Pin-up Pimpstress Permutation

[None So Blind]

(closed to that Numbers guy)

Knife's Edge was a city that had a history that few even knew. It was one of the many reasons it reminded her of her own home. After all, the Seat of the Beauty was well hidden within the Coronian forest of Concordia, deep in cover by both ragged, angry wood and the strong magics of her people. Here,instead of forest, there were drifts of snow that could bury a man alive and ensure that he wouldn't stay that way for long. It was bitter cold, ebbing back and forth between Minister and King, a loyalty that was always up against the blade of faith. It was here, that a tiny bird sat upon a marbled statue. Her feathers of black and green stood out against the swirls of grey and ivory upon which she perched, her keen black eyes fixated on a small building across the street.

Above the door of the small brick building, there lay a tavern sign. Above the modestly written name of The Acorn's Seed, there was a flourish of spirals and frill. The shape of an acorn could be distinguished amongst the mess of lines, but it was only when the sign swung up towards the West in the breeze that the curves seemed to shift, revealing a cross hidden within the nut. It certainly made sense to the small bird. The reincarnated Chieftess had never bowed knee to any patriarch, but she didn't side with the Church in the ongoing conflicts. They were, after all, all a bunch of nuts.

A man, wrapped in skins and burlap, hurried down the windy street, disappearing into the Acorn with a slam of the door. It made clumps of snow fall to the street from the roof, and tiny fangs of ice come hurtling from the side of the building into a pile of snow. The pile slid from where it covered a leaning cellar door, and the bird grinned within her devious mind. She flew to perch nearby, on a garbage pail that had tipped over and it's now nearly-empty cavernous mouth served as a home for a nest of spiders. Death had carved Natamrael into a more patient creature than she had before. Fluffing her feathers against the cold, the tiny bird squatted down and continued her vigil of the cellar door.

If all was right, she'd just have to follow the hired guard in when he opened it up, and so many wrongs would be set right.

[Breaker]

Navigating the streets of Knife's Edge felt like sailing through treacherous ocean reefs with a broken rudder. Crossroads ran at odd angles, leading to whimsical roundabouts as often as intersections. Some side alleys ended in bleak stone walls while others marked the entrances to twisting underground passageways, the foundations of ancient fallen buildings. The sub terrain network provided cover for citizens during vicious blizzards, but mostly they served as alternate routes for travellers who wished to remain unseen.

Frost crackled beneath the breaker boots as I slid out of one such back alley, pupils contracting as my eyes adjusted to the midday brilliance. Despite the barren grey sky, seemingly incandescent light shone from every snow covered surface. A shower of white powder had fallen the previous night, and it swished back and forth amidst the frigid breeze that nipped at my cheeks and hands. A baggy black trench coat covered the rest of my body, rippling in my wake as I strode balefully across cracked cobblestone. I had lost my way a few times before finding the right district but walked with slow, confident purpose. I saw no problem with arriving late for the meeting; a carefree attitude gave my employers the right idea. It let them know that I wouldn't hesitate to walk away from them and their damn imperative tasks altogether.

As I inhaled the frozen air, scentless as a vacuum, I wondered why I didn't just walk away from Salvar. The arctic nation had brought me nothing but grief with its damn civil war. There was a time when I had fought alongside Kristina Rythadine and the Salvarian Special Forces, fought to free the senate from the clutches of the Ethereal Sway. But those notions of right and wrong, those inklings of justice and tyranny, had died long ago. Salvar was nothing more than a crystallized wasteland, a snow globe of painful memories that had me waking sweating and shaken night after night. The silver statue in my pocket marked me an honorary agent of the Special Forces, but the military could join their church in hell for all I cared. I whiled the days away with never-ending workouts, dragging sweat from the lean gristle of my muscles. The nights wore on my head like heavy friction, and I lubricated the pain with bottles of coarse fire whisky.

And yet, I liked Salvar. I cherished the way the morning sun brought a cleansing mist that skated on air so cold it bit to the bone. I lived vicariously through the stoic attitude of the citizens; hardy folk who survived some of the worst Althanas' elements had to offer. Hell, I even liked the rioting heretics that made finding a fight as easy as falling drunk out a second floor window. But I couldn't make myself enjoy any of it. Life had lost its spark, its spice, its meaning. But at the end of the day, my hotel bill still needed to be paid, so I offered my considerable talents to the State at a high price.

The Acorn's Seed was a perfect example of Salvarian livelihood. A modest compact building doing modest business, with secret meetings taking place in the basement. Proper caution would have dictated a perimeter check at the very least, but I no longer heeded the laws of caution. I gladly put myself in harm’s way for the mere chance of getting to fight out of it. And so I reached down, grasped the icy handle of the cellar door, and flipped it open. I stepped awkwardly down onto the dusty floor, pupils rapidly dilating to pierce the gloom, its smothering depths broken by a single glowing candle.

My hand came out of my pocket, palm opening to reveal the minute statue. It was a silver glacier adorned with gold filigree, the letters SSF reflecting the flickering light.

"Show yourself, or I'll leave and forget all about you." I growled into the ink.