both host and guest would suffer blunt force trauma from this wheat rock.

The stew came, and Kovic was finally able to stop eating with his nostrils. Often he’d plant himself in some tavern and limit himself to sniff the meals of others - from afar, of course. He’d relish in the aroma, imagined what it could taste like, imagine himself licking the spoon, the bowl, and the heat upon the tip of his tongue. It had become a sort of sick kink, much similar to the kink felt by a rapist. They both wanted something, and yet they were not allowed to it. They could take it, but they’d be found, and they’d be shunned. It wouldn’t be long before questions arise should Kovic eat as much as a dozen hungry men and remain as lithe as he was.

The stew had cooked well. It was still too hot to taste, but it could be explored. With a spoon, he’d turn over a spoonful or two, appraising the consistency, texture, and overall quality of the recipe. A whole glossary of culinary terms hid within him, words so fancy even he couldn’t remember where he had acquired them. It was truly shameful he had never posed as a food critic.

He’d lift a spoon and blow out the steam before tasting the meat. A satisfied hum gave voice to his praise. Conversation was rather lacking whilst the two ate. Their eyes would meet ever so often, still wary of one another, eyes fixed down at the bowl and yet staring to the man in front of them. Kovic grunted, left his spoon down, and pulled out a long, dark hair from his maws. Well done, hobo. He loft a hand to signal it was no problem, and he kept eating.

“Loyalty is a strong leash. When the master sinks, unfortunately, so does the dog,” he finally said, as he wrestled a piece of bread against the stew, the hiatus of their conversation being loft. “There’s something I don’t understand.”

Kovic rose his eyes, blue moons that saw through the world itself.

“You don’t have a family. You don’t have a sweetheart, and if you do, you probably pay her for the business between her legs. You don’t surround yourself with luxury. Even your weapon lacks gleam and shine. By all I’ve seen and know about you, you’ve got not reason why you would put your money in the bank, and we both know you’re not some common thug that steals chickens from the coops.”

Pause.

“Men that find pleasure or enjoy our line of business are murderers. We’re killers. We do so in exchange not for pleasure, but something else. What is it that you gain from this?”

[Kasoria]

Yep, it was definitely one of his. Paps seemed to be favoring quite the bohemian, near-the-shoulder length for his mane these days, but there was no mistaking that long, ragged strand he pulled out of his bowl. Kasoria's mouth stopped chewing as he watched it come out, inch by inch... and then shrugged at the man's questioning eyes.

"No-one's making you eat it, mate..."

They went on in silence, and it was so very close to companionable. Some spices would have been a great addition, true, but there was enough body and depth to the stew to satisfy the beggar. Carrots that were still crunchy, celery and onions that were firm yet still succulent, and the meat... well, he had to nod his appreciation to the man as he wolfed down the last chunk of quivering meat.

"Gotta admit," he said around the last few chews, grabbing the log of bread and breaking off a chunk (with the aid of the edge of the table, admittedly). "You know yer way around a skinned field rat."

They could have continued that way for the rest of the night, or for as long as Kovic felt comfortable in a place that seemed to be determined to grime up his nice, neat clothes. Another bowlful, perhaps. Another round of drinks. Reminiscing? Well, why not? In truth they'd been more at ease with each other in their bloody work arcs before, when mutual interest threw them together for a few short days. But over it all would have been the hanging specter of the future. Each had said enough for the other to know their stance, their allegiances... so what was left to say, save enjoy what screed of similarity they had?

Paps answered that question with his little quip, and Kasoria grunted as he damn-near forced his shard of bread against the bowl. He'd thought that the stew would soften it up for eating. He'd been wrong. His eyes flicked up and there was a flash of yellow teeth behind his beard.

"I ever get a dog, I'll remember that, Paps. Men are a little different."

The man wouldn't let it go, though. He kept talking, words well-chosen and hinted with curiosity. That's what made men like Kovic dangerous: not just their ability, but their need to know. To push and prod at mysteries until their secrets were revealed. He understood that knowledge of a thing was power over that thing. Sitting there, wrestling with the rocky loaf, Kasoria knew he was being studied. Kovic was dissecting his life surely as a scholar would a beetle pinned to a desk. His history, his proclivities, that which he loved, or hated. The reasons and motivations and his-

Kasoria looked up as the man finally got round to asking a fucking question. The truth would not do. The truth would never be spoken, not to anyone, for anyone in his world could turn against him. All he did, he did to ensure that one far from this fetid place would never have to walk in his shoes. Every ounce of blood spilled was one that boy would never need to shed; every life taken bought his son clothes and shoes and food and whatever else he might need. To grow up and be anything but the scarred, sullen, hollow thing Kovic was staring at.

Kasoria stared, and the answer came to him. He smiled, but not for the reason the watchful Paps probably assumed. The best lies were those that were only a hair removed away from the truth. Missing only one or two facts and yet they would hold up to scrutiny.

Only three would know it to be a lie. You're one of them. Everyone else... has no reason to suspect.

Because who would think you would have a son?

"Purpose."

That was all he said. A myriad of explanation and justification swilled around in his mind, and then with an internal grin he flushed them. Leaving just that one word, bare and enigmatic, echoing in the air. Let the Great Actor think into that what he would. Let him frown and cock his head and try to divine whether or not Kasoria was a man seeking greater meaning in life, like a relic to the warrior monks of old, or mayhap he was a man so empty that only dealing death could move his limbs from trial to trial... or think he was a liar.

Either way, nothing more would be said. The killer picked up his empty bowl and laid it down on the floor next to the table. At once a flurry of hungry furrballs were on it, like piranhas rushing to consume a hunk of bloody meat tossed into their river. He gnawed at the stew-slathered bread and then gave up, snorted, tossed it onto the table between them. It thumped and thudded like a rock, then was still.

"Aye. Next time, I'll have a fresher loaf."

Thanks for Jade for the template

[Alistair]

Kasoria

Knowledge
Skill
Acting: Pretending to Abandon a "Friend"
Cooking: Skinning a Rabbit for the Pot
Cooking: Rabbit Stew with Vegetables
Cooking: Eating Bread Before it Turns Stale (and Rocky)
Deception: Staying Unnoticed with Modest Clothes
Deception: Make a Lie As Close to Truth as You Can
Discipline: Alert for Traps At All Times
Discipline: Giving Away the Bare Minimum in an Answer
Discipline: Remembering Your World, and How Empty of Trust It Is
Discipline: Keeping Not Just Your Word, But Your Oath
Intelligence: Discerning Meaning in Metaphor
Investigation: Trying to Subtly Question a Man's Intentions

Non-Skill
PC Kovic: Old "Associate" of Kasoria, Fellow Mercenary
PC Kovic: Known to Kasoria as "Paps"
PC Kovic: Charming, Affable, Murderer
PC Kovic: Apparently Working with the Al’Angyryl
Etzos: Prices Soar as the Cylus Goes on
Etzos: Doomsday Loonies Emerge During Cylus
Etzos, Outer Perimeter: Not a Safe Place to Flaunt Your Wealth
Location: The Gored Bull, Etzos Butchers

Loot: N/A
Injuries: N/A
Renown: N/A

Points 15

Comments: This thread makes me sad because I miss Kovic, lol.

Anyway, it was well written and very pleasant to read. I like all of Kasoria's threads and he seems to consistently thread with interesting partners that compliment him. Good stuff!

Kovic - If you want your grade added, PM me the request or post it in the que.