// EXPERIMENTAL THREAD // - the Thieves' Guild

[Darko Cernovsek]

// This is an experimental framework thread for the Thieves' Guild. Open-door policy for a maximum of 3 more 'operators' (thieves, mercs, assassins). And some support staff (quartermasters, cooks, cleaning people, blacksmiths, bowyers, armourers, etc. - anyone that an organization like this needs). Also opened spot for a Guildmaster/Mistress. For this one, PM me with proposals. //


In the Old Quarter of the city...

Steam wafted off of the stormdrain nearby, as Milos's quiet footsteps took him through the labyrinthine maze of back alleys and thoroughfares, walkways and crude bridges, of the Old Quarter. The young man kept his hood close around his expressionless face, one gloved hand gently rubbing the pommel of one of his blades. In these parts... any misplaced step, or turning into a wrong alley, could mean the difference between life and death. Even for one such as him. This area was ruled by gangs and street toughs, and only loosely overseen by the Guild.

Spoiler: Milos "Whisper" Andrejevich

Yet that kind of anarchy, also made it a perfect location for the Guild. Deep in the pit of manure, where only the most determined, would even have the nerve to look for it.

The Old Quarter... what an euphemism! As the young assassin's cold eyes flicked around, over the haggard, furtive faces of the passerby, the thugs and gang members, the beggars, the dirty street children cadging for a penny, to a wasted-looking, sickly, pustule-covered half-elven streetwalker that made the harlots of the Crucible look like a beauty pageant. His gaze briefly paused on her, after making certain her maitre'd was nowhere nearby. She was young enough, and her elven heritage was clear, even past all the filth and disease on her. The cold assassin's eyes flashed with a brief... ever so brief... trace of sympathy. He could easily imagine her story - a bastard daughter of a raped elven maiden, who made the fatal mistake of wandering into the wrong part of this city, while on a sightseeing tour. The Old Quarter didn't forgive such mistakes. And it's thugs were always hungry for fresh prey. Females of exotic species... Milos could imagine the elven mother, ending up as a prize-wife to a gangboss, before said thug got tired of her and killed her, while abandoning the child, to grow up on these streets, to survive however she could. The young half-breed's pained, drug-glazed eyes met his, as she tried to smile, exposing rotten teeth... Milos's face remained impassive, as he gave her a slight shake of his head as in 'not interested'. If the harlots of the Crucible didn't meet his standards, this... unfortunate soul... certainly wouldn't meet them. But he couldn't help but feel sorry for her. She was beyond help, though, likely not bound to last past the end of the current year. Unless by 'help', one included a mercy-kill. But that was not his trade. Not even out of sympathy.

Not... unless she asked him to.

Tightening the hood around his face, Milos walked on, coming upon a poor trader in trinkets and junk, just paying 'protection money' to a pair of large, scarred thugs, clearly enforcers for one of the local gangs. Milos couldn't help but shake his head. Forgotten, looked over, and neglected, the Depraved Quarter would be this neighbourhood's far more apt appellation. Among the stench of rot, rat feces, desperation and hopelessness, and deep within the depths of the maze, every conceivable aberration known to a sapient being, could be found. From child labour and prostitution, to a cannibal ring, to practitioners of forbidden magic like Necromancy, to frequent cases of leprosy and plague, left to die in agony, as they couldn't afford the healer's rates, be it divine or arcane. Oftentimes used as... test subjects... for the aforementioned dark arts practitioners.

Offhand, Milos couldn't decide which fate was worse. He tended to steer clear of both... unless the hunts for his marks led him in their direction.

Finally, the young assassin reached his destination.

Nothing as glamourous as a 'guild hall'. Not even a house. A cottage. Not even a hut. Just a stony stairwell leading down, protected by a pair of illusionary wards, which obfuscated it from most, as a simple, moss-covered wall. Only the Guild members had the necessary knowledge of the nearby signs and symbols, to even find the location. And it was an unwritten rule, that each member was to enter alone, after making very certain he or she was not being observed... disappearing into a wall.

***

As soon as Milos crossed the threshold of the wards, he breathed a sigh of relief. Despite being used to it, casing the Old Quarter was never a pleasant experience. And at least here, the Guild's arcane practitioners did a good job maintaining a pleasant, clean atmosphere, a stark contrast from the stench outside. He guessed it was an Evoked zone of clean air, maintained periodically through repeated spell castings. Whatever it was, it made the air inside the Guild grounds, cleaner then most anywhere else in the city, even the more opulent neighbourhoods.

He finished descending the long, winding stairwell, finding himself in front of a massive, brass-reinforced hardwood set of doors. He rapped his gloved knuckles on it, in a specific pattern.

One-three-three-six-one.

This was his personal entry code, so that the doorman would know it was him. If he made a mistake, the doors would still open... but he would not leave this place alive. The doors opened, soundlessly, despite their outwardly rusty appearance. Not hesitating, Milos proceeded down a long hallway, lined with black curtains on either side, towards another set of doors, these much cleaner, and more ornate, even as the set of entrance doors closed behind him. The doorman was nowhere to be seen. Not surprising.

Opening these doors himself, the young assassin stepped into a spacious, vaulted hall, filled with sofas, chairs, tables, several bookstands, as well as expensive-looking statues. Several vases of decorative plants were lining the corners. The place was positively opulent, in decor.

A balcony could be seen on the other side of the anteroom, as well as stairwells leading further down into the subterranean complex. The Guild contained living spaces, training areas, armouries, sparring rooms, a kitchen, storage spaces... everything needed to sustain a small community. A small, tight-knit, secretive community.

In the anteroom itself, only one other person could be seen, a youngish, tall, athletic woman, lounging on one of the sofas, examining a stack of papers filled with tiny writing, and a noble's seal at the bottom. A contract ledger, Milos assumed. The crimson-haired, wired, statuesque vixen lifted her gaze, to meet his, her dark eyes vaguely amused.



"Back so soon? Usually the Crucible tends to keep you past the wee hours, when not on a job! What's up?" - she greeted him, in a vaguely playful, yet also slightly condescending tone, with a thin, yet not unfriendly smile.

"Ambiguous company, Saloma. That's all." - was the young man's short, half-growled reply, to which she smirked.

"Coming from you, that's codespeak for 'I got snubbed'. Am I gettin' warm?"

Resisting an eyeroll, he changed the subject, motioning at the ledger in the lithe woman's hands.

"That looks like a hit contract. Not your usual venue?" - he prodded, knowing the likely reaction...

The woman's smile vanished, as she pointed a finger at him.

"Don't even say the A word. Got it? No matter how it looks like sometimes, I'm NOT in that business. Not like you. I'm a rogue. And this is a mercenary contract, for a bigshot Count up in the Heights. Not gonna name names. But let's just say he's after... decorative... company, for a bodyguard. Official functions and the like. I'm the status-enhancer. And if I get to gut some idiots going for him, all the better. They'd have it coming!"

Milos had to crack his own stony facade at that. The woman was adamant, that she was NOT an assassin.To be fair to her, she generally stuck to her guns there. But he also knew that she wasn't above bending her principles, if the payout was big enough. In the Guild, Saloma Gins was known as a bit of a Jill-Of-All-Trades. She liked to dabble in mid-to-high profile burglary and larceny, particularily precious gems and artifacts, she was an expertly-trained locksmith, capable of bypassing most any conventional lock, and a deft hand with a rapier, something of a swashbuckler. She used her looks and charm liberally, too, when needing to scout out the mark first, prior to burgling their home. She did some work for the local gangs; which alone proved she could take care of herself well, in a fight. And indeed, occassionally, she took on mercenary contracts. Yes, including hits, despite her professed disdain for the official name for that. But a bodyguard for a noble... that was quite another direction for a merc job. He blinked.

"As far as 'decorative' is concerned... he could do worse, certainly." - making a show of flicking his gaze over her revealing curves under the tight leathers she wore. He knew how vain she was, and predictably, she bit her lip with a hooded gaze at him - before he added, "Not to say he couldn't do better, as well." - teasing her with a smirk, as he headed for one of the stairwells on the other side, to his chambers.

She huffed, pouting.

"Really?! You're just pissy some lady turned you down for your stubborness... and don't get your hopes up! You won't be landing me any time soon, mister Stick-In-The-Arse!" - in a venomous hiss. But there was playful indignation there, too... and Milos shook his head minutely, amused, as he climbed the stairwell. He knew she had a thing for him. But then, she had a 'thing' for a good 50-75% of all men that crossed her path, that didn't look like a washing rag. If she weren't in this business, he guessed she'd make a fine courtesan. Not a harlot, though, to be fair... she was several classes above that.

"I'll catch you later, Saloma. Do me a favour though, and don't bite off more then you can chew, on your assignment. And good luck." - he called back, meeting her eyes again. He did like her, more then a little. But he tended to go after women that were more hard-to-get. Saloma... she was anything but. Still, he liked keeping that sexual-tension between them, up.

The lithe woman crossed her arms, still giving off a huffy vibe.

"Hmph. Didn't know you cared, stoneface. But... thanks!" - she muttered, cracking a grin at him again, before turning her gaze back on her contract, reaching to the table to grab a quill from it's ink bottle. Clearly, she was about to sign it.

 

[havfruen]

Evera stretched her arms slowly over her head and groaned. Her movements stretched the scars on her back and it was not a pleasant feeling. The pain in every other part of her body was her priority right now, though. It had been three days since she came back to The Guild and her bruises were slowly fading to yellow. At least she'd finished the job. Stealing the box from that mansion had not been easy with the amount of security they had. While slowly stretching downwards to reach her toes, she recalled how she'd been forced to jump out of a window to avoid discovery. Luckily, she had made the jump with the box in hand. She had been pretty pissed when she had returned to The Guild and still been refused the knowledge of what the box contained.
"It's classified information," she had been told, even when she'd argued that she deserved to know what was in the golden box that she had risked her life for. The payout had not been bad, though, she reminded herself as she groaned again and slowly raised her upper body. But it wasn't enough. She needed a bigger job, a bigger payout, if she were to ever leave this life behind for good. She would ask for another job soon. No, not soon, she corrected herself. Today.

The living quarters in The Guild were more comfortable than anything she was used to, but she couldn't stay here forever. They wouldn't let her, either, but a few days to recover from her fall had been necessary. Bruises on almost the whole left side of her body aside, the pain in her old scars were also acting up again, hindering her mobility.
Walk it off, she thought to herself as she turned to the bedside table and picked up her clothes. Freshly washed, but neither fresh or new. She almost groaned even louder at the thought of spending her hard-earned money on new clothes. There's always something...
She mumbled and grumbled to herself while she got dressed. Practical, brown pants, thin leather boots, a grey shirt that at least covered most of her skin and thereby how banged up she was. At least the heavy, black cloak kept her warm enough on the cold nights which she would most likely soon face again. She hesitated for a moment before she left it on the bed and instead only slung her satchel across her shoulder. She could come back for the cloak later, no one was waiting eagerly outside of her door to take over the room straight away. A look in the mirror told her that her red hair had started curling on either side of her face. It was still wet from her bath. Her swamp-green eyes stared critically back at her. What drew the most attention to her face, though, was the thin scar that ran from her left cheekbone to her upper lip. She furrowed her brows, thinking. Maybe in another life I could have been pretty. Maybe even... She shook her head and broke eyecontact with herself. Oh, well. No time for vanity. This was a practical life, not a beautiful one.

She turned to the door and swung it open, exiting her room and entering the long hallway. Hearing voices downstairs, she hesitated for a moment and listened. Probably no one she knew, and she had to stop getting distracted. It was time for another job. She whistled a melody as she started walking, internally singing: Yo-ho, yo-ho, a thieving life for me...

 

[Darko Cernovsek]

Milos was in his quarters, currently reading over his contract schedule, which was full of crossed-over names, over the past eight months. No new ones, however. Not for a while now, close to three weeks. Lots of corpses left behind, even more collaterals, and cleanups, but already-dead people didn't make him money. He needed a new mark. Which didn't include... cleanup. Like what he had to do in the Crucible, three days ago, which was what made the Barkeep there so annoyed with him, earlier this evening when he visited there. Those were just loose ends. After-work detail, as it were. Usually nosy private investigators, hired by 'concerned citizens', stray police officers being... overdutiful... , or even 'concerned citizens' themselves, playing hero and sticking their noses where they didn't belong.

Curiosity killed the cat, as the saying went.

It never gave him any particular pangs of conscience. He saw it as... natural selection, briefly playing with one of his blades. He flipped it to a backhand grip, lazily squinting towards a wooden board, on the far wall of his cabin, with several chalk-marked concentric circles, and a dot in the middle - a makeshift target. He flipped the blade again, in a casual motion, loosely gripping it by the base, just below the hilt, closing his eyes to slits, just... feeling the texture and balance of the blade, in his practiced fingers.

"Common sense, needs to be more... common... then it is. If people just minded their own business more, and pried into shadowy affairs less, I wouldn't have to be doing so much cleanup. I have to cover my tracks, and keep my clients' discretion. My own life depends on it, in this business. Especially if I leave tails that could be traced back, to the Guild." - the young assassin thought, shaking his head in some annoyance, closing his eyes fully, as he flipped the blade again, just by touch, then smoothly tossed it in the direction of the board, not opening his eyes.

He only opened them, as a soft stonk of metal-on-wood, indicated it had impaled itself into the board. His lips twitched into a smile. Dead centre.

Suddenly, he thought he heard faint whistling, outside in the hallway. He frowned. It wouldn't be Saloma, she never whistled. Plus from the impression he got during their conversation in the lounge, she was on her way to meet her contact. Then he mentally shrugged. Probably another operator, either back from a job, or just heading out. Either way, Milos put it out of his mind. He wasn't a particularily sociable individual in general, and unless someone was actually looking for him, or the Guildmaster paid a visit, with another lead on a job... he was content to just be left alone for the night.

Reaching past the bed for one of his books, he randomly opened a page, and began reading, slightly shifting himself in bed.

 

[notlydialovelace]

Stevania Callium was not your typical drowess, having left in disgust by the sheer stuffiness of her supposed kindred spirits. She could help being born with more than twice as much misandrous bloodlust as the average of her kind, and for the sake of her over-kind younger sister, from whose share she had apparently sapped all of the malign tendencies she would otherwise have been born with, she had left her ancestral home to reap greener pastures.

--//--

"Send me up the next lot when it's drafted," Stevania called over her shoulder as she walked towards the slightly out-of-the-way door to the Workshop, after having dropped a suspiciously damp burlap pouch on top of the paperwork the Guild clerk was in the middle of sorting out. A bit of viscous scarlet, for lack of a better word, bled through the cloth packet, staining the page in a garish fashion.

Before she could add, 'Don't look inside,' the clerk had already done the imprudent thing and opened the pouch, and summarily vomited upon seeing the wretched earthly remains of Gilthrain the Goat.

She paused upon reaching the noticeably reinforced door, with which the threshold had been furnished at the discretion of the guild administration, due to the increase in loud, sudden, and disconcerting noises that had started to waft out from the other side not too long after she started practicing her various crafts within.

To say she was an assassin would be a gross misrepresentation of the motives that underlay Stevania's zealous pursuit of wicked men. There was an element of retribution, but far more than that was the sheer electric thrill of sinking a blade into a neck, or other vulnerable flesh for that matter, of a brutish oaf, and watching as the realization dawned across his face that he had far less power than he could possibly have envisioned, and that his pursuit of seemingly helpless women had all but signed his death warrant, Stevania serving the role of arbiter and executioner.

There were plenty of cases where she judged her targets too clean to bother, and it was not a secret, or at least not a very well-kept one, that she derived a certain amount of carnal pleasure from her contract killing, at least the ones she felt all but obligated to agree to carry out. But anyone who had even an inkling of her bloodstained reputation would know better than to insinuate themselves into her own business of 'dealing with the aftermath', which was demonstrably a solitary pursuit, and for good reason.

This time, however, it was through her passion for tinkering that she relieved her ecstatic tension, humming as she attempted to repair a prototype weapon that had backfired the last time she had considered it complete, and would probably continue to do so until it was either completed, abandoned, or failed so remarkably she could no longer pursue her craft, for one reason or another. It was a welcome blessing that the guild had furnished the Workshop with a soundproof door, perhaps more for the benefit of everyone else than for her own privacy. She didn't much care to keep her activities a secret, but for some reason they garnered a fair bit of distaste from more 'respectable' rogues. As far as she saw it, however, anyone with a knife and a target was of a kind, no matter what sort of target it was, or what the knife was for. Anything else was just pretense.

And Stevania had not an ounce of pretense.

 

[Darko Cernovsek]

Getting through a few dozen pages of the book, which was titled Elyssera and her Impudent Thralls, a gift from Saloma, no less, for his birthday four weeks ago, which he never actually got around to taking a look at, Milos's face perpetually kept twisting, in several alternating expressions, including yawning, eye-rolling, exasperated sighs, stifled chuckling, and outright shuddering from repressed laughter. The work was apparently written by a renown dark elven erotica writer; somewhere, he read that they referred to themselves as 'Drow', a particular subrace of Elves that lived underground, as absurd as that sounded to him; and was a tale of a dark elven priestess and her male harem of what were apparently mind-controlled sex slaves. The book was full of lewd quasi-femdom sexual escapades, most of which defied rational belief. The rest of it was... exploitation porn. Severed genitalia, emasculation, magical regrowth of genitalia, for prolonged 'torture', eating of penises, mind-controlled self mutilation, necrophilia, and the rest of assorted 'edgy' trash.

"Saloma, I knew your tastes in literature were suspect... but this is some A-grade drivel. If this is the kind of thing that turns you on... or if there's a hidden message for me in here... nice try, honey! I admit... some of this is semi-hot, from a masochistic perspective, but... the characterisation is nonsense. The priestess is too one-dimensionally demented, her 'thralls' are just silly caricatures, and the entire setting defies belief. Underground city, giant spider-people, evil matriarchy, bla bla bla. Fifty pages into it... and I'm already bored to tears. Still... I'd love to get my hands on a vicious little jaded minx like that, and plow her against a table properly until she screamed! She would be cured of her attitude, in short order." - he thought, with a chuckle, and a barest trace of erection, finally tossing the book away, to land unerringly into a rubbish bin in a corner.

As attractive as Saloma was, her tastes in sexual fiction were apparently pandering to the lowest denominator. He made a mental note to self, to keep that in mind, if the two of them ever actually got anywhere near serious. Deciding to stretch his legs, he headed out of his quarters. Passing through the main lounge, he didn't see anyone, as he headed further down, into the training areas.

 

[notlydialovelace]

Though normally Stevania would be so absorbed in her tinkering by that point, that even the low and heavy percussion of the Workshop door slamming back into place would have scarcely registered for her, it was certainly soon enough after her return from her multi-day manhunt, that it may very well have been one of the Guild's higher-ups looking in after her, perhaps to berate her for her callous disposal of her unmentionable trophy, or to debrief her, or perhaps just to make sure she wasn't itching to stab anyone, which was certainly a concern she felt within their rights to express, even if she herself didn't see why it was really worth bringing up. If she was going to do it, there was no way that merely having a brief chat with even the most diplomatic of orators would slake her bloodlust.

As it was, the entrant figure she cast her gaze upon when she turned her head slightly towards the threshold was an unfamiliar one, certainly not one of the administration---or, at least, not one who had yet been offered up as scapegoat to talk to her behind closed doors, given her reputation for masticating the hand that counter-signed her bounty-slips.

But it was far from likely that was even the case, upon even the most cursory of sizings-up. The chap cut a figure far more built for lone-wolfing than leadership, which earned him a modicum respect in Stevania's estimation---she was a solo operator, primarily out of preference, though she would perhaps be hard-pressed to find anyone willing to match her pace if that happened to be her whim. Knives? Definitely holding, though the fact that she couldn't see them overtly, and wasn't completely sure of how many and where, beyond the fact that he merely had them---that was a tip-off he was an agent, and a capable one at that.

Seeing as he had come in after her, he was either in an interesting place at an interesting time by sheer happenstance---whether or not he knew who she was, or that she had just come back, it was still quite a coincidence. She generally had a good sense for just how fucked in the head someone she laid eyes across was, and he didn't look quite unhinged enough to specifically intend to visit her as she worked out her pent-up urges through one means or another. It was perhaps fortunate for both of them, though more specifically the chap, that it happened to be one of those days that her chosen medium of release was through her obsessive drive for tinkering, rather than the far more unspeakable acts of depravity that she might otherwise have engaged in behind closed doors after a tantalizing kill.

She found it easier to work in the dim light, so it was even possible he hadn't noticed her yet, in which case, it would do to let the poor fellow know he wasn't alone in the dark, and that yes, there be monsters.

Stevania had often been informed by others that her mannerisms and verbal acrobatics were a bit crude and standoffish, but it would constitute pretense to be any less vicious with her tongue as she was with her prized collection of daggers forged in the traditional drow style---easy to hide, easy to hold, sharp as a moonbeam, dearer than gold.

"Can't say I know the face. But you don't look new. Or else someone might have stopped you before you came in here right about now. But that's just drivel. You after me, or is this just a chance meeting?" she said, standing up in a smooth motion that concealed her left hand, which was clasped around the hilt of one of her meticulously honed daggers, just as a precaution. The Guild certainly had a stated policy about infighting, but it was a confederacy of rogues for the gods' sake, it wasn't as if the agents were particularly inclined to follow rules that they found inconvenient. Which had luckily never come to blows, at least for Stevania herself. A couple of near-misses, but almost all of the time it was the chap's fault, not hers. Or at least, more than half the time, perhaps.

 

[Darko Cernovsek]

"Hello to you as well, whoever you are." - Milos chuckled softly at the strange, slightly... edgy... opener, at the female voice from the darkened corner of the workshop, which was semi-lit by a few candlesticks close to the entrance. He couldn't quite make her out, skulking as she was in what looked like a circle of tools and pulled-out drawers, in a corner that was entirely too dark, in his estimation, to be a good workspace, for whatever tinkering she apparently was engaged in. At least for human eyes, though he knew that certain species were capable of infravision.

"Likewise, by the way. Your voice doesn't sound familiar." - he added, vaguely cordially, his cold, light-blue eyes squinting in her direction, trying to make out the outlines of the face there. Strangely, all he saw was a slightly darker shadow against the backdrop of other shadows in the corner... emphasized by a pair of glinting eyes, staring unblinkingly his way. Whoever the female was, her skin was apparently very dark. Or was she masked in some way? The second possibility made his eyes narrow slightly further, as that usually indicated someone waiting in ambush. But if she was... why would she announce her presence? She'd have a solid jump on him, from that corner, before she spoke.

His left hand, one out of her line of sight, lightly rubbed the hilt of his left blade, reassuring him that it was within easy pull-and-throw reach if necessary, as he casually shifted his stance wider, knees ever-so-slightly bent, ready to dodge in any direction, if necessary.

"Any particular reason you're hiding in a dark corner? Not the best place to work, yes? And quite the place for one to get a wrong impression." - the lean young man probed, his tone turning ever-so-slightly suspicious.

 

[notlydialovelace]

Stevania let out a short bark of a laugh, a genuine one at that. Though from her mouth, it might come across as derisive.

"That answers a couple of questions," she said, smiling ever so faintly, not that the stranger would necessarily be able to even make out her face in the dim light. Though the slightly deranged look in her eyes would have killed the effect of her facial expression.

Stevania's mind was a rather enigmatic puzzle-box, complete with snares and spikes in case of a wrong solution. But she was sharp as a blade in many contexts, even if her thought process was mostly inscrutable.

"I don't need any candles or lamps to see well enough at this distance," she explained, moving slightly relative to the limited sources of illumination in the room so that her face, and her ears for that matter, ought to be visible from the unknown rogue's vantage point.

"Guessing you haven't heard of me. Or at least, not well enough to put a face to the name. I don't know whether naming oneself is a taboo among your kind of rogue. Not that I know any of my kind but myself. I generally like to give people the dread of knowing my name for just long enough to reconcile themselves to dying by my hand. But that must sound melodramatic and pretentious to you, I suppose. I guess it's really just a habit I picked up. Nothing as grandiose as a calling card or a professional courtesy."

Her tone was measured and even, but given the additional context of her facial expressions, the otherwise semi-humble speech was streaked with a dissonant methodical subtext, casting but a glimmer of light on the irregular and complex surface of Stevania's character.

Her tone shifted, as if she had grown slightly weary of putting on even the slightest modicum of airs, and she relaxed herself into her somewhat abrasive candor.

"S'long as you don't bother me, and you aren't the jumpy type who spooks at loud noises---and you don't seem that sort, but I'm not the best at reading faces---, I think we can both let go of our knives we can each go about our business. Sound fair?"

 

[Darko Cernovsek]

Information gathering was an art. And even before she had moved into the light for him to be able to see her, Milos had gained valuable information, for his ever-analytical mind. Seeing her face, only confirmed the fleeting thought, that she was either an elf, or a halfbreed elf, as those were the only two species he was aware of, that were capable of seeing properly in that kind of darkness. But not any kind of elf he had ever seen. Her skin was... graphite-dark, yet strangely supple-looking, in the dim light. She was beautiful, in a sharp-featured, hawkish way, a pair of delicate, yet piercing eyes on that intense face. From her build and limberness as she moved, Milos could guess she was extremely coordinated and athletic, while her statuesque figure only added to the exotic appearance. She was nearly as tall as Saloma, but even more limber and athletic, and from the way she held her hands, he guessed that the leather bracers faintly visible on her forearms, contained easily-accessible weapons. She was clearly as ready to act, as he was.

Her next statement made him twitch his lips into another smirk - melodramatic indeed. He had met some of his peers, who enjoyed putting on airs, either for intimidation or misdirection - and depending on the other person, it could work well. Most people were, after all, fearful in one way or another, and fear was a powerful tool in an assassin's arsenal. She clearly relied on eliciting it, in her pursuit of prey. For his part, Milos didn't particularily care how his marks saw him, or whether they were afraid of him or not. He wasn't a good actor to begin with, so why even bother pretending? He preferred to focus purely on efficiency. If anything, he had learned that if people underestimated him, it made them easier targets.

Yet there was something about her mannerisms and speech, that reminded him of characters in the book he had just tried to get through. The vague undertone of arrogance, and stand-offishness. Then of course, there was her graphite skin, which no elf would have.

"Sounds fair to me. After all, we seem to be in the same line of work." - he winked ever so slightly, "I was on my way to the trapped chamber, to run a course to the end. Skills must be practiced or lost, and all that." - he nodded, with a slight grin, at her last statement, letting his hands hang by his sides.

"What is your name... Drow, is it? Mine is Milos. Milos Andrejevich. But around here, I am known as Whisper." - he added, making an assumption. If he was wrong, she would no doubt correct him, she might indeed be an elf, with some sort of face-paint, after all. But the similarity was... too much to be coincidental. Likewise, he wasn't reticent about giving his name... none of his clients or marks, ever knew him either by his name, or his handle in the Guild, he always used made-up aliases when on the job. And they were never the same, as the massive stack of forged identification papers in his quarters attested to.

 

[notlydialovelace]

Stevania nodded curtly upon Milos's guess at her origins, before waiting for his introductions to give her own.

"Ah, fuck it. Name's Stevania Callium, not sure what you'll make of it unless you know about the Ancestral Families of the Underdark. As it stands, I'm kind of nobody in these parts. Just a serial-killer turned assassin with a highly particular modus operandi. To you, I might just seem like a crazy bitch with a murder itch. I don't put much stock in what people think of me. The worse my reputation, the better."

She took a quick swig from a flask of Drider Venom, a liquor named misleadingly after the Underdark's notorious lurkers, but in reality just an acrid brew of Drow invention, no more toxic than any other 80-proof distilled beverage.

"Didn't even know we had a training course," Stevania lied. She of course knew, because she had been berated for attempting to upgrade the threat caliber of the hazards to separate the wheat from the chaff, by separating limbs or heads from their bodies. Her 'improvements' were not appreciated by the thenceforth-nicknamed 'Lefty' Malory, who had inadvertently alerted the guild to the unlicensed tampering with the facility. Needless to say, she could take a hint, and it was restored to its previous configuration. Much too boring, in her estimation, but not everyone was willing to risk life and especially limb on a casual basis. More fool they. Not that she herself had ever tried running it. Her particular brand of roguery relied more on standing still and looking pretty yet unassuming, followed by a quick stab-and-twist. Not much running on rooftops or traipsing through tunnels.

In her opinion, training for the eventuality of getting caught---the one time she really needed to run fast over potential obstacles---was just inviting scenarios in which that skill was tested. The less she trained, the more she could focus on not fucking up in the first place.

 

[Darko Cernovsek]

Milos laughed in that patented thin-smiling way of his, his eyes remaining cold.

"I'm afraid my knowledge of the... Underdark..?... catchy name by the way... is limited to a low-brow copy of... what was it... Elysara and her Idiot Thralls or somesuch. An exploitation-porn drivel gifted to me by another operator around here. I'm certain you will meet her in due time." - he chuckled. The fact that he already couldn't even remember the title of the book properly, spoke volumes on how un-memorable it was.

"She's got a questionable taste in literature, let's just say." - he added, rolling his eyes slightly in amusement.

Then he made a show of giving the woman a once-over, eyes flicking over her curves. While mostly hidden beneath her armour and clothing, he liked what he saw. And her continually slightly edgy attitude just made her... well. His cock twitched, minutely.

"As far as... crazy bitches with murder itches go... I approve, Miss Callium; it is a good way to make coin. Especially if they are also in posession of a dirty mouth, like you seem to be. I suppose I can postpone my training for a while - would you like to join me in the Lounge for a snack?" - he continued, keeping his thin smile, his urbane, slightly clipped vocal mannerism not changing at all.

But his ice-cold eyes did get a shade warmer, for a brief instant, just like they had in the Crucible, when trying to land that tiefling sailor woman. Perhaps he would be more successful here. Perhaps not. But he liked interesting women, and ones that didn't immediately just throw themselves at him, like Saloma. Stevania here, might just qualify. And if she was anything like that demented minx from the book, whose name he again couldn't recall properly... this might just turn into an interesting night, after all!

 

[notlydialovelace]

"The Lounge, huh?" Stevania mused, crossing her arms. "Didn't even know this place *had* one of those. Mostly go between this place, my room, and the killing fields, 'cept if I'm in need of a top-up on my stash or a square meal or so. Since I haven't quite been there before, I have no reason to turn you down except if I think you are up to something. Which frankly, I am pretty sure every single wretched soul here is, in one way or another. Otherwise it would be awfully boring here, and that simply wouldn't do."

She stood up from her chair, reaching almost 5'10". Her build was lithe yet not wiry, just enough meat on her bones to get the job done in both aspects, from the luring to the skewering.

"Just so you know, I'm not leaving my daggers behind," she said, patting the openly visible sheaths on either side of her hips; far from the only set she was carrying, but covering all of those would take a bit longer, and require her to dress down a bit.

"By the way, never heard of any books being written about drow women. But I guess we do have a reputation, even if I'm a bit of an outlier even among my sister-kin. I don't put up with nearly as much as they do, and that should mean something to you if you know anything about the stereotype."

Since Milos seemed a bit disillusioned with the gift he had received, Stevania couldn't help but wonder if she might convince him to part ways with it. Seeing how outsiders characterized, almost certainly mischaracterized, her sister-kin could probably be good fun of an afternoon, like watching a sort of darkly comedic pseudo-pantomime of a man with his tongue cut out try to curse her out. Maybe that was something not everyone could relate to, but it happened often enough for her that it was an easy touchstone for twisted amusement.

Heck, even if it was accurate, it was probably trash writing anyway. Which didn't deter Stevania in the least. If anything, that made the whole proposition better.

"Since I have no fucking idea where it is, I'll trust you to lead the way, as long as you don't mind showing a self-proclaimed man-killer like me your back," she said, a crazed glint flashing in her eyes as she stepped away from her corner towards Milos.

 

[Darko Cernovsek]

"I don't mind. The 'self-proclaimed' part makes it less then convincing, my dear." - Milos deadpanned, teasing her with a wink. There was such a thing as trying too hard, and this girl... well, 'girl' in inverted commas, she certainly looked young, younger then him, but that didn't mean much, when it came to elves, for all he knew, she might have been over 200 years old, elves and aging worked in mysterious ways... she was really laying into the 'edgy' routine too hard, to be entirely convincing. In his experience, that often masked...

"...a defence mechanism... ? Or just a bit insecure?" - he wondered, with a mental smirk. She was gorgeous, though. In that sharp-faced, catty way. Delicious.

"This way." - he added out loud, turning and motioning her to follow, making it very obvious he didn't buy into the 'ladies first' nonsense. "Oh, and perhaps 'lounge' is a bit pretentious... but it is certainly opulent, and well-stocked in comestibles. Best of all - free of charge, for Guild regulars."

As they walked up the accessway towards the main anteroom, he added, with a chuckle: "And if you were anything like the stereotypes from the book, I suspect one of us would already be dead by now! Which actually makes me think you put up with more then most! After all, I haven't knelt before you or kissed your boots, and you haven't tried to claw my eyes out yet because of my impudence!" - he laughed, remembering a random scene.

 

[notlydialovelace]

"Did I say self-proclaimed? I rather meant self-admitted. Those are the same word in Undercommon," Stevania explained, not even sure why she was bothering to explain herself to Milos. It didn't matter to her typically what others thought of her, but given that he had extended an invitation to her, even as routinely flagrant she was in her etiquette, it was a professional distinction she felt shouldn't go uncorrected. She certainly had killed enough men---almost always for reasons that at least someone besides her would consider at least somewhat reasonable, though not necessarily always deserving the level of brutality exhibited---, to not need any sort of proclamation to be worthy of the title.

"I don't like pretense, but I do like not having to pay for things I want," Stevania commented, perhaps attempting to make a joke, but certainly telling the truth even in doing so.

"If you are bored of that book, I wouldn't mind taking it off your hands. Call it curiosity or whatever you like, it's just a bit odd that someone would think to write about my sister-kin in that way. Certainly stuff like that happens, but not nearly as often as you might be lead to believe."

 

[Darko Cernovsek]

"Well, it's in my cabin. If we do end up there tonight, you can take a look." - Milos smiled at her, not missing the opportunity to inject a note of smoothness in the tone, making it clear to her that he was... very... interested.

And he didn't miss the way she seemed to slowly lose that edge of hers, the more they talked. As they entered the anteroom, he pointed to the second level of it, which was a bit more cosily appointed, and contained a self-serving buffet table with various foodstuffs, a convenience that the Guild cooks maintained for all the members, each day.

Anything not eaten on the same day, was later packaged and distributed to the homeless, on the streets of the Old Quarter. In this way, the Thieves Guild even served the community, as sort of a public kitchen - while also currying favour with the people of the Old Quarter, and making them less willing to cooperate with the authorities, if their investigation into the actions of the Guild operators, ever led them here, since from the people's point of view, the Guild did more for them, then the city authorities ever did.

That proved very useful, on several occasions in the past. And it also painted an even less flattering picture of the Old Quarter - when a shadowy crime syndicate did more for the people there, then the city did.

"There we go. Frankly I'm famished myself... did not have a chance to get dinner yet." - he again led the way upstairs. Once up, he briefly washed his hands in the sink near the wall, before he seated himself at the table, picked out a plate, knife, and a fork, and started slicing himself sizable chunks of a barbecued bird of some kind or another, which smelled good. Some puree soaked in barbecue sauce, couple of slices of bread, and salad, completed the meal for him.

He looked over the beverage cabinet for bottles of pineapple juice, his personal favourite. They weren't always in stock, since they had to be imported... but tonight he was in luck, spotting a half-empty one. Taking it out, he poured himself a glass.

"What sort of food do you usually eat in the Underdark?" - he asked Stevania, when she would join him with her own plate and food choices, "I don't imagine there are a lot of game animals down there to hunt. Unless you raise your own livestock somehow?"

The whole idea of an entirely underground civilisation, didn't make sense to Milos. How did they survive without sunlight, which was essential for so many things up here on the surface, including farming and raising animals.

 

[havfruen]

A jolt of pain in her upper back made Evera halt on her way down the hallway. For a moment the world was spinning and she leaned put her hands against the wall to steady herself, resting her forehead against the cool wood. Okay, maybe she wasn't ready to take on another job yet. She took deep breaths, counting ten. The dizziness slowly faded.
Fuck it. I need a drink, she thought and slowly headed in the opposite direction of where she was going before, towards the Lounge, trying her best to walk without moving her shoulders too much. The old scars where her wings had once been were burning in her back. She craved another kind of burning.

As she entered the anteroom, she haulted. Two people were already in there, no one she knew. By reflex, her hand wandered down to the hilt of the dagger she carried by her side, but the movement sent another line of fire down her spine. She winced and decided that if any of them were going to attack her, she wouldn't be able to defend herself in her current state, anyway. Instead, she glanced over them both and nodded a greeting.
"Evening," she said and crossed the room determinedly to reach the liquor cabinet. She opened it and scanned the bottles with a trained eye before pulling out a half-full bottle of rum. That would do. She pulled out the cork with her teeth, spat it on the ground and took a healthy swig. The burning in her throat seemed to quickly ease the tension in her shoulders and she sighed again, this time of relief. Finally, she turned towards the strangers to get a better look at them. The woman was only slightly shorter than Evera's 5'11 frame and she looked elvish of some kind. She was very pretty. If Evera had been in another kind of mood, she might have offered her a drink and tried to discover whether or not she liked women.
Her gaze wandered on to the man sitting at the table with a plate of food and a glass in front of him. The beverage did not look like alcohol. She scoffed slightly, swirling around the content of the rum bottle. She could go back to her room and drink herself to sleep. Then again, it might be nice with some company - depending on the company. She weighed her options for a few seconds more before approaching the table.
"Mind if I join you?" she asked them both, the question not aimed at one of them in particular.

 

[notlydialovelace]

"'T'd be pretty scummy of me to turn you away," said Stevania, "'specially since you rather look like you are aching for something soft and stable to sit on," nodding at the rogue-sister she had not yet pegged a name for. Not that the drowess cared much for socializing, at least not the kind that required knowing someone's name, except as an added bonus.

It was painfully obvious how obviously painful it was for the other woman to move about---Stevania relied a lot on her peripheral vision and it rarely lied to her. Offering her a seat, and depending on how acute her subtextual reading was, a cryptic solicitation...was at least probably welcome on the first count, and hopefully on the second as well.

Which is to say, Stevania was far from displeased with the newcomer to the Lounge.

"Mushrooms and underground fish, mostly. Blind fuckers, easy to spear. Don't taste like much but they keep well, and if you can afford spices, a good blank slate to put some actual flavor on," she said, answering Milos's question. "My kid sister, the counterweight to my deviancy, got into baking. Can't say it earned her much respect from her sister-kin, 'cept me. Her pastries were fucking delectable. Not sure where she is now, whether back in the deep-home, somewhere here on the surface---no doubt trying to find me and persuade me to stop killing people---, or maybe dead in a ditch somewhere. Did my best to teach her how to defend herself, even gave her some fancy daggers as a gift. Well, looted from a surface-elf who came down for business and tried to take advantage of her innocence. Needless to say, them blind fish did the clean-up after I had a couple of sharp words with him. But that's more than you asked, so you have to tell me something about yourself in return. Like what your angle is, Milos, or what brought you to this scoundrels' stockyard."

She leaned back, taking another swig from her hip-flask. The burn was feeling good tonight.

 

[Darko Cernovsek]

"Now where did all her attitude go, all of a sudden? I thought she'd laugh in her face for being 'weak' or something, that's the way Drow females are supposed to be..." - Milos thought, in some surprise, watching the Drow woman be downright kind to the newcomer. He gave himself a microscopic shake of his head. It was as Saloma told him once:

~"Folks with biggest attitudes are the biggest softies at heart."~ - he could practically see her trademark sarcastic smirk, as he remembered. He wondered what she would make of Stefania - no doubt he'd find out, in due time.

Out loud, he extended a cordial hand to the newcomer, with guarded professional concern for a fellow rogue.

"Welcome! You look a touch worse for the wear - burglary gone wrong? Loose cobble on the roof? Some of those rickety dwellings out there are downright murderous to climb onto without picking your footing with caution." - he hazarded a guess, giving the woman a once-over, before he added, "...speaking from experience."

With some interest, he noted that both women were drinking alcohol. He would understand it for the newcomer - no doubt the booze would dull the pain - but Stefania, for her line of work, keeping a clear head was important. One of the reasons why he rarely, if ever, imbibed. Yes, some would call him squeaky-clean for that, but for Milos, personal discipline was a large part of his approach to his profession.

As he listened to her answer his question, he put a few more pieces of the puzzle together. And quite a few of them didn't seem to match with the reputation the Drow females were under. If Stefania was considered 'deviant' - and to his judgement, she was about on the level of any number of... more intense... Human ladies he met, especially those in the fighting lines of work, such as mercenaries or fellow rogues - she was no more deviant then any of them. Certainly more pretentious and putting on more airs about her so-called 'deviancy', but more - deviant? Nah. In fact, on her left-legged days, Saloma was about as vicious as this Drow chick had been so far!

"Well, I hope your sister never finds you, in that case! You're more fun, just the way you are! Trust me, the world already has plenty of soft-hearted, timid females. An overabundance of them, in fact." - he replied, out loud, teasing her slightly again with a grin, his cold eyes softening a little more, eyes almost involuntarily flicking over her curves again.

"As for what my... angle... is?" - he shrugged, noncommitally.

"There is plenty of work to be found, in the capital. So this is where I am. High-level politics, jealous spouses, unscrupulous business competitors... plenty of people want someone dead. Discreetly. Efficiently. Unlike you, I don't have any particular... personal stake or fetish... in the job. I relish the execution of it, in an efficient and professional manner. Tracking down the mark. Observing. Analysing their patterns. Working out an avenue of approach. Then making a clean kill. Not making the mark suffer unnecessarily if possible, sadism tends to... impair... efficiency, in my experience. Not to mention it tends to introduce an emotional element in the job, can lead to misjudgement. I have seen more then a few of our peers, get killed that way."

"I was found an orphan on the streets of a city far from here, in another country, and trained by a convinced Sironite, a tiefling woman called Anra, one of the Five Blades of Al'Seyrit, a master assassin from a race of half-demons." - he mused, taking a sip of his juice. "If you know anything about the Religion of Shadows, it teaches one that focus and discipline, is the hallmark for success. My teacher never failed to impart that truism, during my training in the Al'Seyrit order. On those occassions when I forgot, I was... reminded. Painfully. And I am not vain enough to think I have yet even come close, to mastering all of her lessons." - he took a bite of the delicious barbecued bird, then briefly traced a finger over the right side of his neck, where five paralell lines were precisely branded into his skin, with an intricate emblem in the middle, marking him as an Adept of Al'Seyrit.

"But they do keep me alive. And they keep the money coming." - he smiled, meeting the drow woman's gaze again.

 

[havfruen]

Evera gave a slight nod of appreciation and sat her bottle on the table. She grabbed the hand that the man extended to her, offering him a firm grip with a calloused hand, before sitting down next to the woman. She placed both of her elbows on the table and leaned forward.

"Good guess, you're close," she answered, wrapping her fingers around the cool bottle of rum. "It didn't go wrong, I just found myself in an unexpected sudden need of departing. Said departure happened to be out of a window from the third floor. I'd hoped for a softer landing." She made a half grin, half grimace and took another swig of the bottle. The results of the alcohol were spreading warmly through her body, easing her tension. This was just a flare-up, she reminded herself. A few more days of rest, at the most, and she'd be out working, hopefully in smaller mansions that weren't surrounded by cobblestone.

Listening in on the conversation, she gathered that her company were different kind of rogues than she. Ones that dealt in blood. Not that she didn't have blood on her hands, herself; but she'd never made a living out of killing, found no pleasure in it. Thieving could be fun under the right circumstances - but more importantly, she was good at it. It brought money in and that was what mattered.
She observed the man - Milos, the woman had called him - as he told his story. Very openly, too, Evera noted. Was this a result of re-telling a painful story so many times that it no longer hurt to tell, or was he just extremely well-adjusted emotionally? She assumed the former. She didn't count on finding emotionally intelligent or stable people in a place like this. She sure wasn't.
She didn't usually outright lie when asked about her path - she simply adjusted the facts a bit. For all anyone knew, she was an orphaned elf. Anyone who knew that she was a fairy, that she was once without pain and with the ability to soar high in the skies, were either dead or very far away. She liked to keep it that way. If she had an obvious flare-up, she blamed it on work injuries. If she had the occasional one night stand, she explained the scars as something else. She didn't want - or need - anyone's pity. And she surely didn't want to seem weak.

"So... Milos, was it?" she said when he seemed to have finished talking. She pointed towards his glass with her bottle with a raised brow. "Why aren't you drinking? Going out on a killing spree tomorrow? Or do you just never take a night off from... 'focus and discipline'?"

 

[notlydialovelace]

"That's quite the pedigree," Stevania commented, glossing over the details in Milos's story that seemed more intended to impress her or make her aware of her ignorance of the general creed of thieves and assassins, and the ceremony and hierarchy within such esoteric groups.

When the sister-rogue mentioned 'focus and discipline', Stevania grinned knowingly, and turned to the as-yet-unintroduced woman.

"I take quite the different approach to things," she said, taking another swig from her flask and relaxing, in no particular hurry to keep her legs from widening slightly---though for whose benefit, she didn't much care. It was almost a habit of hers, deliberately making herself seem more unguarded, both martially and intimately, to entice either welcome attention, or unwelcome attention that could be plausible grounds for another mortal harvest. But in this company, she had frankly no idea of what either of the two, the assassin or the---burglar? you don't get those kind of scars from fights, so it was probably as she had said, an impromtpu escape by way of window-pane and pavement---, would make of her behavior. She was willing to give either of them a try at least, so long as they understood---the man especially---that she hadn't shown anyone yet living the depths of her depravity yet, and taking her at anything even close to face value was the reason why Gilthrain had lost the reason he was nicknamed 'the Goat'. As well as several other parts of him, over the course of an impromptu dissection taking the better part of three hours. It was only fitting, given that the man himself had envisioned their consort in a room where no one would hear the screams---not knowing at the time whose they would turn out to be, of course.

She crouched forward, resting her elbows on her thighs, her back arched like a cat. "I'm not in this game because I want to get rich, or even live a moderately comfortable life. I have no retirement plan, no budget, just my body and its various graces, as well as vices, and a panoply of tools of specific and well-engineered precision. Some of them for cutting and stabbing, some of them for making things. I get by partially by carrying out bounties that fit my personal type, and of course some pinching and pawning from both the living and the dead---but my real passion is tinkering. Building shit that does shit, y'know. Somehow getting my hands greasy or bloody are both ways of scratching my particular variety of itch. But when the grease runs out or I start getting restless, someone's going to wind up dead. So I'm what you might reasonably call a semi-pro assassin, I don't take hits on people I don't personally see the reason to kill. That means fewer jobs and a lot gold for me than if I kept things professional and made hits without any ulterior motive. But that's not the sort of life that works for me. I'm not built for regular killing-jobs. I'm basically a fucked-up little genie that grants a particular kind of wish to those who have suffered at the hands of a rotten sort, and doesn't ask for much in return except enough gold not to devalue the service of ending a life. Sometimes, if the client's reason for wanting the bugger dead resonates with me, I don't ask for much of anything in return. Whether that makes me a disgrace to the profession, or whether that even disqualifies me from calling myself a proper 'hired killer', I don't much know nor care. As long as I have something to eat when I get famished, something to drink when I get parched, someone to fuck when I get horny, and something to occupy my hands with when I get restless---well, I can't really say I have need of much more to be quite honest. Nor, do I think, does anyone, at the end of the day. Some folks want things like riches, love, happiness, or legacy, but I'm fine living on a wing, a prayer, and on a razor's edge until I fucking cark it."