• Closed • A Godling Walks Into A Bar (Ouch)(Graded)

[Kasoria]

1st Trial, Vhalar, 718a
Outer Perimeter, South-East Etzos
23rd break

There was no guarantee the wanker would show, of course. Kasoria knew that the moment he'd said the words to the prick, most of a season before. He may not have even remembered the words, so focused was he on getting down the lady and into the tunnels and away from the man he'd robbed, and the men who'd come a goat's fart away from hacking him up like a lamb.

But even if he did, he might not come, so this would be a night waste. This possibility had occurred to the little man with the overgrown forest of hair, dressed in threadbare clothes and smelling... untidy, shall we say. But he finished his ale and gestured for another. Innes topped him up promptly and drifted away again, leaving the quiet patron to his once-a-break drinking. Hardly a sterling profit, but he wasn't causing trouble, and consistency was as welcome to him as splurging bursts of profit.

Long as he pays his tab, fuck do I care?

Kasoria studied the man in the mirror behind the bar. The one with the ragged hair and ragged clothes and eyes that grew more hollowed by the arc. Nothing much new, there. So his gaze wandered around the expanse of polished glass. Took in the punters and the card players, the seasoned drunks and the kids falling in love with their first pints. The sellswords like him, garrulous and bragging or quiet and in corner booths. The dealers and whores, the serving wenches and drifting beggars. All of the Oh'Pee packed into one long room, lit and warm and-

"Again wiv' it, lads!"

-filled with surprisingly good music, in fact. The band was blazing a trail that night, new songs mingled with old classics. There was even a handful of dancers in front of them, moving more out of drink that inspiration, but all the same... Kasoria didn't often see the like in Jessup's.

Old man's smart, he'll hire them back.

He saw the man before he felt the good-natured slap on his shoulder. All his meandering thoughts vanished the moment he saw the hair, the beard, the smirk, the swagger of a man who expected the Fates to bow out his destructive way. Kasoria's body shook a little as the man slid onto a stool next to him. He was already rambling away, gesturing for a drink, and Kasoria just watched. He listened, to a degree, though it was of an irrelevance.

Fancy seeing you!

How have you been?

Quite a night!

Fine performance!

Kasoria waited as long as he could, then realized the man would not stop talking. So he did what he'd planned to do anyway, in mid-sentence, and-

-his right hand snapped up and behind Oberan's head, held flat against the back of it and every muscle from his knuckles to the middle of his back flexed-

CRACK

-as he smashed Oberan's face down and into the polished bar. Not enough to break anything, and if anyone would be an expert of knowing how much pressure that would be, it was the Raggedy Man at the bar. The music skipped for but a single beat, mirroring the pause of attention that the rest of the tavern seemed to give the scene. But there was no blood, no apparent injury, save a groaning man whose moan was muffled by the hand over his face.

Kasoria sipped at his drink, and kept watching the man. In the mirror.

"Uv' alla' fuckin' gamin' halls inna' city, youse walked inta' that one," he said slowly, shaking his head, wondering if the Fates or this idiot were really to blame. "An' even when you find me there, an' I tell ya what I'm doin', you keep on wiv' yer thievin'. Anyone else - anyone - an' I'd have opened their throat an' bled them into that hole you crawled down, then let the lads carve you an' bag you an' toss you down for the rats."

Now he turned, and Oberan would see the anger simmering in Kasoria's eyes. Like an inferno behind the stoic iciness of his expression, present and scorching but above all things, controlled. That precise, singular strike had been evidence of that. Just like the other one, that still hurt his tummy when he remembered it. Only this one? That had been anger. Directed and marshaled and unleashed for but a moment, but a glimpse enough to tell Oheran that this wasn’t business alone.

"Next time," Kasoria continued, voice a touch lower, as if making a vow. "We won't be havin' a chat. I won't be playin' games wiv' you. I'll just punch a little higher, an' smash your breastbone straight through your stupid fucking heart. Watch you choke on your own blood on the floor, then forget youse even exist." He turned back to the mirror and finished his ale. "An' in case y'haven't guessed, we're even. You saved me down in the tunnels. I saved you in that room. We're done."

[Oberan]

He hadn’t been to Jessup’s before. Not because of a bad rep, unruly patrons or a lack of entertainment, but simply because he already had a pub he frequented. One closer to his house, where he didn’t have to wander across half the Perimeter before he found his bed. They knew him there, for better or for worse, which made it easier to start conversation, play a game or two, and get free drinks.

Especially that last one was important.

It was mainly that which caused Oberan to show up when he was called out by Bagun Vorund’s loyal hound. Last time he’d been treated to two excellent tumbles of whiskey –three would be more accurate, but the punch that’d come with it had made him unable to imbibe afterwards. With some luck, he’d not be receiving violence instead of drinks tonight.

Oberan had to admit that Jessup’s had the ambiance down pat. The sweeping music got people dancing and singing and clapping and stomping their feet, encouraged by the enthused gestures from the vocalist. All of the musicians appeared to be having fun with their performance, which went a long way in engaging the crowd.

Kasoria sat at the bar, apparently having exchanged the more high-quality clothes for his more … typical choice of garb. Beggar’s rags. Foul-smelling ones at that. Not to say Oberan’s own clothes were a classic example of fine garments, with the many patches and stitched up tears riddling just about every other hand-width of fabric, but at least they were clean and didn’t smell like he’d fished them out of a sewer.

He slapped the hairy man on the shoulder by way of greeting, then placed his butt on the barstool next to him, grinning amicably.

“Good to see you again Kas! How’ve you been the last dozen trials? How’s the Lads? Did you get—Ah, barkeep? I’d like a…” He stared at the chalkboard with the listed drinks and their prices that hung on the wall to the left the mirror. “… a mug of lager.” There was a moment of silence where Oberan collected his thoughts, but he’d already forgotten what he wanted to ask. “You’ve certainly picked a nice night to meet up. Not too bad a joint, this here. Large amount of patrons, more than I'd figured, really. They must be doing something right for sure. Might be because of the great performance as well. They're all fired up, especially that girl on the pipes! Did you see her little tap dance a bit ago? You can really tell they’re putting their—”

Before he was finished talking, his face collided with the wood of the counter. A bright flash even though his eyes were closed, the dull thud of his skull smacking into the furniture. Pain shooting through his head, and he shot back up directly afterwards, clutching his face in an attempt to smother the aching. It didn’t work.

“What the fuck Kas? Who shat in your breakfast?”

Apparently, it was Oberan himself, and he'd done the deed last time they met. Right, that did make sense. He’d expected the killer to have forgotten about it already – the Mortalborn himself certainly had. Or at least he didn’t think about it on a regular basis. Kas though? Kas was pretty angry about it, he could see it burning in those black holes of him.

“Oh, ehm. I suppose that is what happened, huh?” It was more reminiscent than apologetic, if it even was supposed to be apologetic at all. He shrugged slightly, then thanked the barkeep when his mug of lager finally arrived. The barman quickly removed himself from the immediate surroundings, and Oberan took a sip, smacking his lips. “I’m a gambling man, Kasoria. Game’s more fun when the stakes are high. You just raised the stakes.”

Another shrug, another swallow of lager.

“And I couldn’t just leave without winning even once, now could I?”

To be fair, he hadn’t expected to be caught either. Or maybe he had. Perhaps he’d subconsciously felt he’d run into trouble if he stayed, if he kept doing what he did best. It certainly had given him a buffet’s worth of adrenaline rushes, one after the other. And when it’d been over, when he’d been making his way through the sewers? The high had still persisted, it’s flame only fanned by the appearance of Bagun Vorund himself, by the deception he and Kasoria had managed, by the escape in one piece. While the punch and the torture hadn’t been fun in the slightest, the rush itself had been exquisite. Of course he’d have never been able to anticipate the outcome, nor the events themselves. But the Anak huddling together in casinos and other gambling hubs?

Kasoria continued with his threats, to which Oberan listened with only half an ear. The message was quite clear: don’t pick pockets in Vorund’s establishments. Or, more accurately: don’t get caught doing it. Not by Vorund, not by the Lads, not by Kas, not by anyone.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, I get it.”

He sighed, rolled his eyes, and drank more lager.

But that last part he couldn’t just let go uncontested.

“Now listen here, Kas, I think you misunderstand how owing a debt to someone works. You can’t just decide—No, that’s not it. You can’t just create a life-threatening situation, forcibly drag me into it, then get me out, and then claim we’re even. That’s not how that goes. That’d be like me owing you money, so I grab your purse out of your pocket without even making an effort at subtlety, take your money out of your purse, and pay you back the money I owe.” He fixed the killer with a quirked eyebrow, took another swing, then continued. “And that’s exactly what you’ve been doing. We would be even, if --and here’s the difference—I got caught by someone else, they were about to kill me, and you stopped them from doing so. What you did is what people call ‘cleaning up your own mess’.”

There was a momentary pause, and Oberan lifted a hand to cut off whatever was about to leave the killer’s mouth. “That said, I wasn’t planning on cashing in any life debts, and I don’t really care whether you are or aren’t owing me anything. However, it’s a misconception that needed addressing. Maybe you should ask Gorch to lend you one of his books. How is Gorch by the way?”

[Kasoria]

No fucking helping this one. Might as well be pissing in an ocean.

It didn't take Kasoria long to reach that conclusion. The more the indifferent, insouciant, intractable motherfucker across from him spoke, the more he learned about him. He was a watcher, after all. He observed people, whether it be for trials or for those handful of trills before and during a brawl. He educated himself about them, gleamed from his own eyes and dozens of arcs stretching out behind him.

He'd not met many men like Oberan, but he had met them. None of them were around anymore.

Only one of them was smart enough to fuck off over the ocean when he got the chance... and the bounty got too big to ignore.

The little assassin sighed and rubbed his face as the gambler waxed poetic about the thrill it had been last season. The rush, the buzz, the fire of coming so close to death, and then talking his way out of it. Like a legend of far myths, defying and deceiving gods and daemons with only a quick tongue and balls of solid brass. Kasoria shoot his head as the man went on and on, unable to find another way to tell him that reality was not like that.

I'll just kill you, and you'll just die. Because this is not a story.

Kasoria tries to impress that upon him but all he got was a nodding head and a face not even paying attention to him. He was tempted to take that mug away and smash it over his oh-so-well-maintained locks, but resisted the urge. What would it help, anyway? The gambler was too far gone for such crude methods. All it would produce would be more anger and a likely brawl, and... in truth, Kasoria didn't want to throw down with a mage whose power he didn't completely know.

"Fuckin' idiot."

He muttered the words to himself, and started to sip from his own mug-

-and the drink stopped halfway to his mouth (or, rather, the hole in his beard) as he heard Oberan lay down his own rules.

Oh, so now he has them? How wonderful for him.

"It was your mess," he growled, voice losing whatever dram of good humor Oberan might have earned if he'd been just a little less of a cunt about this. "And I did you a favor by pullin' that shit. If it had been Magnus, or Ilos, or Larry, or fuckin' Gorch that spotted you, they'd have cut yer throat an' quartered you like a hog without botherin' wiv' some fuckin' farce like we did."

The killer shook his head and spat on the floor... though not on Oberan's side. A mark of scorn, to be sure, but not outright insult. More a pitying for the man's lack of brains.

"I did my fuckin' job, an' I managed to save your dumb arse at the same time." Kasoria wasn't a man who drank heavily anymore, but his body and organs still remembered how. He knocked back the rest of his drink in one angry, ravenous chug, then smacked the mug down on the bar. He waved it pointedly at the 'tender. "An' if y'think yer jus too smooth an' too good an' too lucky to have slipped by 'em, I can introduce yeh to a dozen piles of fuckin' bones that thought the same thing. Youse met Gorch, after all. You know that Big and Meaty don't mean stupid."

Another mug. Another frothy head that he had to let settle. It looked... tempting. Maybe another after that? Two? Four? Some brandy to go with it. Kasoria sighed and realized just how infectious this moron's attitude was. Hells, it was probably what brought him to that fucking room in the first place, down in the Underground. Sounds of a brawl? A furious contest? Killers and monsters? Well, why the fuck not?!

That ain't you. You need to stay alive. People depend on you.

The little man's eyes slid over to Oberan as he capped his smug little speech, and this time, he listened closely. Though his pride and buried honor rankled at Oberan's dismissal, his genetic Etzori attitude embraced it with little trouble. Nay, quite the opposite: with relish. He didn't feel a debt was owed? He wasn't keeping track, or expecting Kasoria's aid?

"Whatever you fuckin' say, boy."

He slid off the stool and slapped a single gold nel on the bar. No more for him, and the bellend could pay for his own damn drinks. Kasoria had put enough on the line for him. But even as he started to walk away, he felt that niggle in the back of his head. Boring into his skull. Scratching and itching and unable to leave him alone.

He saved your life.

And I saved his. We're square.

Do you get to decide that?

Yes!





Kasoria turned to the gambler, already leaning casually on the bar and perusing the crowd as the band launched into a new song. Ribald and racy, just his cup of tea. A smile that mocked the world and all its dangers beamed down at him, and Kasoria wished he could just open his throat and be done with it. Not have this worry, this debt, this milestone around his neck. He was already tied to a man by a bond of honor, the only one he'd ever given. Now he was Vorund's dog, his hound, his knife and his bloody will.

Last thing I need is another fucking life debt. Especially not to a suicide job like this.

"Stay outta Vorund's places," he said, stopping in front of the man, and his view, just to make sure he was noticed. "North side of town is where youse ply yer trade. South Side's outta bounds. Cuz next time, I might not be there t'get y'out."

"Fare thee well, Bonnie Me Dead, I must be goin' away!"

Too bloody right.

Kasoria drifted on into the crowd now pressing closer to the booming stage. Plenty of business for Oberan, he'd wager. Plenty of chances to feel the rush, to enrich himself, to feel oh-so-clever, and get oh-so-very dead. The older man sighed and ran a hand through his hair... keeping his other firmly on his purse. One good thing about the wanker: he reminded Kasoria of all the sticky-fingered wee cunts infesting the city.

The air outside was cooling, but not yet frigid. The promise of the chill, not the arrival. Kasoria turned up his collar and wrapped himself against the wind, the true herald of the snow and ice to come. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Coming soon, maybe, so he started walking, a long and winding trek back to his home.

[Oberan]

Kasoria was frustrated, annoyed. Oberan could tell. He could almost hear the internal sigh escaping inside the smaller man’s mind, almost see the need, the temptation to pinch the bridge of the nose and shake his head. Throw his arms up in the air as he did so. He’d seen it many times in his long life, during childhood, adolescence, and even during his adult arcs. It was the attitude that tended to grate, Oberan suspected. Most couldn’t handle that. Giving advice, only to see it discarded by an ungrateful cretin casually shrugging his shoulders. As if he didn’t care. As if he was untouchable. As if he had better things to do than sit here and listen to god damned well-meant advice.

He understood fully that when that particular reaction came from someone else, Oberan was starting to get under their skin, wearing down their patience. It was like staring in the mirror and noticing there was some of your last meal sticking to your cheeks. Only, the Mortalborn didn’t feel any shame when he became aware.

Oh, he was aware that people with that attitude weren’t particularly well-liked. Hell, even he wasn’t particularly fond of them. In fact, they got on his nerves just as much as they did on everyone else’s.

Long ago, he’d tried to change who he was. What he was. Reject his heritage, his Self.

Get a job he didn’t like. Be on the ‘right side’ of the Law. Act like an upstanding citizen. Listen to people when they talked to you. Thank them for sage advice, even if you’d heard it several times. Don’t do dangerous things. Come home on time. Maybe visit the pub once every while, drink with moderation.

It had gotten old fast, which implied it had been fun at one point. And it had. Like a secret game only he knew he was playing. An act you kept up, giggling to yourself, wondering how long it’d take for people to figure out you were playing a role. Only, no one ever did, and the few people who did know who you were before forgot about the real you all too soon.

When you dropped the act, you ‘weren’t being yourself’. You were ‘behaving strangely’. This wasn’t the ‘you they knew and loved’.

Yet he’d kept it up. Genuinely trying to change. Seeing how it made others happy, figuring that if you believed in the lie hard enough it would become a reality. It didn’t. He was incapable of change. It crushed him to live a life not meant for him. It hurt to try and fit a mold he couldn’t possibly fit into. It felt like being dead. Yet, he had tried. He’d given it his all. Didn’t matter. Didn’t work. He didn’t change. Sometimes he forgot about the act, slipping back into old habits that had never really left. He’d blamed it on exhaustion. Stress. A frustrating trial at work. The position of the triple moons in the night sky. The way the wind had been blowing.

Until he couldn’t take it no more, and he’d stopped trying. An act of selfishness, maybe, but what point was there in living if you couldn’t be a little selfish?

Kasoria slapped his coin on the bar, stood from his stool, and warned him once again, Oberan sighed. Not because of the loss of a feeling of camaraderie –the Mortalborn barely knew the assassin—or because a potential friend was too annoyed to put up with him, but because the hairy man felt the need to reiterate what he had said before, chiding him as if he were a child that didn’t want to listen.

Even when the Mortalborn wasn’t even planning to go to the South anyway.

But he wasn’t given a chance to retort. The assassin left, sliding into the crowd, towards the door. What was even the point in coming here then? To spell out the obvious, then leave immediately?

Fuck that. He didn’t come all this way just to have his ear nagged off.

Oberan slid his own coin to the bartender, poured the rest of his lager down the hatch, and made his way to the door as well. The cold night air made him wince a little. Not even crossing his arms over his chest really helped to abate the chill heralding the coming of Cylus. Somewhere a little further down the street a small shadow walked away, and Oberan strode towards them, determined to catch up.

“Kas! Kas!” he yelled at the shape, “What about work, huh? Didn’t you have a job for me? The fuck did I walk all the way here for then? Do you know how long it took me? And what for? ‘Oh, stay out of the South, Bran, don’t ply your trade on the South fucking side which isn’t ruled by a scary birdman too focused on assimilating every relevant groups to go after non-associated small-timers. Don’t come all the way down to the South every time you plan to work, Bran. Ilos or Gorch would have killed you, Bran.’ Oh, yes, ‘cause I sure as hell would have thought approaching those guys is a good idea. I surely wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings. You caught me, yes, because of our acquaintance. Without that? You bet your ass I’d have bolted immediately!”

He frowned then. How did this particular subject manage to sneak back into relevance? The Mortalborn made an agitated gesture with one of his hands, almost shooing that conversation away.

“More importantly, though; the job. What about the job?”

[Kasoria]

Kasoria was not a lingerer. Not necessarily due to his nature, but because it was an essential skill to learn in a profession where you regularly killed people. Sometimes with your bare hands. Things happened, words were spoken, blood was shed, points were made, and once that was all done, you walked away. Reality reset itself and you adapted with it. You didn't rail against things that could not be argued with, or changed, or influenced. You said your piece and you walked away.

Fine, so maybe it was due to his nature. He'd never been that sentimental a bastard, anyway.

All of which is meant to illustrate that whereas Oberan was roiling with turmoil that his new "friend" had up and left him without so much as a kind word (though why he was expecting such from someone like Kasoria would have left the little murderer poleaxed), Kasoria had no such issues. Oberan the Man and the Problem had already been relegated to the second division of his thoughts: he had bigger concerns and duties to focus his mind on, not the trifles and proclivities of half-insane gambler-mages.

You gave your warning, you told him not to come back to Vorund's turf. You did all you could do. So now?

Fuck him. He was warned. Now it's all on him.

Clack-clack-clack-clack

His pace, quick and relentless, his feet coming down harder on the cobbles than they had any need to, could have told a different story. The face under his hood would have done the same. But he would not linger on the younger man, with his carefree smile and twisting words. He would not be dragged down into the grave by Oberan's stupidity. Kasoria was learned enough to see the irony, here: that he, who had shifted his loyalties enough over the arcs, who had stripped away his honor and scruples until they were thin as a blade, might one day be doomed by one of the few standards he did have, and did take seriously.

His oath, and his life. Those were all he had, when all else was taken away. His adherence to the former had kept him in Vorund's service; his appreciation of the latter had got him into Oberan's debt.

No more. Not if-

He heard the running feet before they arrived. His step didn't falter, nor did he turn around. If there was an attack coming, he didn't want them to know he was on to them too quickly. Instead his hands shifted to one of the several steel items about his person. His right hand slid to the folds of his cloak and a pair of throwing knives were eased out of their sheaths. The feet were still running. Soon he'd turn around. Gauge his target, the distance, the-

Then he heard the shouting.

Oh, are you fucking kidding me?!

The man came on at him, hurling questions that didn't require answers, voice hurt, insulted, indignant. Him! As if he had any fucking right to be the injured party? The streets were hardly bustling at this late break, but Kasoria still didn't want his name or his business echoing off the dark buildings surrounding them. Without a reply he ducked into an alley, the gambler following him-

-turning the corner and running straight into Kasoria's hand grabbing him by the front of his shirt-

-and slamming him backward into the wall. No weapon filled his free hand, and it didn't dive down into the depths of his cloak to find one. Instead a warning finger came up, jutting under Oberan's nose as if he was going to cut his throat with that alone. His voice came out considerably lower than Oberan's, too. Not a whsiper, but a rasp, dry and crackling, hissing over the air between them.

"Do not ever scream my fuckin' name over these streets! Do you fuckin' understand me?" Whether or not the gambler did, Kasoria wasn't finished. "I don't give a fuck what you think yer entitled t'be angry about, but youse don't scream at me like a little fuckin' girl jus' cuz yer precious feelings get hurt!"

It then occurred to Kasoria that he was, in fact, screaming like a little girl in the face of a mage. A mage who could give power, and maybe take it. Probably do more than that, in fact. He swallowed and let go of the man, allowing his rumpled shirt to settle over his chest. Then he backed away and ran both hands through his hair. His palms massaged his scalp and smoothed his hair back, driving it all the same direction like some chaotic waterfall down the back of his head.

Breath. Hold it. Exhale. Think. Speak. You're meant to be the grown folk, here.

"That Prince cunt don't give a shit about people like you, y'said so yerself. Plenty of gamblin' dens there you could turn over, an' never have t'see my face." He exhaled again and shook his head. "Y'still don't geddit, boy..."

Kasoria stepped back and leaned on the opposite wall. He didn't have the words, the patience, and he was struggling to find the inclination. There'd been a handful of folks he'd known across his long arcs in this life, who he'd tried to warn away from his path. Because he only served one master now, and that path had no routes branching from it. He didn't have the luxury of making exceptions, or breaking the rules for friends. He didn't even have friends. All he had was his duty.

If I have to kill you because you cross Vorund, I will, he thought as he watched Oberan straighten himself out. Why don't you understand that? Why is this all just a game to you?

Kasoria snorted at some joke that only he knew. The Game. He'd heard the younger generation refer to his work in that way. Like gutter running and thieving and brawling and molding yourself into a racketeer and ganger was all something you could walk away from if you chose. Because that's what you did with games you didn't like: you packed up and moved on. Kasoria and his kind, they didn't call it The Game. They knew better.

It was The Life. You lived it, you became it, you accepted the rules and you didn't try to run from it. No more than you could run away from breathing and eating and drinking.

"Wait... what job?"

Damn it, he was too far into his own head again. His gaze snapped back to Oberan and he crossed his arms. He... well, Vorund had mentioned something about the young wastrel a few trials ago, some role he had in mind that this "Oberan" from over the sea would be useful for. Kasoria had been there when inspiration had struck, but of course he'd deflected as much as was possible. He hadn't seen the lad since that night, he'd been busy, working, off gambling and acting and Vorund was not fooled.

Kasoria sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. Fuck. He didn't know how the kid knew, but he did. The wanker.

"It ain't the right for for you," Kasoria said, trying to put as much steel in his voice as possible, but unable to hide the fact that, eventually, he knew he'd have to tell the kid about Vorund's idea. Because he was his master's man, after all. And that cut both ways. "Needs a gambler wiv' more skill than you've got, fer one thing. No offence, but I didn't see youse winnin' much that night. Jus' ferget it."

Yeah, good luck with that, old man.

[Oberan]

Oberan was starting to think that Kasoria was less of a controlled, calm and collected individual than he’d initially thought. The impression he’d gotten from the assassin in the tunnels notwithstanding, during the gambling night the killer had been rather calm at all times. While talking at the bar, while he punched Oberan in the plexus, while nearly poking his eye out with a knife, and while deceiving Vorund.

Now though, the Mortalborn was fairly sure that the real Kasoria was coming to the surface. The angry, rough, violent Etzori raised on the streets. The paranoid urchin who had to fight to survive, killing over a crust of bread. Hidden underneath the persona of a quiet, composed killer.

“There’s loads of people named Kas, though. Caspar, Cassandra, Castor, Kasper, Casmir, Cassius, Caspian--” a slight pause as he racked his mind for more examples. “—Cassowary?”

Again a moment where nothing but breath passed his lips, and then a frown appeared. “Are you telling me you’ve not been using an alias at all? I thought you were a professional.” The Mortalborn sighed. Professional assassin or bloodthirsty killing machine, which was it? At the moment, Oberan leaned towards the latter. After all, a professional wouldn’t have to worry about name recognition too much. That was what the alias was for. Ideally, they were nothing but a shade, a nickname whispered in hushed voices. A boogeyman hiding in the darkness, scaring not badly behaving children, but grown men and women who earned the ire of the assassin’s benefactor.

If Kasoria was known as Kasoria as well as the Raggedy Man, well, he wasn’t doing a good job keeping his identity under wraps. Unless Kasoria was the alias. Why then introduce himself to non-involved as the alias?

Either way, the man released Oberan, and the thief began straightening and dusting off his patchwork clothes. For all anyone could see, he wasn’t offended or angered. Instead, he simply returned the assassin’s stare with one of his own, one that glinted with a smug superiority.

“You know what? I’m not even going to have this circular argument. We went over this. We’re not going to reach a consensus. Past is the past. Vorund, the Lads, the clerk, and the one dressed like an insecure peacock know my face anyway.” He shrugged. While giving himself a disadvantage might make for a good challenge, he wasn’t up for it just yet. Maybe if he more or less got back to the level of skill he’d possessed at his prime, when he could pass through a crowded room of family, friends and acquaintances without being noticed.

“Admitted, I've never had much luck when it comes to games of chance.” In fact, it was so bad that back during his youth, some of the more superstitious troupe members refused to let him touch their dice and cards, believing that it might rub off on them. During games, some didn’t even want him around, in case his bad luck was contagious. Others would do the opposite, asking the Mortalborn to handle their cards and dice before a game, begging him to play with them so he’d draw out all the negative energy held inside. They’d also used him to influence important games by just standing in the proximity of the opponent.

Whether that worked or not was up in the air, but those people had certainly believed it did.

“But you know, Kaspurius, luck can be crafted. ”

He grinned his trademark grin, and held one hand up with the palm visible. A flick of the wrist, quick and brief, hand now clenched in a fist. When he unfurled his fingers, there was a copper nel where there had previously been none, and he let it roll over his knuckles idly. Then he coiled his fingers around it once more, flicked his wrist, and the coin was gone. He wriggled his fingers in the way children did when they pretended to cast magic spells.

“Tricks aside, you’re correct. I didn’t win anything, and—knowing the dislike they have for me—it’s unlikely I will. Especially when it’s paramount that I do win. However. I can cheat. Give myself an edge.” Was there risk? Of course there was. Cheating and risk were best buddies. One could never be one hundred percent sure that one’s tricks would work, that one would get away with it.

Needless to say, Oberan really wasn’t averse to that.

“Tell him I’m interested, but I’d like to hear the details first. Preferably with plenty of time to spare before this job needs to be done. I’ll need to make preparations.” Whether he would or wouldn’t accept wasn’t certain just yet, but for now, the thief was not planning to say no. It was clear from the grin he wore to the sparkle in his eyes.

“Right. Back to the pub I go. Good talk. Tell Gorch I said hi.”

Oberan raised two fingers to his forehead in a mockery of the military gesture, and went on his merry way, humming one of the jigs the musicians had been playing back at Jesup’s. With some luck, they’d be performing for a while longer.

[Kasoria]

This man unbalances you. We can't be having that.

That was the lesson that Kasoria took away from all of Oberan's bluster, his attempts at humor, his magic trick and his very mundane lack of concern. Mundane because, he'd seen it before. In the actions of dead men. The man could not be warned or reasoned with; he longed for death without ever realizing it. No, he called it "excitement", and embraced the rush and risk of endeavors that could easily end him. For a man like Oberan, this was the only way to feel alive.

Kasoria was not such a man. Yet around Oberan, he was not himself, either.

The killer listened to everything in silence, stony and sullen and Oberan may have noticed his expression grow... not exactly softer, but different, as he waxed both lyrical and philosophical. In truth, Kasoria as only giving the man half an ear. Like the gambler had said before, it was a circular argument. Round and round they went, mice in a wheel, and why would either of them waste time on that?

Because eventually, I'm going to have to kill you. I'll feel bad about it, but I will. Because one day, I won't feel bad anymore. Because I gave you every chance.

Yes, that was what he was missing. That's what he'd been before this man came into his world. Not uncaring, not cruel, not even without compassion, just... controlled. There was a coldness to it, true, but it was born of logic and acceptance, not a decapitation of the soul from its emotions. Logic because he needed to keep his feelings out of what he did, clouded and turbulent as they made his work. Acceptance because he had the intellect to understand that he could be doing something different.

No. Should be. Because by any metric that goodness was divined, a man who killed for coin alone was not a good man. Of all that knew him, only his son would regard him as such, and only then because the boy did not know the truth. Kasoria had long accepted what he was, accepted what he did, accepted that his soul would be lost in turmoil and confusion, with the candles lit for him or stones placed on tiny shelves, lighting his way to the next place.

In his acceptance, he found peace. A quiet, clinical place where he could work, and focus his mind and body on his profession. Oberan reminded him that there was a world beyond it. One that was vast in scope and comprised of a million souls all crammed into it, but he somehow cut himself off from. A more naive man would have regarded this as foolish tragedy. Kasoria knew better.

The coin appeared, dancing over knobs of bone, then vanished again. Right in front of him. Kasoria blinked at the trick then his gaze flickered back to Oberan's grinning eyes. This was the man exact. Flitting in and out of others' lives, colorful and magical and distracting, then gone again. Kasoria had allowed himself to become... out of sorts. Remind himself that he didn't do well with people, outside of the syndicate Vorund had crafted, or the short, bloody interactions he otherwise had with most people.

Kasoria did not have friends, and did not want them. They resulted in... this.

Shouting and threatening and feeling stupid. And now you can't be rid of the cunt.

Oberan turned on his heel and swanned away, tossing Kasoria a jaunty salute as he went. The killer didn't offer a farewell as he left. He was half-convinced the man was expecting him to chase him down, just like Oberan did. The notion was alien to Kasoria. He was just happy the man was finally leaving his presence and not returning to it. But that would not last. Sure and real as the wind that whipped down the street and stung his face, Oberan would be back. None other than Bangun Vorund wanted him in his service. Kasoria sighed and his breath fogged in the cold air. The Old Man was definitely one for... nuance, when it came to ensnaring useful assets.

Not a knife to the throat or an envelope every month. No, sometimes it's just better to assume a debt... after making one in the first place.

That last part, was where Oberan would come in. The worst part was, Kasoria thought the boy was up to it. Oh, he was cocky and chaotic and without a shred of self-preservation, but he had... gifts. Abilities. Magic. And a brain to craft them all together into a strategy for singling out one man at a gambling table, and turning all of Fortune's favors against him.

Or so Vorund hopes.

Kasoria shrugged and started to walk. It was a long way home, and those odd patches of weak, brittle ice would likely be forming by the time he arrived. A herd of starving, shrieking cats would be both awaiting entry and demanding exit. Bella, he guessed, would stay put. She knew a good, warm thing when she saw it. Kasoria walked and let the cold cool his face, his passions, his concerns. Oberan was a problem, but not a mortal one. He had a bigger issue tomorrow: dealing with Vorund, explaining Oberan's... conditions, and then passing on word to the old man.

A thought occurred to him. Another problem, easily solved if Kasoria had just opened his mouth as Oberan walked away. Yet there was a solution, and despite himself, Kasoria's lips squirmed under his beard.

He didn't need to worry about finding Oberan and passing on the word. They were tied, it seemed. Kasoria did not have any faith in gods, but he knew the Fates were tricky bitches, and they liked their games.

Not to mention their gamblers.

[Zip]

belgianwaffles

Knowledge.........

Oberan
Endurance: getting your head slammed into a bar counter
Endurance: getting slammed into a wall
Discipline: prove superiority by not lashing out
Dectection: recognising paranoia
Linguistics: names starting with a 'K' sound
Logistics: considering the preparations for a job
Running: catching up to someone
Stealth: professionals use codenames

Kasoria
Intimidation: Forcing Someone Up Against a Wall
Meditation: Finding Focus Through Cold
Philosophy: Peace Through Acceptance of Your Nature
Philosophy: It's not The Game, it's The Life
Socialization: Kasoria Isn't Good At It
Socialization: Some People Can't Be Reasoned With (So Don't Try)
Tactics: Know When NOT to Pick a Fight with a Mage
Unarmed Combat (Ki'Enaq): Hard Enough Punch from Brass Knuckles Can Drive the Sternum Through the Heart

Loot....................

Nein

Consequence......

Leave it for part 2

Renown..............

o_o

Experience...........

15

Sorry this took too long. Real life happened. Once again, an exemplary performance by both of you. I look forward to part 2.

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