Cylus 28st 20th break 718
Vincent didn't use his real name while in Andaris. In the off chance that anybody recognized him, he was adept at fading or disappearing into a crowd. Being on the short side had it's advantages, afterall. It was appropriate to his choice of occupation, as a thief and murderer for hire. The name he chose for such moonlighting sessions was Jack North. It was not the height of creative names. It did serve the purpose of providing a believable and common moniker.
These deep Cylus nights were often spent by him and others in the warmth of the local tavern. There he immersed himself in the atmosphere, and listened while amusing himself. Dice, girls, or drinks were the entertainment of choice for this particular establishment. Plenty of all were available. Listening to the loose lip-flapping of everyone present.
Jack North was an adept at filtering specific conversations that peaked his interest. He was comfortable in the tumult of noise. The boisterous singing, clapping of chairs on the ground, and the occasional fight. He could reduce it all to a simple conversation at the far end of the bar. It was about positioning.
One might think that being in the center of the tavern was ideal. There was more science and art to it than maximizing your ability to eavesdrop. Being in the middle of it all all but assured that one would have no ability to single out any part of it. Nor did it bode well to claim one of the many dark corners of a tavern like this.
Often the locale of the best conversations to overhear would be on the middle edge of center. Not far from the dark corners, but also not too remote from the better lighted areas near the hearth. It often depended on how well to do one preferred their clientele to be.
For Jack's part, he wasn't picky. He was hungry, and at present distancing himself from the nobility of Rynmere. Given the state of current events and all the tumult, it was understandable. He didn't want to spend all this time immersed with the commonfolk while they would be aware of his noble origin. So limited contact with his family was an unpleasant necessity.
"I tell ya," He caught the slightest whiff of confidential tones at the side of the bar. Jack took a drink from his tankard while listening with discretion. "That whore is cheating on me, Will!" A loud slam of a fist against the table alerted Jack to this man's sincerity.
Jack looked up at the bartender, who turned his attention to this conversation. The loud slam of a fist against his tables tended to garner his attention. Jack wasn't about to let him in on this important and confidential conversation. He tapped the bar with the bottom of his tankard, and said, "More ale."
The tender nodded, and brought the tankard to the tap. This task distracted him.
"I need that bitch in the ground..." Jack managed to hear the last snatch of conversation, which was well enough for his purpose. Jack disappeared before the bartender could turn around to serve him. He'd pay his tab tomorrow.
Vin followed the man into the street, keeping a short distance behind him. As he did so, he recognized the man as the local chandler, having bought some lighting himself in the past few days. Late nights were a thing for more than scholars making copies of texts, afterall. This season of perpetual dark was especially lucrative for his candle-making kind. As such, he knew the man would have the funds to pay for his services.
The Runt of Krome cornered him as he passed a darkened alley between structures. An impetuous rush saw him pinning the man to the wall, tackling him almost. Vin often had to make up for his size with ferocity, and this was no exception as the chandler was a foot taller. "I heard you were looking to off the wife?" Vincent Grumbled at the man. "I'll give you a simple choice, since I like you." Vincent's face was well concealed by his cloak. He often used it to cover himself from cold and also identification. "A hit man can as easy become a discrete informant. I heard you threaten your wife's life. If she turns up dead, and no other evidence available but an informant's word? Not to mention the witnesses that overheard your conversation. You'll be guilty until proven innocent. So I offer you a choice."
"Your wife is going to die. I would suggest that you pay me for the deed, and we become Co-conspirators. Otherwise, you become our patsy. Your wife is going to die anyway, so take it or leave it."
"Uh! But that was a bit of venting! I didn't mean it! Please sir, don't do anything?" The chandler begged.
"That's a bad answer." Vin kneed him in the crotch, as the man's knees buckled, Vin lifted him to thrust him against the wall. "Try again."
"Uh, fine!" The chandler moaned, thrusting a pouch of gold at him, "Here, take it."
Vin reached for the pouch which landed in the snow. He stuck his leg between the Chandler's, so when the man went to run he tripped into the snowbank.
Within a few moments, Vincent bounded off with the pouch of gold. He left the Chandler to wallow, and wonder what would happen next.
Well, fortunately (for the Chandler's wife), Vincent had no intention of killing her. In fact, he had no intention of even visiting her, or robbing their house. He had a purse full of silver, an empty belly, and a mind that was painfully lucid. He was going to visit every bar in town, until he couldn't tell the snow from the moonshine, and fell asleep in some cheap harlot's lap.
He made a beeline for the second nearest tavern. He obviously didn't want to end up too close to where he left the Chandler, lest he relocate to that watering hole. The Chandler would doubtless give Vincent the time to do the deed, and that might involve roving from one place to another.
The tavern was full of the smell of smoke and piss, with a row of louts passed out on the bar, and half of the others crowding the tables. Vincent took a seat at the bar, and placed down a few silver nels for the barman. "Oy, gimme a screamin' mer. And don't slouch on t'lemon."
He slid the nels over to the barman, and tapped the surface, looking down the way at the gallery of lost fools, slumped over in various states of drunk. Within a few trills, he had his screaming mer, a full pint of half ale and half moonshine, with a splash of lemon. Vincent looked into the pint and winced, the lemon looked to have some mushroom growing on it. Yet, beggars couldn't be choosers. Not like the mold would live for long in the mix of moonshine and ale.
Vincent brought the tankard to his mouth and tilted it back, drinking it all in. The damned ale burned on the way down, just the way he liked his screaming mer. This tavern didn't spare much effort for presentation, but the stock was as good as any Vincent had sampled.
It wasn't too long before Vincent was draining that pint and ordering another of the same. He got to his third, before someone tapped him on the shoulder.
He turned around, indignant at the interruption of his drinking. He swerved in his stool, frowning side-ways at the very large man that was glowering down at him. Vincent had to crane his neck to look up.
"Whatcher wan'?" Vincent asked, his breath strong with moonshine and lemon.
The man pounded his fist, and shook his head, then pointed toward the door leading out.
Vincent twisted his mouth, and got off his chair, leaving one hand on the rim of it. Then, as he slid out of the seat, he took it with the other hand and swung the stool with all his might at the man's face.
This caught the larger man by surprise, and he barreled over into a nearby table. The chair had glanced against his shoulder, but nevertheless caught him unawares and Vincent pressed the advantage, though he could barely walk at this point.
He lifted the stool over his head, and felt his stomach suddenly churn. Before he could stop it, the vomit flowed out of his throat and straight at the large thug he was trying to bash. The next thing he remembered, he woke up in the snow outside, covered in his own filth, beaten and bruised. He rose from the snow, and began the long walk back to his apartment. He'd have to visit that place again sometime, they had a hell of a screaming mer.
