A Game for Killers (Knifer & Philomel)

[Knifer]

"You're going to kill somebody for us," the man said to him. Nijur grinned but remained slouched, staring at the floor. "I'm not asking. She's a whore and a killer, and she's been causing trouble for us. Kill her."

"Why should I do that?" he muttered. "Fuck you. What if I don't want to?"

"You'll do it. Like I said, this isn't a request."

"Then I don't have to agree, and fuck you." The other man didn't like that, beginning to redden.

"Do you want me to cut your cock off and beat you with it? I've done that before, to other men."

"I'm not other men, and fuck you." Nijur paused a moment and then looked up, just as the other man was about to speak. His eyes glimmered in the dim cell. "Wait - you've beat other men's cocks before?" His teeth glinted, grinning. The man in the doorway bridled at that.

"You'll kill this bitch or I will - "

"Will do fuckin' what?" Nijur interrupted. "You don't scare me, you self-named 'cock-beater.' Yer about as scary as moldy bread, so fuck you." The other man was almost shaking with rage now.

"You will do it or I will beat you within an inch of your life!"

"Start with my cock, it's been a while since I got off."

Infuriated, the man started forward, swinging his leg back for a vicious kick at Nijur's jaw. The men behind him cried out in sudden alarm, trying to warn him, but it was too late. Nijur darted forward and caught the leg, knocking the other man off balance. Before the guards could rescue him, the prisoner had dragged his captor in close and bitten deeply into his throat. The man died screaming, choking on his own blood in a gurgling whimper. All of the guard's cudgels descended on the prisoner's bare back, but were stopped almost immediately by a command from the doorway. Another man, far more imposing than the last, stepped forward, watching Nijur.

"Idiot, should have known better than to get close to you like that."

"Damn right," Nijur agreed, slurping back some of the blood. "He new?"

"Relatively. Will you do it?"

The prisoner grinned again, flashing a bloody maw and fiendish eyes. "I'll need some things." The other man nodded, satisfaction plain on his face.

"You'll have them."

~

The carriage came to a halt, finally. A pair of rough hands laid on Nijur's shoulders and steered him out of the closed chamber, then jerked the blindfold from his eyes and the gag from his mouth. The criminal gave a snarling smile at the lout's thick face. They were in an alley, and just at the other end he could see what looked like an inn. He could smell rain, coming soon from slate-gray sky.

Nijur had been bathed, shaven, given a haircut - though the green streaks remained amidst the black - and was wearing some decent clothing for a change: a shirt of white linen, leather trousers and boots, a thick doublet of checkered crimson and black, a leather cuirass befitting a killer-for-hire. Around his hips was a belt with two frogs at the back, for carrying knives or other small weapons. A cross-belt held another frog on his chest, and on his forearms were a pair of boiled leather vambraces. He looked what he was: a professional killer, a rough-liver, a frequent patron of dives and dens.

As the manacles around his hands were undone, Nijur jerked a nod towards the inn.

"That where I'm going?" Through the carriage window, the man from the cell nodded.

"Go to the docks when you're done. We'll pick you up there, and we'll know if you try to run." Nijur made a pouting face, still feeling the raw ache on his back where they had branded the arcane mark. He rubbed his wrists as the iron cuffs came away. The guard fished a bundle from the carriage and handed them over, then stepped back. That was amusing; thinking that he was safe if he was out of arm's reach. With a small smile, the criminal undid the binding. Three knives: a toothpick, and two curving daggers. He slid the toothpick and one of the curving daggers into the back-sheaths, and the third into his chest sheath. Turning, Nijur spread his arms as if modeling his clothes.

"How do I look?"

"Go kill the whore, you bastard," the man snapped - but a slight smile told Nijur he was amused. Pouting again and bowing, Nijur turned away and approached the inn.

He would need coin to get more than three steps in the door - obvious coin. The criminal walked slowly, watching the plebs passing the inn. He waited a moment, then moved forward quickly and stumbled into a man. Almost falling flat on his face, Nijur babbled every Alerian blessing and apology he could remember to avoid having to kill the man, hiding the plump coinpurse in his palm. As the man moved on with a few angry curses, Nijur turned and slid inside the building. He made his way to the bar right away, flashing a silver piece in plain sight to get attention. Before long he had a foaming ale set before him, and a busty wench cooing in his ear. He turned and sized her up, making no attempt to hide his critical eye.

"'oy mate," he called to the bartender, loud enough to be heard across the common room, "ain't you got anything more exotic?"

[Philomel]

The man begged for her to take his life. After all she had already taken his money, his dignity, and a couple of weeks ago, his virginity. Young and fair-haired he had green eyes bright with passion and had come desperate for a break in his miserable existence. He claimed to be the son of a butcher from Bull Street, but she suspected something more. In the way he carried himself, the small movements he made when pouring wine, in the very essence of his folded trousers she sensed something noble. Likely the younger son of a baron or laird, but a noble nevertheless. He treated her with utter respect, as he believed any woman should be, and called her "my lady" even when she satisfied his lust.

She finished off that moment of pounding, swinging herself off from her straddling position in order to let him catch his breath. The sheets around his legs were wet with a mixture of their sexual juices, and his member stood to adamant attention like a guard on royal duty. A small kind smile came to her lips as she brushed down the ruffled fur on her thighs.

"Nightingale," the man gasped as he watched the movements of her fingers, "Nightingale, you must marry me."

Fondly she gazed at him, feeling a deep pity. So desperate was he for love that he offered her his hand, after only two weeks of knowing her. Her - his first and, he hoped, only - sexual partner.

"Loral, you must change, your carriage waits below. Its already an hour past the time you paid for."

The young man sat up, clear desire on his face. She even saw the stress lines upon his forehead - something that should not be vexing a youngling at his age.

"Please, Nightingale, please! I can offer you a home, stability, money ... even - even a-"

"I don't need a title," she heard herself saying. "I don't need that."

His soft eyes widened. "... You knew ..."

"The people in my area of work are very good at figuring out the truth behind the lies. Me especially. Now, Lord Loral, Sir Loral, whichever you are. Please, you must go."

"Its Lorallie, the Honourable," he said, sorrow dripping from every word. Even his eyes were welling up with tears. "Son of - younger son of the Laird of Apple Orchards, who is loyal to the Baron Bradbury. I am not joking when I say I have money and a good manor house and-"

"Loral. Sir Lorallie. Your time is up. I will escort you down to the back door and promise to keep your secret, but you must understand I cannot accept any proposal. Not ever."

The young man succumbed to weeping.

~*~

True to her word the assassin-whore showed the young noble to the back door, away from the view of other customers and the rowdy collection of pub-brawlers. Her heart felt heavy in her chest as she rejected yet another hopeful spirit, but her will was adamant. She would never subject herself to the misery of marriage as her mother did; even if the propsect promised land, respect or power. This had definitely been one of the more positive offers, and perhaps, in another life, she would had persued the match with Sir Lorallie, son of Laird Bramossa Deron, yet she could not. Her body might be others temporarily, if they had the right money, but her head and her independence was her own. Never again would she belong to another - not like she had belonged to Mort, her brigand pimp.

Sighing she returned back to the main area of the inn, making sure she was respectable and her breasts were firmly covered. She heard the dim clip-clop of the horses' hooves as they carried away her client who would likely never return. As she leant solmenly against the doorpost seperating the back pantry from the bar itself the bar maid, Matilda, saw her.

Her hands cleaned a dull tankard with a dirty cloth. A brown eyebrow arched at the faun.

"Another disappointment, Phi?"

Philomel sighed, low. "Another disheartening proposal more like, Matty."

The bar maid smiled sadly, looking back around to the seats as a troublemaker demanded something better than the House Best ale he had been given. A spirited whore, likewise self-employed like Philomel, was already trying her luck with him.

"Well, there's always a few," Matilda said, grabbing a bottle of Old Hen Stout from under the bar.

"And there are always a few idiots," Old Toby, the head bar-tender said, nodding over to the man. "Take him that, Matty. Phi, you come help if you've nothing better to do."

Philomel laughed as she watched Matilda squeeze out from behind the wood and strut her way over to the wickedly gruesome complainer. Then she stretched, leaned away from the doorway and strode over to help Old Toby serve the drunkards of the pale-lit night.

[Knifer]

Brew slopping about his mouth, the assassin slurped greedily at his first beer, drinking like a man afraid of never tasting alcohol again. His eyes rolled back in his head as he drank, but before they closed in ecstasy, those green eyes had taken the lay of the land. There was another whore pushing towards him across the room, bringing another pint of frothing ale for him, a handful of annoyed patrons wishing he would shut up, an itching in his ass, a throbbing on his back, and moving from the foot of the stairs to the back of the bar was a faun that he instantly knew was his target. The other killer, a soul like Nijur's. He'd killed a lot of killers, and evaded more than a few knives in the course of those killings. It was all part of that high-stakes game, every killer's favorite game to play with other killers: who's the better killer? Nijur had won every round this far, and knowing that he was about to play again was bracing, sending his spirits soaring better than any drug he'd ever tried.

The first tankard, now empty, clacked against the bartop and Nijur smacked his lips, sighing loudly.

"Ahh, now that's an ale welcome to the gut!" With a cackle, he turned to the second pint. Leaning in, he almost buried his nose in the foam and inhaled. Eyes widening appreciatively at the scent of hops and grain and spices, he grinned devilishly at the barkeep and tilted the tankard back, taking a deep draught. A hand on his shoulder and unintelligibly breathy whisper in his ear reminded him of the whore already hanging off his shoulder. He pushed her away with one arm and held out a single finger, indicating she ought to wait her turn while he drank - and drink he did, not parting lip from pint until he had sucked down every last drop. That tankard also slammed against the bar, and Nijur laughed again, ignoring the pouting whore.

"Master publican, you keep a fine s'lection, and so I will reward you finely!" Three glimmering gold pieces dropped from his fingers. The assassin licked his lips, rescuing the last traces of flavor from oblivion. As if for the first time, his eyes fell on the faun behind the bar. The other whores were quickly forgotten and ignored, and Nijur's gold-flecked green eyes widened appreciatively. Without pretense or subtlety, his eyes crawled around her body, taking her breasts, thighs, face, neck, and all her contours and beauty. She was voluptuous, and it was easy to see how she could make a man swoon and lose his coin just to take some of her time. The assassin grinned again: he'd not been laid in hells-knew-how-long, and why not mix business with pleasure?

"'scuse me, miss," he murmured. His voice, a thin and unremarkable tenor, carried a note of gravel in the throat; the raspy tone of a man used to screaming. His left hand darted to his belt and fished forth a handful of coins, tucking these between his fingers and rapping against the wooden bar. "You would not happen to be working now, would you?" The coins rapped again, and Nijur's face again split into that scarred grin as he started the hidden game. "I can make it well worth your while. Promise, I'm not as bad as I look. Just got out of an ugly situation and it's been a long time since anybody treated me kindly; would be a blessing if you'd look well at me." He smiled as winningly as he knew how, and it wasn't a bad effort. The assassin had been handsome before the scars set in, and some of it remained, though now spiced with danger.

He glanced at the other whores present and flashed a wild grin, lifting his hands placatingly. "Nothing against you lovely ladies, but," his attention turned back to Philomel, "I daresay you're the prettiest of the bunch, and I'll not settle for anything less."

[Philomel]

Chorusing of coins, as always, caught her attention. Rap on wood, it was usually a call for attention, and being here, in this pub and helping out Old Toby, Philomel immediately snapped to attention. In the figuritive sense of the word. Her gaze snapped up and she stared at the horribly scarred man as he asked for her company in a relaxed, drunken sort of way. Smoothly, he insulted all the rest as was normal and said she was more beautiful than anyone else yadda, yadda. The usual compliments.

Leaning across the bar to him, she let out her casual, beguiling smile and took his empty tankard.

"I have finished my shift, sir," she said into his ear, loving the feel of the weight Sir Lorallie's final farewell on her hip. Her lips formed perfect words, smooth round subtle kisses that she knew would wet his appetite. Then, she leaned back, breasts unmoving through it all. "But there are plenty of others to amuse you."

Gently she nodded to Matty, who was collecting empty goblets and plates and glasses. Her swift hands refilled his tankard from the taps set low behind the bar that connected straight to the barrels, then passed it back to him in less than a minute. Smooth and practised she had worked in public houses for most of her life - whether as the entertainment or as service. But currently she was happy enough to stay where she was and not have to endorse another patron. Even her sexual organs needed a rest.

Turning back to Old Toby she asked what use she could be, and he set her with a rag and the opposite end of the tavern. She gave him a gentle nod, wet the rag and clopped her hooves over to the tables that were recently emptied by bawdy drunkards. Stiffling a yawn behind her wrist Philomel ignored the jeers and cries of "Oi sexy!" for the time being and kept her back turned with a very obvious 'not for hire' attitude behind her. She allowed them to admire her butt and her breasts, but none of them would touch tonight. Not for another two hours. It was time to allow the lesser adept whores their turn, and for her to have a break.

After all, it was exhausting pounding for many nights on end.

[Knifer]

The assassin's eyes flickered, the fires within banked low and glowing. He happily took in the view as Philomel leaned forward, and like flies on a corpse, he danced his eyes across her cleavage, her eyes, her horns. Lids lowered and lips grinning, he leaned in affably, shivering as she whispered tickling words in his ear. Pleasure, so intense and so close at hand, can only be impassively endured for so long. Nijur could feel his body stiffening as she whispered her tantalizing refusal, and the last walls of restraint crumbled. Drawing in a shuddering gasp, he licked his teeth and was about to make his move; but she was gone, hooves clacking on the other side of the room.

Rage bloomed like a tumor, gnawing at his chest and pounding a sudden headache in his skull. With jaw bunching and fists quivering, Nijur turned a feral smile to the refilled tankard.

"Thank you kindly," he hissed, forcing himself to smile and slamming two more gold pieces down on the bartop. Fury that he had spent years repressing was threatening to breach its dungeon, and Nijur simply could not afford that sort of release. Not in public, and not right now. So he pouted after Philomel, ogling the faun across the room, and tilted back his tankard. The same brew he had enjoyed moments ago now tasted like piss and ditchwater, and he gulped it down with a grotesque grin, smacking his lips with theatrical relish. The alcohol's warmth trickled down to his toes and drew some of the anger with it, like the rain that sweeps away the filth covering an alley.

His priority was killing the faun. That was his out. If he finished this job, the bastards holding his chain would let their guard down. He'd seen the smug assurance in their eyes, and it would cost them - but to get there, he had to kill the faun first. He had to win this killer's game. Getting angry wouldn't do shit to help him get there.

After a moment of drinking and meaninglessly flirting with another of the whores - one that hadn't been present to hear his earlier quip - Nijur rose and staggered away, leaving the whore behind with a firm slap to her rump. He was affable again, eyes lazily hooded and scarred cheeks bunching in a smile. The killer wove towards Philomel, his erratic and affectedly drunken gait covering the distance between them in the space of a few breaths.

This was it, then. The foreplay was over.

When Nijur was within two steps of his target, the knife on his chest quietly slipped into his hand, reverse-gripped and hidden between his arm and hip. Philomel was bent over a table cleaning away whatever detritus the previous patrons had left behind, and Nijur was at her back. With his next step, he drew level with her hip and pretended to take a draft of his ale, then brought the tankard down at the faun's head. The knife, hanging low at his side, jerked upwards towards her stomach.

[Philomel]

The hissing was like that of a snake. And fauns, like goats, did not care for snakes. They crushed them under their hooves and twisted them into dust.

Philomel treated back the false smile with a grinning grimace of her own, eyes immediately sparkling with dislike. This man was most definitely a difficultly, one with a grin as wicked as the knives he probably carried. She turned away and went to service more men, dragging back her temper to keep the evening to a low, sweet mellow. After all, Old Toby, like any standard tavern manager, did not like violence in his bar. But it was impossible to search every Althanasian coming through the swing doors, as they all knew how to hide things, one way or another.

Her hand swiftly mopped up the puke left by the client, now taken upstairs by Matty to get the most out of his drunken bones. As she stepped to the side to reach in the most difficult area - around the back and under the table itself - a large heavy weight came crashing against her left horn. It was a thwunk, an ounce of pain, enough to send her jolting but also enough to immediately bring up her guard. The cloth was dropped from her hand, and as she jerked forwards her hip collided with a slicer. Probably it had been aimed towards her gut, but her movements with the reaching and the jolting had sent it off course. Without wearing her breastplate all she had was skin and flesh, and the blade got its desire and left a trail of blood from the light wound, to pour out and mix with the vomit beneath.

Instincts followed quickly.

One; she realised she was being attacked, from behind. The bash to her head had been idiotic - the perpetrator had not factored in the fact that fauns have the vast majority of their head protected by their horns. It had still caused pain, but only enought to dissappate into a dull throb.

Two; she set about unhindered defence. Her left leg jolted up and back, hoof flying into the air sharply behind her, hopefully to catch either the groin or the leg of her assailant. In her hand previous owned by the cloth her shimmering steel keris dagger appeared - never far but always concealed.

Three; Philomel moved. Like a swift shadow. As soon as the left leg had finished kicking out to gain space, her right hoof pounded from the ground, swinging her body away to the right and into a distant space, to somewhat gain ground and finally turn, so that they might meet his fight on equal terms.

The Nightingale was horrified and disgusted to see, when she turned, the broken-toothed smirk of the bastard snake holding his knife, with her own blood dripping from its tip.