- Local time
- Today 5:58 PM
- Messages
- 136
- Age
- 31
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Damn this place. His beloved summer had arrived, only to squat over the city - turning bone-chilling damp into oppressive humidity. The stench of piss, shit, animals, and the people was overwhelming, the streets were muddy. In fact, since arriving in England he found he was sometimes muddy, often itchy and always just a little damp.
Listen to me, moaning like a princeling. Tomas chastised himself. He raised the cross at his neck and kissed it lightly. Today I shall find work, God willing.
Although, he was not entirely certain it was work God wanted him to do. But then, the Father had steered him away from wrongdoing in the past. Now he could be certain the nails ripped from fingers belonged to evil hands.
…
He could be sure…couldn't he?
…
It was a good reason not to think anymore. Life was too finite a thing to become bogged down in the tedious details. With his faith, a spring in his step, and the Oracle on his side - he would surely find his way!
And if he did not, this was God's will.
There was, in fact, a little jaunt in his walk as he ambled down the muddy road, doing his best to ignore the stench. He arrived at favorite apple cart - manned by his favorite spotty, speckled toad. A man with more chins than spine. The toad met Tomas’ keen brown eyes with watery blue ones, withdrew a handkerchief and coughed noisily into it.
“You ought to see a physician amigo,” Tomas suggested lightly as the man pulled the cloth from his mouth. Then, at the sight of red, he winced and added, “or perhaps a priest.”
Harold, for that was his name, peered up at Tomas irritably as the Spaniard selected a large apple from his batch. “You’ve money for that I suppose.”
A little sound escaped Tomas in reply. Something like a chuckle, but somehow more derisive. “Aheh.”
The toad shifted uncomfortably beneath his gaze. Then, with a sigh he conceded his point to find a new one. “I’ve work for you.”
A practiced hand polished the red fruit against the leather of his doublet. “That is reassuring to hear, amigo. Might it come from the all-seeing?”
“No.” There was a slight edge of bitterness to Harold’s voice. He coughed into his handkerchief again. “The Oracle has gone silent. No, this is a local lad. Wants someone killed. A woman.”
“Aheh.”
Tale as old as time, no?
“Spurned lover?”
“Nosy scholar.”
Tomas’s eyebrows rose with interest. “So a clean kill, then.”
That was nice. He was good at causing suffering but he didn't enjoy it.
“Yes. I’ve the poison already.”
The market was crowded and bustling. Tomas’ eyes drifted about out of habit. As he suspected no one was listening. Harold seemed remarkably boring. This was what made him the perfect fixer. Those who knew, knew. Those who did not - well - it would take great effort to get to him. And a lot of money. Which likely meant…
“Noble scandal?”
“Never you mind..” Came the gruff reply. The details had been scrawled onto a paper which was pressed into Tomas’ hands. Then a slender vial was placed before him. Something opalescent and sparkling whirled within.
Tomas eyed it uncertainly. “And it is good quality?”
“Of course it is.”
“Not the cheap shit, you gave me last time?”
“Well,” Harold wrinkled his nose. “He died in the end, didn't he?”
Tomas let out that same odd little chuckle, and then picked up the bottle. A few coins were pushed toward him - the first half of the payment as was customary. He slipped them into the coin purse at his belt, and then ran a hand smoothly through his raven curls.
It was a job.
The first half of the payment was to be expected. If not the Oracle themselves, then it was usually enough for him to spend over the course of a month, if he was careful. And he'd found it fairly easy to flirt his way out of payment.
Flirting was easy when you were celibate.
He arrived at the location, and frowned deeply. He had been told she was always there - except for when she was on a job. But the toad had it on good authority that she had no work at the moment. He glanced down at the description that had been scrawled on the parchment in a refined hand.
Tall for a woman.
Skinny. Dark hair. Brown eyes.
Likely wearing earrings. Possible carrying spectacles.
Carries a heavy bag made of a thick, rough-woven material. The ledgers will be on her person. Recover these.
His coal-colored eyes swept across the room. It was a cramped space - as it was mid-afternoon there were few people actually there. The floor then - ah - yes!
There was the bag, precisely as described. A young man sat at the table with a large book in front of him and spectacles…hmmm…
He tucked his hands into his pockets, an easy grin sliding onto his narrow face. Then he leaned forward to mutter in the figure's ear. “Interesting bag.”
The figure jumped and - yes - it was as he expected. While clothed in men's attire, there was no mistaking the soft heart-shaped face as it was tilted toward him. She was young. Her brows came together in an irritated expression as she took him in.
“Do you mind?”
Crisp. Clean. Authoritative. Typical noblewoman.
“Aheh. No. Do you?”
“Well, do I look as if I mind?”
He considered her. She did in fact - and she wasn't trying to hide it. A broad grin overtook his face as he settled into the chair, lifting his apple to his lips.
Well, well, well.
Perhaps this would be fun.
“No.” He lied innocently. “What are you reading, amiga?”
Her name was Jayne. A hand swept through her short mousy waves, and she leaned back slightly in her chair to consider him. Then, to his surprise, a grin of her own sprung into life.
“Marcus Aurellius.” She said, “Why do you find my bag interesting?”
He glanced down at it with a soft hum, before meeting her eyes. “It is an uncommon weave.”
“An uncommon weave?”
“Sí, an uncommon weave.”
“It is not.” Her smile grew. “It is an exceptionally common material for scholar bags.”
“Ah, but scholars are not exceptionally common. And therefore” CRUNCH “an uncommon weave.”
She closed her book, head tilting to the side. “You engage in rhetoric.”
“No señorita. Just wordplay.”
“Rhetoric encapsulates wordplay.”
“Now you are…what is the phrase? Ah…yes…missing the forest for the trees.”
“Now that is rhetoric.” She held out a hand to him. “Jayne.”
He took it and shook it, “Ricardo.” It was the first name that came to mind. He supposed it would stick.
“A pleasure, Ricardo." Her tongue danced over the r - missing the trill entirely. It took much self control for him not to wince.
“On second thought - call me Tomas.”
There was no one paying attention here. She had chosen, not a den of criminals, but a respectable tavern to house herself. Judging by the dirty looks the barkeep was flashing her way - she had been here for some time without ordering. He stood to fetch them some wine. When he returned, she had leaned back in her chair and gazed about the room.
Furtive.
Not so relaxed as she pretended.
Too bad for her.
They drank then. She guessed at his employment - writer, actor, scholar - and keenly deflected whatever questions he posed about her past. Instead she told him of philosophy, science, and much to his surprise -
“Magic?”
“Petty tricks really.” She danced her fingers over the candle upon the table. It rose and twirled between her fingers like a coin before returning it to its wick. He shifted uncomfortably as he thought of the hot stones he would have placed against her skin for such a trick in Spain.
“You do not like magic?”
Do not think on it.
“I have no feelings- another drink señora…?”
“Oh, go on then.”
He returned to the bar and pretended to stumble over his feet and spill some of her drink. A sheepish grin - the wolf blocked her view of the table to watch the pearl-colored liquid drop and fizzle before vanishing. It had a delicious smell - he had once the opportunity to try chocolate from the new world. It was not unlike that.
She smiled sweetly as he set the drink before her. There was a pang of guilt. It was a pity- he had not expected to like her. But it would not be too terrible a death. What had the toad said -?
She will grow confused. That will be your cue to leave.
He would confess later.
She drank.
And for a time she was fine. Then - she stopped mid-sentence, warm brown eyes suddenly growing unfocused. Redness crept into her neck and cheeks.
And he felt the old coldness creeping through his spine. A heaviness in his chest. Well - he would not be around to see the worst of it.
He stood. “Lo siento…there is somewhere I must-”
“NO!”
Her hand clasped his, eyes growing round. And then she stood so violently, her chair clattered to the ground behind her. “Don't leave.”
He glanced around nervously.
A few heads had turned to see what had caused the woman to yell. She moved closer to him then - and she was tall for a woman. Only an inch or so below him - though he was no giant.
“I…”
“Don't leave.” A playful smile then danced upon her lips. “Let us speak somewhere. I hardly know you.”
A finger was dancing up his chest. His eyes bulged..
Lord give me strength.
“Aheh. Señora…I do not think…”
“Tomaaaas,” she whined, attracting more looks.
Why did I give her my name?!
“Fine!” He hissed, taking her arm. And her bag. He would go through it afterward - but for now -
“Where are you staying?”
“Upstairs. Are you cross with me?”
His eyes were darting around as he led her up.
It had all gone further south than he could have anticipated.
She had just pointed to her door, when she turned suddenly and gave him a knowing smile.
“Do you intend to punish me?”
“Jesús Cristo-”
He shoved her in the room and shut the door behind him.
And he was confident that this was the best move - to limit witnesses. To garner control of the situation. But he had underestimated the strength of…whatever this was.
Her hands were on his chest - and while she was not his type - five years of celibacy had not prepared him for a woman pulling his earlobe between her teeth.
Mierda!
He caught her forearms and turned her, pressing her back to the door. This too was a mistake because her head fell back with a laugh and her foot - when did she take off her shoes??? - was trailing against his leg.
“What is wrong with you-”
Her mouth was on his.
He'd forgotten the taste of a woman. In her case - that same exotic fruity bitterness. Cocoa - and he was pulling her against him, his head spinning as she guided them toward her bed and -
How long had it been?
Isabella. He could see her in his mind, feel her supple hands beneath his fingers.
How can you love a monster? He'd asked, teeth grazing her collar bone. She had laughed, long red hair brushing against his cheek.
“Such a dramatic fool.”
“Your fool. Yours alone…”
Her hands were undoing his trousers.
He had sworn hadn't he?
Blood rushing, heat rising.
No woman would ever replace her.
He was atop of her - and -
What am I doing?!
His arm moved automatically, grabbed the heavy book from her bedside and - THUNK.
She was out.
He staggered away from her, panting, eyes round with confusion. Hands - his own this time - patted at his trousers - at the concealed pocket within them. He withdrew the vial and squinted at it before letting out a pained groan.
Une Petite Morte.
“Idiota de mierda!”
That fucking toad.
Did he not know?
Damn toad's never touched a woman without parting with gold.
A sharp hiss escaped from between his teeth.
It was a long night for the celibate Spanish torturer. He ought to have slit her throat and be done with it - but God help him - the shame of it was still sharp in his mind.
The sun rose, peeking through the curtains in the dusty room. She stirred slowly with a groan.
“Fuck…” She clutched her head. “What…?”
Color rose to her cheeks. Her gaze snapped to his and her hand flew up to her mouth. He had pressed himself to the other side of the room, and was eyeing her as if she were a wild animal which might charge him at any moment.
“Oh…God. Did we-”
“Aheh…no.”
“I…I don't know what came over me. I would never - well - not with someone I barely-”
He held up a hand to silence her.
“Someone wants you dead, amiga.” He said, tiredly.
She stared at him.
“Uh…yeah. I know.”
“Well - you have not been careful enough. They found you and - hired me to kill you.”
Her brow furrowed. “Well…either you've botched it or you're needlessly cruel.”
An oddly calm reaction to the revelation. “Let us be clear,” he held up a finger. “I botched nothing.”
He tossed the vial to her and it bounced awkwardly between her hands before landing on the bed. She picked it up, reaching into her shirt to withdraw a pair of round golden-rimmed spectacles. She read it. And then - to his surprise - started laughing.
“What kind of idiot -” she winced, touching the top of her head. But she was still grinning. “You're the worst assassin I've ever met. Is that really the best he can do?”
Tomas blinked at her. “I could still kill you.”
“Yeah but - you're not going to.”
“Why not?”
“Because you haven't yet.”
“I could want information.”
“Could have wriggled-” she made an obscene gesture with her hands which dragged his eyes to the ceiling. “-it out of me last night.” And she laughed harder than ever.
Tomas left shortly after this: still hot and still itchy and always damp. He approached the apple stand to find Harold counting his coins. The man didn't see the hand before it had pinched his nose.
“Money. Now.”
Spluttering and coughing, the man gaped at him. Wide-eyed and open mouthed, he looked more like a toad than ever.
“Is it done?” Came his nasally squeak.
“Did I give her the potion, you mean? Sí, you shit-stain. I gave her the potion.”
“Then what's the-”
There was a crack, a cry of pain, and Tomas marched away from the stand, wiping a blood covered apple on his breast.
“Well…” he said quietly. “That is at least this month paid. Aheh.”
And with that…he began making his way down the street.
Listen to me, moaning like a princeling. Tomas chastised himself. He raised the cross at his neck and kissed it lightly. Today I shall find work, God willing.
Although, he was not entirely certain it was work God wanted him to do. But then, the Father had steered him away from wrongdoing in the past. Now he could be certain the nails ripped from fingers belonged to evil hands.
…
He could be sure…couldn't he?
…
It was a good reason not to think anymore. Life was too finite a thing to become bogged down in the tedious details. With his faith, a spring in his step, and the Oracle on his side - he would surely find his way!
And if he did not, this was God's will.
There was, in fact, a little jaunt in his walk as he ambled down the muddy road, doing his best to ignore the stench. He arrived at favorite apple cart - manned by his favorite spotty, speckled toad. A man with more chins than spine. The toad met Tomas’ keen brown eyes with watery blue ones, withdrew a handkerchief and coughed noisily into it.
“You ought to see a physician amigo,” Tomas suggested lightly as the man pulled the cloth from his mouth. Then, at the sight of red, he winced and added, “or perhaps a priest.”
Harold, for that was his name, peered up at Tomas irritably as the Spaniard selected a large apple from his batch. “You’ve money for that I suppose.”
A little sound escaped Tomas in reply. Something like a chuckle, but somehow more derisive. “Aheh.”
The toad shifted uncomfortably beneath his gaze. Then, with a sigh he conceded his point to find a new one. “I’ve work for you.”
A practiced hand polished the red fruit against the leather of his doublet. “That is reassuring to hear, amigo. Might it come from the all-seeing?”
“No.” There was a slight edge of bitterness to Harold’s voice. He coughed into his handkerchief again. “The Oracle has gone silent. No, this is a local lad. Wants someone killed. A woman.”
“Aheh.”
Tale as old as time, no?
“Spurned lover?”
“Nosy scholar.”
Tomas’s eyebrows rose with interest. “So a clean kill, then.”
That was nice. He was good at causing suffering but he didn't enjoy it.
“Yes. I’ve the poison already.”
The market was crowded and bustling. Tomas’ eyes drifted about out of habit. As he suspected no one was listening. Harold seemed remarkably boring. This was what made him the perfect fixer. Those who knew, knew. Those who did not - well - it would take great effort to get to him. And a lot of money. Which likely meant…
“Noble scandal?”
“Never you mind..” Came the gruff reply. The details had been scrawled onto a paper which was pressed into Tomas’ hands. Then a slender vial was placed before him. Something opalescent and sparkling whirled within.
Tomas eyed it uncertainly. “And it is good quality?”
“Of course it is.”
“Not the cheap shit, you gave me last time?”
“Well,” Harold wrinkled his nose. “He died in the end, didn't he?”
Tomas let out that same odd little chuckle, and then picked up the bottle. A few coins were pushed toward him - the first half of the payment as was customary. He slipped them into the coin purse at his belt, and then ran a hand smoothly through his raven curls.
It was a job.
The first half of the payment was to be expected. If not the Oracle themselves, then it was usually enough for him to spend over the course of a month, if he was careful. And he'd found it fairly easy to flirt his way out of payment.
Flirting was easy when you were celibate.
He arrived at the location, and frowned deeply. He had been told she was always there - except for when she was on a job. But the toad had it on good authority that she had no work at the moment. He glanced down at the description that had been scrawled on the parchment in a refined hand.
Tall for a woman.
Skinny. Dark hair. Brown eyes.
Likely wearing earrings. Possible carrying spectacles.
Carries a heavy bag made of a thick, rough-woven material. The ledgers will be on her person. Recover these.
His coal-colored eyes swept across the room. It was a cramped space - as it was mid-afternoon there were few people actually there. The floor then - ah - yes!
There was the bag, precisely as described. A young man sat at the table with a large book in front of him and spectacles…hmmm…
He tucked his hands into his pockets, an easy grin sliding onto his narrow face. Then he leaned forward to mutter in the figure's ear. “Interesting bag.”
The figure jumped and - yes - it was as he expected. While clothed in men's attire, there was no mistaking the soft heart-shaped face as it was tilted toward him. She was young. Her brows came together in an irritated expression as she took him in.
“Do you mind?”
Crisp. Clean. Authoritative. Typical noblewoman.
“Aheh. No. Do you?”
“Well, do I look as if I mind?”
He considered her. She did in fact - and she wasn't trying to hide it. A broad grin overtook his face as he settled into the chair, lifting his apple to his lips.
Well, well, well.
Perhaps this would be fun.
“No.” He lied innocently. “What are you reading, amiga?”
Her name was Jayne. A hand swept through her short mousy waves, and she leaned back slightly in her chair to consider him. Then, to his surprise, a grin of her own sprung into life.
“Marcus Aurellius.” She said, “Why do you find my bag interesting?”
He glanced down at it with a soft hum, before meeting her eyes. “It is an uncommon weave.”
“An uncommon weave?”
“Sí, an uncommon weave.”
“It is not.” Her smile grew. “It is an exceptionally common material for scholar bags.”
“Ah, but scholars are not exceptionally common. And therefore” CRUNCH “an uncommon weave.”
She closed her book, head tilting to the side. “You engage in rhetoric.”
“No señorita. Just wordplay.”
“Rhetoric encapsulates wordplay.”
“Now you are…what is the phrase? Ah…yes…missing the forest for the trees.”
“Now that is rhetoric.” She held out a hand to him. “Jayne.”
He took it and shook it, “Ricardo.” It was the first name that came to mind. He supposed it would stick.
“A pleasure, Ricardo." Her tongue danced over the r - missing the trill entirely. It took much self control for him not to wince.
“On second thought - call me Tomas.”
There was no one paying attention here. She had chosen, not a den of criminals, but a respectable tavern to house herself. Judging by the dirty looks the barkeep was flashing her way - she had been here for some time without ordering. He stood to fetch them some wine. When he returned, she had leaned back in her chair and gazed about the room.
Furtive.
Not so relaxed as she pretended.
Too bad for her.
They drank then. She guessed at his employment - writer, actor, scholar - and keenly deflected whatever questions he posed about her past. Instead she told him of philosophy, science, and much to his surprise -
“Magic?”
“Petty tricks really.” She danced her fingers over the candle upon the table. It rose and twirled between her fingers like a coin before returning it to its wick. He shifted uncomfortably as he thought of the hot stones he would have placed against her skin for such a trick in Spain.
“You do not like magic?”
Do not think on it.
“I have no feelings- another drink señora…?”
“Oh, go on then.”
He returned to the bar and pretended to stumble over his feet and spill some of her drink. A sheepish grin - the wolf blocked her view of the table to watch the pearl-colored liquid drop and fizzle before vanishing. It had a delicious smell - he had once the opportunity to try chocolate from the new world. It was not unlike that.
She smiled sweetly as he set the drink before her. There was a pang of guilt. It was a pity- he had not expected to like her. But it would not be too terrible a death. What had the toad said -?
She will grow confused. That will be your cue to leave.
He would confess later.
She drank.
And for a time she was fine. Then - she stopped mid-sentence, warm brown eyes suddenly growing unfocused. Redness crept into her neck and cheeks.
And he felt the old coldness creeping through his spine. A heaviness in his chest. Well - he would not be around to see the worst of it.
He stood. “Lo siento…there is somewhere I must-”
“NO!”
Her hand clasped his, eyes growing round. And then she stood so violently, her chair clattered to the ground behind her. “Don't leave.”
He glanced around nervously.
A few heads had turned to see what had caused the woman to yell. She moved closer to him then - and she was tall for a woman. Only an inch or so below him - though he was no giant.
“I…”
“Don't leave.” A playful smile then danced upon her lips. “Let us speak somewhere. I hardly know you.”
A finger was dancing up his chest. His eyes bulged..
Lord give me strength.
“Aheh. Señora…I do not think…”
“Tomaaaas,” she whined, attracting more looks.
Why did I give her my name?!
“Fine!” He hissed, taking her arm. And her bag. He would go through it afterward - but for now -
“Where are you staying?”
“Upstairs. Are you cross with me?”
His eyes were darting around as he led her up.
It had all gone further south than he could have anticipated.
She had just pointed to her door, when she turned suddenly and gave him a knowing smile.
“Do you intend to punish me?”
“Jesús Cristo-”
He shoved her in the room and shut the door behind him.
And he was confident that this was the best move - to limit witnesses. To garner control of the situation. But he had underestimated the strength of…whatever this was.
Her hands were on his chest - and while she was not his type - five years of celibacy had not prepared him for a woman pulling his earlobe between her teeth.
Mierda!
He caught her forearms and turned her, pressing her back to the door. This too was a mistake because her head fell back with a laugh and her foot - when did she take off her shoes??? - was trailing against his leg.
“What is wrong with you-”
Her mouth was on his.
He'd forgotten the taste of a woman. In her case - that same exotic fruity bitterness. Cocoa - and he was pulling her against him, his head spinning as she guided them toward her bed and -
How long had it been?
Isabella. He could see her in his mind, feel her supple hands beneath his fingers.
How can you love a monster? He'd asked, teeth grazing her collar bone. She had laughed, long red hair brushing against his cheek.
“Such a dramatic fool.”
“Your fool. Yours alone…”
Her hands were undoing his trousers.
He had sworn hadn't he?
Blood rushing, heat rising.
No woman would ever replace her.
He was atop of her - and -
What am I doing?!
His arm moved automatically, grabbed the heavy book from her bedside and - THUNK.
She was out.
He staggered away from her, panting, eyes round with confusion. Hands - his own this time - patted at his trousers - at the concealed pocket within them. He withdrew the vial and squinted at it before letting out a pained groan.
Une Petite Morte.
“Idiota de mierda!”
That fucking toad.
Did he not know?
Damn toad's never touched a woman without parting with gold.
A sharp hiss escaped from between his teeth.
It was a long night for the celibate Spanish torturer. He ought to have slit her throat and be done with it - but God help him - the shame of it was still sharp in his mind.
The sun rose, peeking through the curtains in the dusty room. She stirred slowly with a groan.
“Fuck…” She clutched her head. “What…?”
Color rose to her cheeks. Her gaze snapped to his and her hand flew up to her mouth. He had pressed himself to the other side of the room, and was eyeing her as if she were a wild animal which might charge him at any moment.
“Oh…God. Did we-”
“Aheh…no.”
“I…I don't know what came over me. I would never - well - not with someone I barely-”
He held up a hand to silence her.
“Someone wants you dead, amiga.” He said, tiredly.
She stared at him.
“Uh…yeah. I know.”
“Well - you have not been careful enough. They found you and - hired me to kill you.”
Her brow furrowed. “Well…either you've botched it or you're needlessly cruel.”
An oddly calm reaction to the revelation. “Let us be clear,” he held up a finger. “I botched nothing.”
He tossed the vial to her and it bounced awkwardly between her hands before landing on the bed. She picked it up, reaching into her shirt to withdraw a pair of round golden-rimmed spectacles. She read it. And then - to his surprise - started laughing.
“What kind of idiot -” she winced, touching the top of her head. But she was still grinning. “You're the worst assassin I've ever met. Is that really the best he can do?”
Tomas blinked at her. “I could still kill you.”
“Yeah but - you're not going to.”
“Why not?”
“Because you haven't yet.”
“I could want information.”
“Could have wriggled-” she made an obscene gesture with her hands which dragged his eyes to the ceiling. “-it out of me last night.” And she laughed harder than ever.
Tomas left shortly after this: still hot and still itchy and always damp. He approached the apple stand to find Harold counting his coins. The man didn't see the hand before it had pinched his nose.
“Money. Now.”
Spluttering and coughing, the man gaped at him. Wide-eyed and open mouthed, he looked more like a toad than ever.
“Is it done?” Came his nasally squeak.
“Did I give her the potion, you mean? Sí, you shit-stain. I gave her the potion.”
“Then what's the-”
There was a crack, a cry of pain, and Tomas marched away from the stand, wiping a blood covered apple on his breast.
“Well…” he said quietly. “That is at least this month paid. Aheh.”
And with that…he began making his way down the street.