A sin to kill for

[Ulrich Craggenmoor]

The glass sat cold and dead in his hand with what little liquid was left stretched to opacity. the condensation had formed rings on the letter of eviction, now serving as the makeshift coaster which stared up at him with silent i’s. He sat, anonymous, at the quiet bar with his heavy coat and hat, feeling as if he was completely non-existent to the whole world. Who cared?

The notice had arrived early this morning, hammered against the rotting wood of his door frame with two huge iron nails. The act had woken him from a hard won slumber and he wasn’t able to return within the day. So he investigated, found his new time limit. Three days to settle accounts.

Instead he left with the sunrise, not in the market for another day of blind hopes and didn’t bother to look back.

It hadn’t taken him long to pack his things. All three of them, as well as what was already on his back made for a light journey and the wizard had sold any superfluous gear he owned to keep ‘the man’ off his back for this long.

So this was it. The glass emptied itself into his throat one more time, and a shaky hand beckoned the bartender for the only thing that seemed to dull the sorrow. It dulled everything. now he was without purpose or direction, he found the stool he sat on to be the only anchor that bound him to this mortal coil, and to let such anchors go would see him cast off into the nether without so much as a whimper.

“Where the fuck is my drink?!”

He yelled and hurled the empty glass against the far wall. Narrowly missing the mirror which covered the wall and was caked in so much grime you couldn't see anything out of it. The glass shattered on contact, sending the bartender and everyone else into a shocked silence for a moment before deciding to ignore the stranger silently.

As the silence began to turn back from Ulrich to mourful conversation, a single sob broke through someone's restraint before being quickly muffled. A figure, hunched and shuddering under a blanket was seated otherwise quietly in the stone corner, across the room from himself.

[Philomel]

Glimmering, shimmering and wavering. Smooth undulating lines of rhythm and movement that flowed effortlessly. With no melody but the timeliness of nature, there was harmlessness in its existence. Apart from the stray man, Narcissus, who might see it and become enthralled in its creation.

So delicate, so beautiful. So much so that a single petal falling from a gentle red rose was enough to break it, and slay it down right then, right there.

Neither disheartened nor ill-effected, Philomel van der Aart looked up from the broken reflection. Seated beside the window, in this small upper room, she was in the perfect position to allow the full moon to catch its face in the liquid of her tankard. As she moved back the rose she proceeded to continue to pick the petals off the rose, the latest flower an admirer had given her, wasting it away before it could wither and die.

Veridian watched with bright icterine eyes, following each petal as it floated down to the wooden table. Lit by the moonlight the wood was a beige-grey tinged with silver, which contrasted brilliantly to the red of the rose petals. Patterns formed, like droplets of blood pooling onto a bandage, and all the while the faun kept picking.

Pick, pick, pick.

After a while, when the petals were all spent, she arose. Pushing chair away from table the hooved legs slowly caught the balance of the torso into the air. She threw the now bare stalk beside the still half-full tankard of water, then turned, leaving both together. With a short scour around the room, focusing on bed, cabinet and table she ensured all she owned was with her; knives, breastplate and all. Quickly, then, she nodded to her beloved fox companion, and turned to exit the room she had spent the night, and made them a healthy sum of money in the time.

Veridian, fast on his russet paws, followed her and dodged through the door just as it closed behind her. As a pair, then, they took to the stairs, clopping and padding down them from the bedroom to the main floor of the tavern, finished for the night. Philomel stiffled a yawn, having not slept much, but knew in any case it was time for beer rather than water. They came to the floor, right in the middle of a loud and bawdy evening, complete with sobbing wench in the corner. Philomel weighed the coin in the purse at her waist, calculating how much she had made in this simple night where she had pretended to be a nobody whore, rather than a somebody Matriarch. Her tongue ran across her lips, thinking for a moment, before she proceeded to the bar, where a group of men were sitting talking.

Where a group of individuals were sitting, discussing and arguing. Where a group of assholes were jeering at her and at each other. Where one man was solemnly demanding drink whilst all others avoided him, apart from Philomel who suddenly realised she recognised him.

A great grin spread on her face with the view to the man she had not seen in almost a year - ever since that night he had first helped her to kill Mort, free her fellow whores from the Lucky Tiger and begin life anew. A year in which a hell of a lot had changed, happened and in which she had grown so much in power.

She drew back her now purely violet, loose hair, no longer dreadlocked, and sauntered over to him. Shoving her fist on the bar beside him, she caught his attention and ordered up two tankards of stout beer from the barmaid, Suzannah - and then beat him on the back.

"What a glorious sight to see you here, wizard Craggenmoor! How long has it been ... a year?!"

[Ulrich Craggenmoor]

The light hearted thwump into his back almost rolled Ulrich from the stool. Almost pushed from his anchor as his knuckles turned white around the bar's edge to maintain his balance. The face staring down at him was familiar, feminine and powerful. Philomel was framed in a new and vibrant colour, but was still unmistakably the faun he had accompanied on that night. It had been glorious. Every obstacle in their way had been simply brushed aside, the wizard had felt powerful.

Unstoppable.

Turning an expressionless face to the rag of paper serving as the coaster, He felt everything but.

A fresh feeling of hopelessness began to rise in the pit and he sat in silence until the barmaid swayed her way over to them, placing the dual mugs aside the two. The froth lining the lip spilled over and ran down the side, leaving a clear path amid the condensation forming steadily on the side of the cold tankard. Philomel was a memory. Little more than a ghost of his past who had materialised once again in her awe inspiring way. The only thing that had changed outwardly was her hair was purple, framing her face in a much gentler way.

"Thirteen months." Was the only reply he could muster while dragging the world into focus. Solidifying the bar, it's occupants, the servers, the walls. Ulrich forced himself back into the real world; for etiquette if nothing else.

Philomel’s grin grew to tickle her tapered ears. Eagerly she plopped herself onto the stool next to him, alive with energy.

“Indeed, wizard. And how are you? What brings you back to Radasanth?”

At her feet Veridian patiently seated himself. Pulling his tail neatly around his body he gazed up at Ulrich with bright eyes, listening to whatever the wizard had to say who insteaad of talkking, silently slid the notice of eviction over to the faun Speaking as he joyful eyes slid over the page.

"Not much else place to go. Only the guild, it was a fool's dream, but there's a roof."

Philomel's presance finally pulled the wizard out of his reveere and the room sank quickly into his perception. Everyone was normal, apart from the woman in the corner. Whom he indicated to Phi. Pulling her attention from the shambles which was his life.

"One of your's?"

He was alluding to Phi's connections to most of the working women of Althanas. And the stranger was clearly in distress.

[Philomel]

Her lips pursed for a moment as the wizard gestured at the wench Philomel had briefly glimpsed at on first coming here. Focusing her eyes she glanced over the rough-spun dress and cloak, the flaxen hair and the slight plump frame and she found herself frowning, something of the previous bored depression coming back from earlier.

"No ..." she murmured, her mind whirring, "Not one of my ... one moment."

And with that she stood, leaving the man and the fox to awkwardly join in company. Turning her back to them she started out towards the girl, trying to assess the possibilities of this sorrow before she got to the table. Assessing it correctly would give her a better chance of saying the 'right thing,' but assessing the problem was always a risk. And with risk there came possible failure.

From what little she could see, the girl had a single small stuffed bag with her, and her clothing was poor in quality. This most likely meant that she was not of good fortune, and if that bag was anything to go by she was running away. Running away from what was another question, but by the fat tears which had clearly been going on for sometime due to the intense redness of her eyes. So likely something harsh and life-shattering. There was no indication that she was a courtesan in any way - firstly, Philomel did not recognise her, and secondly she did not hold herself with that distinctive flirtation pride that most whores did. The 'I-don't-give-a-fuck-what-you-think-about-me' look. And by her young age she was not of any other firm profession. So this meant girl recently dumped, or parents just died, or other family tragedy that had ruined her whole existence.

An existence Philomel was about to firmly fix.

The faun-whore, Matriarch of now over one hundred brothels throughout the city and master of her own little spy army, sat right down next to the girl, with no invitation. Plastering on a kind and understanding face and a confident attitude she stared at the weeping woman until she was looked at. Flaxen hair was pulled back from the tearful face, green eyes peeped out. Hands shook, but were grasped firmly by the faun's, and when that bottom lip trembled, Philomel spoke.

Leaning over, she whispered in the girl's ear, words that would change her destiny and land Philomel another resident for her kingdom.

Veridian yawned, and the height of it sent a small yap into the air. Sleepily, he blinked, then looked up at Ulrich. Quite pointedly he blinked, and then grinned.

[Ulrich Craggenmoor]

A smile crawled across his face while he watched the Matriarch saunter with confidence across the bar, tackling the stranger’s problems head on. He respected that. Choosing to show it in refreshing her drink with a simple and absent-minded wave of his hand.

Ulrich watched, as Philomel sat beside the stranger as naturally as a friend expected for a drink. One arm resting across the girls shoulder as she leaned in close. Both of them facing away from the bar Ulrich watched them both, looking for a eureka moment which never came. The mother’s words were too subtle for that. Flowed too well. By the end of it all, it was almost the girl’s idea.

The bartender sat the fresh mugs of alcohol down at his shoulder where it rested on the bar itself, grabbing his attention out of the state of thought he had fallen into. Staring at the backs of heads was growing dull, and he was anxious to get onto something more… holding he whet his lips with a drink, returning his attention to his own dire situation. Viridian yelped softly in responce to Ulrich’s shifting attention. Smiling, dog like, up at the wizard.

“You’re pretty smart huh?”

He voiced softly, inaudible to most throughout the bar.

“You see a way out this situation?”

In response, the golden brown creature stood and trotted off to his mistress. Who was finishing off the hushed conversation and leaning back, professionally in the chair. Calculated posture emanating a sultry presence which clawed harshly for the attention of all in the bar. Ulrich sat across from the two women, passing both drinks across the rough cut wood of the table as he examined both of the women, polar contrasts of each other. One with all the power in the world, the other with nothing but her name. Putting his own struggles in life aside, for now.

“Poor sweet girl, what happened to you?”

[Philomel]

Philomel felt a smile slip across her face as she watched Ulrich take a seat with them. Eyes fluttering with previously fake, but nearing real, concern, she turned back to the sniffling girl. Veridian himself jumped up in the narrow space left beside Philomel, then moved from there to the table. Then he pattered an adorable way over to sit in front of the girl and swished his tail.

Blowing her nose on the handkerchief Philomel now passed her, the girl hiccupped before replying, eyes gazing at Ulrich.

"I - I - My f-fiance died," she whispered, "And we were going to live together. H-he was all I had, and had so many debts and - and now I -" she flopped onto the table, arms at random angles supporting her head. Veridian scuttled back, frowning as his cuteness was ignored.

"Hmmmm," Philomel raised a hand to stroke the blonde hair as it spread over the table like a blanket, "Its so sorrowful, my poor dear."

Looking up to the wizard she nodded a little, the smile still on her face. "Classic," she mouthed.

Veridian lay down, partly in a huff, partly angered, not sure what else he could have done.

"As I said, dear, I am here to help. I can help you. Why don't we get you a place to stay ..."

She raised her eyebrows expectantly at Ulrich.

"And a hot beverage. Perhaps tea?"

The girl made no response, she only gave out muffled sobs as Philomel continued to stroke her hair.