• Graded • Midnight Menu

[Limbo]

28th Cylus, 718

Even the mortal born had fallen victim to Cylus’ darkness. Animals and mortals alike grew disoriented, their sleeping schedules being so afflicted even tracking the passing trials became impossible. Many bordered insanity in this season, for they wrapped themselves in blankets in the dark, and when they emerged, the same darkness were there. Trapped in an endless cycle of darkness, the worms they were entered their cocoons to come out as maggots, reduced, devolving. Plans withered and died, whilst men slowly went insane. Even he, a creature of unlimited shape and endless life, was slowly feeling his sanity being drained. What trial was it? How much of this darkness did he have to endure? Whenever his blue gaze shot towards the features of those around him, he wondered if he, too, looked as ghastly as these cadavers, who stared down like cadavers into the frozen soil.

The breeze bit with strength, and Kovic’s cloak did little to stop its cold venom from infiltrating the fabric of his dark suit. Even so, the former owner of Middlecleft’s orphanage had an extremely fast metabolism, which allowed him to somewhat compensate for the cold with his unnatural heat. His wife had asked him, whilst she wrapped her wrinkled flesh around him, if he was an Aukari, to which he always giggle and evaded the question. There was nobody, nothing, like him in this world. The Outer Perimeter’s market had been a witness to this. It was here where he had devoured a prostitute in an alley, where he was captured and tossed into Vuda’s prisons. It was here where he had met a nice Sev’ryn, and had wondered where he should eat her or eat her cooking. It was here where he had met his old associate, and where they had exchanged bitter words for no apparent reason. If the mud, the stalls, and the sconces lodged in the wood could speak, they’ve been witnesses to Kovic’s infinite number of faces.


The stalls were, obviously, half-deserted. The ruined sleeping schedules applied to the vendors, too. Those lucky enough to have married or having capable children rotate them behind the stalls. Those unlucky, ironically, depended on luck to be with them. They could never track how much they slept, and even if they did, their customers perhaps did not, and so they’d open to sell nothing. Some refused to even leave their homes, afraid a blizzard would drive them off somewhere, and the snow would bury them until their corpses were discovered in Ashan. Even so, the best stock was sold within the Etzori walls, for a larger price. Thankfully, old potatoes, dried meats or canned tomatoes was now what he was interested in. The stock all cities had in common were the people.


The process of picking the next meal was simple; find a viable victim and follow them home. Inspect them and their home with great care. Did they have families? Did they seem like fighters? Were their houses adequate for Kovic’s feeding? Families offered bigger meals, but it was riskier. The old and infirm offered an easy fight, but their bodies, somehow, offered lower quantity of nutrients, to which Kovic was forced to supplement. The strong and healthy often required further planning. Prostitutes, on the other hand, often left a trail of witnesses. Sometimes, the mortalborn missed the simplicity of days past, where he cared not for his façades and simply ate whenever possible. The memory of his assault on Foster’s Landing came to mind.

Between feedings, however, Kovic was a master in mingling with the mortals. This applied to the market, where he walked with a smile, exchanged polite remarks with what were once his neighbours, and gave small talk to the cold merchants. His polite manners and the somewhat feminine air he owned, combined with the elegance of his motions and the fanciness of his suit, allowed him to pose as a victim rather than the apex predator he was.Even when mingling, his eyes were alert, the paranoia that had kept him alive still working. It was this paranoia what made him notice a peculiar someone, a man best described as a shade, an illusion. He, too, was a mask, for beneath the disgraceful looks, he too was coated in the blood of his victims. Standing a few stalls away, Kovic left his inspections of the aromatic candles he was browsing, to, instead, approach.
“What’s tonight’s menu?” he’d greet, looking down at Kasoria’s purchased goods.

[Kasoria]

"This is rotten."

"Says you, mate. You buyin it or not?"

There were times when Kasoria wished he was the breed of broad, hulking, walking foundation stone that one so often associated with an Etzosi underworld heavy. Maybe then he wouldn't have nobodies like this smug wanker giving him shit for pointing out, quite accurately, that a pepper with that big of a bruise on it... and with that many colors on the bruise... was likely not fit for human consumption. All he'd have to do would be glower, or maybe flex his tree-like arms, and the point would get across.

Instead, he peered up into a face that didn't know him, and didn't care. He sighed.

"Fine... these two, instead."

The grocer just grunted and bagged up his produce. Thank fuck it was the last one, he was tired to trawling through the human detritus out in the Citizen's Market. It was enough of a mess when there was sunlight and you could see the busy figures striding towards you. During Cylus, however... Kasoria felt like he was running an endless gauntlet of ignorant giants who seemed neither willing nor capable of noticing him. He considered buying a bright, white cloak to help out but quickly dismissed the idea. Anonymity was something not just enjoyed by him, but required. People passed by and forgot him before the smell had even left their nostrils.

Just another beggar or lowly worker. Swaddled in a cheap coat and a ratty beard. Smelling of brandy or feces, begging bowl hanging limp from the fingers of one hand. Who would want to remember that?

Kasoria had been using that con for decades. It was a testament to the arrogance of humanity that it had rarely come undone.

But there are drawbacks. Like today.

"Here."

"Aye."

Not even a thank you, as he handed over his pay for the bounty of vegetables and some fruit. No change, either, but that was expected. Candles, food, blankets, the price of all crept up and up as Cylus ground on and the night seemed to have no end. Kasoria could smell the jittery desperation in the air. It was about the right time, too. Every Cylus, without fail, some new madman started screeching in the streets about how this was The Last Night. The Final Night! The Ultimate Darkness before the Immortal Return and Retribution!

Every sodding arc. Every arc, one or five or ten popped up, and every arc, the season ended, Ashan arrived, and the sun popped back out.

What amazed him, was that often it was the same madmen who popped up each time. Some people just never learned.

“What’s tonight’s menu?”

It wasn't the words, nor the tone, it was the proximity. Hairs on his neck stood to attention and Kasoria nearly swung around with a fist flying. His stance shifted under his rags, sliding into a fighting pose with one hand cocked back in a fist, calculating parries and feints and strikes even as he turned and looked up and-

Familiar, amused eyes looked down at him. Way down.

"... I remember you being shorter."

A joke. Of sorts. Those that knew him (and they were sodding few, at that), would have picked their jaws up upon hearing mirth from a man they all swore hadn't cracked a true smile in arcs. He did not smile then, either. But there was no heat in his words and the latent, chained violence in his form drained away.

Not entirely, of course. Willing to come back when bid, at a trill's notice. But such was his life, and such was the man he spoke to. He knew that if he'd voiced as such, Kovic would understand. That fact alone made him more willing to tolerate the man.

"Stew. It's cheap and it lasts." Dark eyes flicked up and down the tall, handsome man. For as far as Kasoria knew, or had seen, that's what Kovic was. "Shopping for dinner?"

There was a ring of humor to that, too, if the black-edged sort that men such as them called their own. The pedestrians and plebs rushed by them, and yet the two men were not touched or jostled. Some primal sense seemed to part the air for them, two killers sharing a moment, one wondering if the other was here to kill him.

Such was their world. But they lived in it together.

Groceries

-2gn for various vegetables, bread, and cheese

[Limbo]

“Like everything in Cylus, I too grow out of proportion,” was Kovic’s response, and he too shared a small laugh with the man before him.

It was baffling how sharing a secret could serve as a social cure. Were they both indirectly opposed to each other, these interactions would not be possible. Instead of standing and laughing, they’d stare from the distance and brood, then fantasize about hacking the soul of the other’s body. Even so, interactions like these were not without its danger. The aggression was implied, axiomatic. There was no doubt that if Kovic were to do something drastic, like a physical advance on the killer before him, a blade would be his reply. It was that why these two males, spiritually filthy as they were due to their sins, were now bound by the nicest social etiquette, and were prime example of mutual respect.

It was, also, a good way to play.

Kovic’s blue eyes flickered down to the man’s goodies, slightly skeptical about the quality of the items. In return, he’d raise his own purchase; a short but thick red candle, which stank of watermelon.
“Not quite sure what I was shopping for,” was his somewhat chagrined response. “I guess I’d rather smell it than taste… Well.”

As the man’s soft words trailed off, his gaze once again flickered to the merchant’s goods. Just like Kasoria had found, the produce was meager in quality, but the season offered little choice. Unless one had saved up their wealth or owned animals, they were compelled to either shop for high prices and low quality, or get robbed by the inns or tent soups that charged way too much for way too little.

Kovic looked up, and flashed his brightest of smiles to the unworthy male, displaying his full set of teeth, white and regular, and as sharp as nails. His maws opened, and he was about to say something, when a certain peasant with a rather heavy step stomped on a frozen pond. The ice layer broke, and a chunk of mud flew directly into the teacher’s dressing shoes. This was almost a shocking development, apparently, for Kovic immediately handed off his candle and crouched without pause, carefully removing the muck from his shoe.

Completely defenseless, Kovic worked at it, scooping the dirt with his fingers and using the edge of his cloak to return some semblance of a shine to those cheap shoes. Only Treid knew how a man managed to keep shoes as clean and shiny in such a filthy scenery.
“I was thinking half a chicken from the butchery,” said the somewhat posh male, eyes flicking up for a brief moment. “Perhaps I could donate it to your stew in exchange of a bowl or two. I must admit…”

The cleaning was complete, the shoes as clean as they could get without a tongue licking the surface. Kovic rose back up to his full height, and even the well-trimmed beard of his refined features couldn’t salvage his manhood from his feminine air.
“... I’m a pretty incompetent cook. We could light the candle for dessert.”

Off Topic

-3sn for a watermelon-sceneted candle.

[Kasoria]

Kasoria could do naught for a few trills but blink at the bright, smelly, waxen thing in those smooth hands. Certainly not the sort of purchase one expected from a man he'd seen destroy a man's face with an ax... but then again, Pap always was a little off for a mercenary. Looking at him now, one would figure him for a tutor or a lawyer, a slumming noble or a merchant given to flights of fancy.

Been a long time. Maybe he's one of those, now. Maybe he's all of them.

Then there was a splash and that candle was in his hand. Kasoria felt a thrill of panic jingle up his spine. Both hands now occupied. A distraction, this peasant passing by? Then Pap got down to one knee and Kasoria took a step back, darkness radiating off him like-

He's cleaning his shoe.

The little man just stared for a moment. Then rubbernecked around and... no, there was no coterie of killers charging out of the crowd. Kovic wasn't about to lunge up with a boot knife and gut him. He looked down and saw the back of the man's neck, all shaved and exposed. He could drop the candle, draw his knife and jam it into the top of his spine before the thing had stopped rolling across the cobbles. He could.

But he didn't. Pap knew what he was doing. Exposing himself at all for men in their business (was it still his business?) was almost akin to giving homage. When death or vengeance could come at you from any direction, at any time, showing your bare breast to another was... a declaration. Pap grumbled and scrubbed and didn't seem satisfied. But still he rose back up, like a pale tree growing the span of arcs in a few moments, until he towered again, and Kasoria gave him back his candle.

My hands will smell for breaks.

He mentioned food, and Kasoria was oddly not surprised. He remembered the appetite of the man when last they met. Two... no, three entire roast chickens. One would have set up Kasoria quite nicely for a handful of days, but he'd watched Kovic demolish them like they were finger pastries, then call for... well, finger pastries. By the tray-load. He rubbed under his beard, dislodging some crawling things that the damned thing always played host to, then fixed Kovic with a serious gaze.

He couldn't go forgetting what they were, after all.

"You think I'll let you know where I live? I ain't seen you in... what, an arc? Two? Then I see you at the market and we exchange words and I'm to open my doors to you?" A tiny, nagging voice warned Kasoria that this was soundly uncomfortably like a woman he once knew who did not appreciate his cold shoulder, but he pushed it aside. Odd how pasts intersected. "Gonna need more than that, and since when were we friends, Pap?"

Just answered your own question, an even more unwelcome voice whispered, as he waited for the man to answer. And if he wanted to kill you, he wouldn't bother with the pantomime.

Kasoria wished he could believe that. But he's played the mummer enough times throughout his "career", and another thing he remembered was that as accomplished as he could be with the Simple Smelly Beggar role, Paplo Ynush was a master at pretty much any character he chose to cloak himself in. Long-Lost Acquaintance was surely another... and yet he'd closed the door without barring it.

He still stood there, boots likewise stained but far less fastidious than the fashion-conscious "teacher". He hadn't walked away or sneered or cursed. He was standing and waiting, because he wanted to be convinced. Even if he wouldn't admit it.

"And be quick, yeah? Bloody freezing out here."

[Limbo]

“My, my. You sound like a man living in fear, Kas. I once read that men living under stress often lack interpersonal relationships with those around them, be it with friends, significant others, or family.” Kovic’s voice was even, matter-of-fact. Even so, his expression seemed somewhat smug, slightly mocking. It would be up to Kasoria to interpret it as he wished.

There was no doubt as to what Kasoria was. The Mortalborn’s eyes were trained in peeling away the lies and seeing straight into the soul. This talent was not quite necessary when standing in front of the fake vagabond. Were the man to devote some time to ablution, the muck and grime would peel off and reveal a true artist in the art of murder, a shadow even light could not catch. Only the gleam of his honed blades could be seen as this rabid dog gingerly ripped out hearts and souls from the bodies of his targets. In that sense, they were both alike. They both wore a mask, and kept what they were a secret. For Kovic, this was double. Even his work with the Al’Angyryl couldn’t quite begin to grasp the concept of his monstrosity. It was amusing to remember imagination often fell short when trying to understand it.
“I hoped time would not turn our already lacking relationship into something bitter, and yet I can’t help but feel somewhat hurt by your distrust. Must I persuade you to accept my companionship, now?”

The words were mere words. Kovic, although capable, did not accompany them with any dramatism or faked sentiment. It was delivered the same way a book delivered facts, and yet his eyes sought not to make an impression, for they drifted down to his candle. When the breeze was still enough, the blond man wrapped in his dark cloak could still catch a hint of the watermelon scent coming from the waxen cylinder. When the breeze was uneasy, the scent of the male before him reached his nostrils instead.
“Well, fine then.” Kovic’s eyes rose and fixed with those of the shorter male. A thin smile began forming beneath his trimmed beard. “I will retract the chicken from the offer, but, perhaps, ten thousand golden nel might spark your interest.”

He said it, but he didn’t do so subtly. The words were spewed out as if speaking of a story from work, about the leak in the roof or the newest Etzori policies. Even so, words so significant dropped so casually caused ripples in the crowds. Some lost their paths to wherever it was they were going. Some found a new path, now, for the poor and the needy could not fathom such amount of wealth. Some stated with envy, others with rage, and others with pure greed. Kovic stared too, but he did not stare at himself for being so careless about his words, not only because his eyes could not roll within their sockets, but also because they were fixed on Kasoria, waiting for his reaction, waiting to see if those words would even have an effect on someone so aloof from every pleasure and luxury money could buy.
“Tell me quick, because it is cold out here.”

[Kasoria]

Mad fuck wants to get us fucking killed.

Kasoria tried to formulate the words and have them leap from his tongue, but something made him just... stare, instead. Probably the looks of the people around them reacting as if Kovic had just exploded in front of them. Muttering and whispers rose like flies around a corpse, which Kasoria found rather fitting, considering that's what they'd be if even a hint of that fortune was ever revealed.

They were in the last circle of Etzos before the wilderness. People here got shanked and dumped in the sewer for a handful of coppers, let alone a single gold nel.

The words made his heart skip, true, but the man himself... Kasoria couldn't help but shake his head, slowly, lank hair swaying around his shoulders. Two arcs, or thereabouts. Not much had changed. Pap was still a bloody showman, even when he was playing it straight and trying to convince a man who was paranoid by nature. His eyes were almost singing with glee at his jape, bulging for just a moment as he shared his joke with Kasoria. The shorter man scratched the back of his neck and sighed. Long-suffering and resigned.

"You're still a mad one, Pap. Keep your sodding gold."

Then he walked away. Around the standing, smirking man with the laughing eyes. Away from him and his riches and his humor that mocked the world for no other reason that it was ripe for scorn. He walked away and the crowd barely noticed him. After all, he hadn't said he was loaded with nels, had he?

He drew it out. Mayhap a little longer than was polite. But since when did that matter? He waited until Kovic was on the cusp of a reply before he said over his shoulder-

"Come on if yer coming. Butchery's around the corner."

He didn't wait for Kovic to catch up, but knew he would. The man couldn't resist a free meal.

[Limbo]

Even the explosive offer failed to convince the ragged man. What a failure, thougth Kovic. Those that had heard his words still had trouble looking away, and yet Kasoria did not seem to care. He walked away, and the mortalborn found himself deeply troubled by this reaction. Had he read him so wrong? Killing was more often done for the sake of gold. Many were the men who partook in the rather common action. Many had their fair share of mental disorders or a simple lust for blood. Killing, however, remained primarily a service rather than recreation. Just as his maws opened for a last attempt of persuation, Kasoria’s words came. With a sigh, and a shake of his head, Kovic followed after.

It took him a bit of an effort to reach him. This was mainly due to the mud his dressing shoes had to traverse, and with the urgency, those fancy and previously polished dark leather shoes were reduced to two large mud balls. By the time Kovic reached his dining companion, his lips were pursed in silent scorn.
“You were always a weird one,” would be his comment.

The Gored Bull was just around the corner, indeed, and yet it was a business with a dagger in its heart. An arc ago, it had been the place to go if one craved meat, especially porcine. Pigs were slaughtered in the basement, a fine prick stuck through their throats until they drowned in their blood. It was not senseless torture; it improved the flavor and quality of the meat considerably. Now, however, it was in shambles. With the death of the father, the son had taken over the business, and he had much to learn. The cuts were dirty. The meat was often found to be contaminated. The animals were often malnourished, and their meat was stringy and tasteless. The name of the wooden one-story building had turned ironic, for the bull had gored itself.

Kovic made his way inside after his companion. The building had the acerbic smell of blood lingering about, a few lamps hanging here and there, giving the bloodstained counter and the sourly owner a rather macabre look. It was a filthy place. It was easy to imagine why children often made tales regarding abattoirs, places of death that seemed little else than a torture chamber. All sorts of cuts from all sorts of origins hung from the meat hook, some fresh and others not so much. Blood dripped from the meat, falling into a small metallic gutter, tilted to one side, allowing the blood to flow down into a large, blood-stained jar. The crimson brook babbled about the carnage, and the few rabbits that hung from the hooks stared, with dead eyes, at the customers.

Aside from the two newcomers, there were only two other individuals apart from the butcher. An old woman babbled something under her breath, staring at the array of possibilities, the sound of coins clicking in her palms as she, every so often, opened her hand and, bathed in the lamp light, counted her budget. The other customer was a young boy, no more than nine arcs of age, who coughed dramatically, staring at the meat longingly. His eyes flew to the newcomers, coughed again, and returned to his gazing and coughing. Only the butcher remained, a bald man with a thick stubble, whose width was increased by his stance, both arms spread, hands turned fists resting against the wooden counter. With disgust he’d stare at the old woman, only needing to flick his gaze towards his cleaver in order to confirm everyone’s suspicious that he wished her to purchase something already.
“Greetings,” Kovic spoke, approaching the counter with a polite smile.
The butcher’s reply was that of staring at the two. Not a friendly man, even if both newcomers often came to his shop. That was one of his biggest flaws.
“I was hoping for half a chicken, but that hare…” Kovic pointed towards one of the hooks. The creature had died a horrible death, by the looks of his expression. It was permanently stuck in an expression of horror, of shock. Whatever it had seen on the other side had been enough to disfigure its visage. “How much for the whole of it?”
“Three.”
“Silver?”
“Golden.”

It was outrageously expensive. You could buy a week’s worth of prostitutes with that coin, or have a man murdered for a tenth of it. The only thing that shocked Kovic more was that nobody else had the idea of turning to cannibalism. Even so, gold had no real value to him, and with a shrug, Kovic would begin extracting payment.
“Tell me then, Kas. How’s life treated you these last arcs? How’s work?”

[Kasoria]

Some things you just don't associate with people. You know them, or think you do, and that knowledge provides a template for what you expect from them. Most times you're aren't seeking to shrink them down into easily-definable constructs, but you still do, if unconsciously. So when they happen, it surprises you even more.

“You were always a weird one.”

"Ha!"

Just the once, mind you. A single, sharp syllable of mirth cracking into the darkness like a neck snapping. So sudden that a couple of passing folk jerked their gaze around to find the source... but no, it couldn't have come from him. Maybe the other one, the well-dressed fellow. That would be more expected. More predictable.

Would have been, if not for the crooked smile suggested under a tangled beard.

"Means a lot, coming from you."

Kasoria's nose crinkled when they walked into the Gored Bull, and there was a faint, disconnected sense of sadness following the gesture. He remembered Mars, the beefy figure from his childhood. Brusque and always smelling like fresh blood, but a better butcher in the Outer Rings, you were unlikely to find. He approached the business of steaks and shanks and sausages like an artist, or maybe an engineer. He knew carcasses by the sound they made when they hit a table. He could glance at a pig or a rabbit and tell you, down to the ounce, how much meat you would expect. Kasoria didn't even guess at how many recipes he had floating around in his head, lurking behind a face like a brick.

His son was not the image of the father. Probably because he hadn't worked for what he had. Without effort, there was no real appreciation. Just entitlement that bred complacency, mediocrity and, apparently, criminally low standards.

But it'll sell, he told himself as Kovic picked out his fare. No matter the price. Next season, though...

The little man made no move to reach for his purse; barely even moved away from the doorway. Just enough to let people in and out, flat to the wall and observing all the coming and going with cold, careful eyes. If Josie hadn't been so busy with bagging up Kovic's purchase, she might have thought he was casing the place. She would have been wrong.

Kasoria didn't want to trust Kovic; he'd been immersed in their world too long to imagine real, human fidelity could be something he could rely on. But he wanted to relax, even just a little. The time for that would be at the house. Behind a locked door, just the two of them. Until that bit, Kovic could be acting yet again. The long-lost somewhat-friend, just wanting to catch up. Kasoria had no doubt he could pull that off.

It took him a moment to realize he'd been addressed again. A few more to formulate a reply, when they were back in the cold and the gloom with a trio of fat moons shining down on them. He tried to remember the last time someone had asked him that, other than Vorund. Even in his case, it was more a perfunctory thing. Professional. A man looking for flaws and potential issues with a tool that served him well.

Could be the same with him.

"Much the same since last we met. Work is the same, and there's never a shortage of it. Especially these days."

True words, as long as an innocent tongue didn't ask for too many specifics. Life as an enforcer, a reliable and skilled one, meant your plate was always full, figuratively and literally. You could parlay a flexible conscience and being handy with a blade into a good living. Better than how Kasoria was living now, as well he knew. But every couple of seasons, once he returned from his trip out of the city, Kasoria's earnings were always absent from his purse. Enough left over to live, to eat, pay for the esoteric tools of his trade, and mayhap a distraction when he felt the need.

Other than that, he was as he looked. A beggar. Just one that happened to choose the look, rather than actually live it.

The last sentence would have told more, to the right ears. The rise of the Al'Angyryl had gone from a nuisance barely noticed by the underworld, to a looming threat hanging over the heads of all who lived within it. Little was known or understood, but every season whittled down the number of independent gangs and families and syndicates infesting the city. Vorund was next on the list, or so many whispered. On the way out. Losing his grip. Escape while you still can, and join the winning side...

Yes. Kasoria had been very busy the last couple of arcs. Silencing whispers. Reminding the foolish and preemptive.

Including you?

He glanced up at Pap as they turned onto his street, and the eyes that beheld them were of a different breed. They knew him here. Understood what he was, what he could do. Kasoria idly wondered if Pap had heard the story of how his house became unofficially the safest place in the neighborhood. How the last time men had tried to breach it and end him, none of them walked out again. It was certainly useful, but he'd spent breaks scrubbing the floors clean again.

And the walls. And the ceiling.

"Haven't heard your name much, these last few arcs," he said, fiddling with the key, having to lift it a little before it found the tumblers. Every lock in the world seemed to have its own idiosyncrasies, removed from the manufacturers intentions. "I'd almost say you were out of the business..."

The business. The life. The world. The Crossing, if you were keeping it true to Etzos nomenclature. Euphemisms and slang that hid blood and secrets. The question he did not ask hung in the air, yawning as wide as the door that opened, and Kasoria waved his arm inside in a gesture a touch away from mocking.

"But here you are. Catching up. Just by chance."

Kasoria smiled. Another thing unexpected, and not wholly humorous. He'd lived long enough to know that inscrutable fates and the plots of men were often equally to blame for the events that rocked ones life. Maybe Paps was just here for a meal and a chat. Maybe he was, in his own weird way, as starved for friends as Kasoria was. Maybe.

The night was cold and the wind that rattled down the street seemed to nudge the tall visitor into the house. Once he was inside, Kasoria would close and lock the door without taking his mind off him. Home turf. He wondered how much that would matter. He watched the man step into his house, only a few steps removed from a hovel, bare of luxury save for the candles and a trio of worn books, arrayed on a shelf.

"You skin what you bought. I'll put the water on and cut up the vegetab-"

Scratching at the back door. Insistent and determined and coming with a tiny chorus of beseeching voices. Kasoria walked over with a roll of his eyes and opened it just a crack... letting in a posse of furry little monsters, one of whom seemed to take a liking to Kovic's shin. Snakes with fur, all of them. Loyal as a Yaralon sellsword.

"Don't mind them," he said as he went to light the candles. "They're just here for the food. Kinda like you."

Thanks for Jade for the template

[Limbo]

“You and I both know that ‘chance’ is not part of our lexicon, especially in our line of business.”

Kovic included himself in the statement, and beamed a grin towards his dining partner. That same smile remained as his measured gaze scouted through the details of the man’s home. The wooden floor gathered so much dust one could mistake it for a carpet. The wood itself was losing the battle of time, some unevenness visible. The furniture was as picturesque as its owner; dying in filth, crumbling by old age. Cobwebs were visible in the naked rafters and joists, and yet no spiders were in sight. They had left their domain, their homes, in search for a better future, for even if there plenty of flies for all of them, even arachnids had self-respect. Kasoria could learn something from bugs, other than their need to feed from a midden.
“I don’t know what I expected,” would be Kovic’s comment, shrugging. He didn’t want to seem judgemental in the house of his host. Even if he was. Extremely so.

The teacher was on his way towards the kitchen furniture, eyes squinting at its surface. Surprisingly, it was relatively clean, especially when compared to the floor. Or the ceiling. It was mind boggling, in truth, but Kovic refused to let the subject drive him away. Just as he planted the hare on the wooden appliance, his attention was directed towards the new occurrence. Kittens? One of them went for Kovic himself! Just the sight of those big feline eyes, looking up with that reflected charm… The mortalborn kicked the creature away. Gently, of course, but it was still a kick. Its hair was ruining his suit, no matter how mud-riddled it was by default.
“I may come for the food, but I don’t bring fleas,” Kovic said, glancing towards the cat. It was hard to hate such an adorable creature, especially given how similar they tasted to hares.

Back to the task at hand, Kovic extracted a mysterious knife from his sleeve. It was gleaming white, made entirely out of bone. He’d rise it against the candles Kasoria had bothered to light. It was clean, but it didn’t seem too sharp. Giving the back to Kasoria, Kovic introduced the knife in his sleeve. Moments later, it was far sharper, yet the knife itself seemed frail. Nevertheless, the work began. He inspected the hare, stretched out as it was. It had been killed by a headshot, the arrow having pieced straight through his temple. The creature was an athlete. Kovic began with the head. Since he didn’t bother to ask for a cleaver, he had to improvise.
“I haven’t left the business,” Kovic spoke as he worked. “I am at it now and again, but I have other ventures to take care of as well. I prefer to work behind a desk, especially at my age.”


The head was sliced off, at last. It wasn’t easy without a heavy cleaver. Looking at the legs, Kovic decided to improvise. Instead of using his knife to cut through the bone, he snapped all four legs. The head of the hare stared from the shadows, horrified, now witnessing how its body had turned into something worthy of a dark ritual, feet dangling in the air and mesmerizing the cats that plagued the kitchen. Kovic turned the hare and, palping its belly, prodded just through the fur.
“So,” exclaimed Kovic all of a sudden. “You’re still in the business. Do you work independently, or do you follow orders? I ask, because I’m a bit confused. Times change, and two arcs is enough for a lot to change. Most people I knew from back then are… missing. Except you.”

With the hole made, Kovic introduced a finger and tore up part of the hare’s fur. Then, with both hands, he’d rip apart the once beautiful fur of the creature, now leaving it naked in the candlelight, dissected, disgraced, and nothing more than another victim. Kovic tore and tore, and forced the fur through the broken legs, the missing head, and the cut tail. At the end, it was nothing but a fistful of fur wrapped around his fist. Then, he peeled it off, and let the flesh fall upon the wood. There was a strange sensation in watching the headless animal laying there. It felt like a victory, somehow, but it was a bitter one. Kovic should’ve gloated, should’ve laughed and grinned towards the flesh, as if he had something to prove to it, as if it, even in death, it deserved to be mocked of for failing; for dying.

[Kasoria]

Kasoria considered himself something of an expert on blades. He'd been around them his entire life, after all. They were his stock in trade - aside from his bare hands - and most days started or ended with his hands stinging a touch from swinging, slashing, thrusting, cutting, or gutting with one. Even if it was just a chicken or a rabbit.

So when he caught a flash of the bone-tinged knife in Kovic's hand, he snorted to himself. Mad bastard, thinking he was going to cut bugger all with that. Sure, and next he'll use a butter knife to dice up a melon. So instead he found something small and neat and sharp and turned to hand it over and-

-watched the rabbit head fall from its neck, cut clean and almost bloodless. The assassin blinked and... yes, it was the same knife. Same blade. Sam edge to it... right?

Kasoria shook his head as the steady, industrious sound of flesh and fur being parted ripped through the musty air. He'd seen stranger things, and honestly, was he that surprised Kovic would be bearing one of them? So instead he shrugged and put the knife too good use on his own, instead.

"Wouldn't speak to what you'd expect," he said, the two of them now unbelievably turned away from each other, and preparing a stew, of all things. "I don't need much, so I don't spend much."

The cutting skipped a beat (which can happen, just ask any chef). Kasoria wondered if the actor and murderer picked up on that, before his hands found their rhythm again. He had to keep reminding himself, that's what Paps was. He'd seem it first hand, and that charming, debonair figure would stick a knife in your kidney and lung a breath after slinging a witticism your way. He finished the carrots, sliding the little pile of orange slices into the almost-boiling water. Then the onions. Cabbage.

Focus on the food. He doesn't know about the boy. Stop acting like he does.

There was a purr and a flash of slit-thin eyes at his feet. The killer chuckled into his beard and let the chided little creature love up on him, like a woman reasserting that yes, she was still attractive, beastly menfolk be damned! "Ignore him. He's a cold bugger."

She trotted off after a while, to join the thin but purring ranks of cool, fashionable eyes that regarded them both. Kasoria always thought of cats as a cut above the usual scavengers of the streets. The way they strutted and prowled, as if they weren't strays but merely transplanted predators, awaiting a chance to reclaim their glory. He appreciated their deception, too. The way they batted their eyes and rolled on their backs, bore their bellies and purred. So adorable, so winning, so... pretty.

Kasoria smirked to himself as Kovic carried on and filled him in. Much like his visitor. Furry and attractive, but a twinge of muscle, and the claws came out. Not only them, but the will and sheer, bone-deep instinct to use them.

Both of you, then.

"You're chatty for a man who just wants a meal." He turned back around and Kovic would see a pot nearly as big as his belly held in both hands. Water bubbled and steamed, vegetables bobbed and sunk and rose again and jostled with each other for air. "Go on, toss in the meat."

You're standing in front of a man who you know to be a killer, as he's holding a knife, with your hands full and no weapon in either.

No, he reminded his paranoid self, I'm holding a large pot of boiling water within pitching distance.

Once Kovic did as he was asked, scooping and sliding chunks of gamey, bloody muscle into the pot, Kasoria would return it and go rummaging against through his cupboard. Lit as the place was only by a single candle, it was gloomy work, but his hands moved with familiarity that negates mere visual memory. He could walk across this place in pitch darkness, and not stumble once.

He dug in, way in the back, where the dust was thickest, and pulled out...

A couple of glasses, so ill-used Kovic could see the dust puff off them when he blew each one out. And in his other hand, a rope-wrapped bottle of something rosy and robust, he hoped.

"Siddown," Kasoria said, following his own advice and pouring both men a measure. He kicked out the table opposite him, sliding the glass over to where Kovic was pointedly not sitting. "Gonna be a while yet."

Once that situation changed, Kovic would see a wry smile on the man's face. It spoke of survival, and a genuine surprise that the bearer was alive to jest about it. It said he knew the game and the words and the codes, even if he didn't. It spoke of tiredness that only came from true, grueling experience, that taxed the crude flesh even if the soul and mind had long become numb to violence. Finally it spoke of a spark, if only a spark, of something resembling a man.

Raising a glass in a toast.

"To the missing," he said, widening grin and crooked teeth saying that little more would be said from those lips. "May they be found... in due time."

He knocked it back and immediately regretted doing so. Hell's Fuck, that had not aged well. He winced as it burned down, taking it's sweet damn time, dripping down his throat like molten lava. He looked down into the empty glass, hands on either side of it, and the ghost of the grin faded away. It was a nice moment. Almost like they were friends. But the more he enjoyed it, the more the whispers grew louder, more insistent, undeniable.

You're not friends. You're barely even acquaintances.

Your world doesn't do friendship. There's allies, and enemies.

A quarter-century, and you can count on one hand the people who haven't tried to kill you for coin.

Don't be a fool, old man. Remember what you do.

Remember what you have to lose.

He spoke once more, still staring into the wine-smeared glass, as the pot bubbled and the felines mewled. Divining past and future from the dregs, seeing things unwanted until the foreign humor on his face was forgotten. Stony and implacable, sadness bricked up by a wall of hard-earned indifference. It matched his voice too well.

"Why are you really here, Paps?"

Thanks for Jade for the template