[Memory] Birds of a Feather

Kestrel, please.

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Anaxas' main trade port; it is also the nation's criminal headquarters, home to the Bad Brothers and Silas Hawke, King of the Underworld. The small town of Plugit is nearby.

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Wed May 16, 2018 3:18 pm

Roalis 47, 2715
The King's Palace
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Silas sighed, impatiently licking his lips and running bejeweled fingers through his hair. For once, the wick wasn't wearing a hat, "Ne, not that one, either."

"But, Silas—"

"Epaemo, I can't help that yer fuckin' taste is a pina manna different from mine. Nor that yer an idiot." The long-haired wick slid from his comfortable chair and crossed the room like a cat on the prowl. The Throne Room, as it was affectionately called, was an opulent hall in the King's mansion often used to hold his own mockery of Court—plans were made among the fine fabrics and cushions with the sea breeze enticing the curtains curtains to dance and cast relaxing shadows despite the near-oppressive Roalis heat. Low tables sat in the middle, an earlier meal's leftovers and too many glasses of wine still littering their waxed surfaces. Night had worn on into day and while the party had ended, Hawke was still awake.

He'd had a thought, a need, and he wasn't about to let it escape him without satisfying it. He needed more of something, and yet no one had managed to find what he was after.

Three women stood unashamedly objectified in the Throne Room, barely dressed, one hardly sober, and all of them watching Silas as he meandered closer to them, inhaling thoughtfully as if he was appreciating a fine vintage. While any other man would have perhaps reached out to touch them, to run fingers over exposed flesh and savor what he'd been presented with, Silas instead explored their fields, his magical touch not at all dissimilar from a more physical caress.

"None of these will do. Bring me the rest." The King demanded in a huff, walking past the three women who all immediately looked confused, disappointed, and possibly terrified, "See if Scarlett wants any of them and if she doesn't, then put them back where ye found 'em."

The short, boyish wick who had brought the women to his employer in the first place scowled, but then made shooing motions with his hands, "You heard my Lord. Get. All of you." Chasing them from the room, he left Silas alone for a few moments, the long-haired wick pouring himself another drink and staring out one of the open windows toward the sparkling sea that danced so tantalizingly within view, curtains billowing about him in his fine, dark silk shirt, mostly unbuttoned and very well-tailored pants, Hawke barefoot and hardly as dressed up as usual. It had been a very long night of carousing, after all, and the slightly hungover King of the Underworld was in absolutely no mood to be disappointed.

His underling returned, this time with four more women, his hand still roughly lingering on a dark-haired, dark-skinned witch as though he was reluctant to release her.

"Vrunta, Orik, get yer hands off what's mine." Silas purred, offering the woman a shark's smile, his dark eyes lingering on her once he came closer and his short wick of an employee hastily pulled his hand away and stepped back toward the door, out of Silas' physical reach. Again, it was as though he weighed the fields of the women instead of assessing their bodies, walking among them just within their personal spaces, and finally coming to a stop in front of the witch he'd forced his underling to let go of. The truth was, all of the women he'd had brought into his Throne Room that day had been ridiculously beautiful, as had been his request. Like some fairy tale story as if the King was choosing a Queen, this was Hawke's form of an entrance interview, it seemed.

Interview for what?

He knew what he wanted, what he was looking to put together, what the Bad Brothers needed in their ranks, what he needed close to him to do his bidding.

Leaning toward the witch in question, Silas reached up and let his fingers brush hair from the woman's face to tuck it behind her ear, far closer than would normally be acceptable for a stranger had it been anyone other than himself, he raised his glass of wine to his lips and took a slow sip before asking quietly,

"What's yer name, macha?"


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Tue May 22, 2018 6:27 pm

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This hadn’t been what she was expecting when Mistress Wren came in to tell her that a man was looking for her. No, she’d expected much worse, but when she was corralled with the other chosen girls into a wagon and carted off towards the King’s Palace, or so they called it, she half wondered if she’d been chosen for some sort of party or event. Mistress Wren had donned her in garb that did little to hide her skin, and painted her face to make her almond shaped eyes stand out beneath her dark hair.

Kestrel had hated it.

And she hated the short wick who kept grabbing her arm too tight as if knowing that if he let her go, she’d take off before he even drew another breath. Curse that woman, she whispered to herself, knowing Mistress Wren would have told them that she was a runner.

Havakda! Hands off,” the witch snarled in warning to the men that unloaded them. She’d jerked her arm back from a thug’s grip on more than one occasion, even managed to punch a guard in the nose when they tried to calm her down, but she was sick of being calm; sick of being demure and obedient and polite. She was a caged wolf, and she was going to bare her teeth.

She’d heard of Silas Hawke; heard of him, like so many others have heard of the gods. She supposed he was almost like a god; enigmatic, unknowable; at least, that was what Kestrel thought when she’d heard the name, because that was all she knew of him, a name. The witch didn’t know what to expect when she saw the groups of girls herded into lines. One by one, they disappeared behind the doors, and then came back out, looking disappointed, angry, or sobbing, or some combination of all three.

Kestrel eyed them with looks of confusion and revulsion. Did they want this, to be shown off like a prized pet to a man who walked on the backs of others? She didn’t really have time to think, nor time to realize that the short bastard who had dragged them to this place had disappeared to present another group of girls in front of her.

And once those girls came out with looks on their faces that mirrored the girls that came before them, it was her turn.

“Come,” the boyish wick barked as he grabbed her arm, like she was about to leap through the open window. In truth, she was thinking about it. Kestrel, however, let out an angry hiss at the contact, struggling in his hold as she was brought forward with three other young women and halted in front of a man.

Kestrel’s eyes roamed the great hall, littered in remnants of revelry. The furnishings oozed opulence, but then again, so did the prospect of a mansion like this belonging to one person. Finally, her gaze lifted to the proprietor of the estate.

The man stood in no shoes, garb better tailored than many of the heathens she’d seen walking about on the streets of Old Rose Harbor. His hair was burnished gold, and his face, well; it was easy on the eyes. Kestrel felt a wave of heat creep up to her cheeks.

The short wick’s grip tightened around her arm, and it wrenched the girl back into reality. The witch bit the inside of her cheek, averting her gaze. He was a criminal, not a gods damned prince.

She felt a shadow fall over her, and the witch involuntarily looked up to meet the King’s gaze. He’s just a man, she told herself. He bleeds like all the rest. Yet, she wasn’t paying attention well enough to notice his hand rising to push her stray strands of dark hair behind her ear. The gesture made the blush rise to her cheeks, but instead of feeling smitten, Kestrel was angry.

“’Girl’, ‘tumble’, ‘wench’, take your pick,” she answered, her accented voice sharp as her yellow eyes flashed with a fiery new purpose. She forced herself to stand straight, chin raised, jaw tight. She was a wolf.

“Keep your hands to yourself, kov. Why am I here?” She asked the King upfront. Kestrel wasn’t one to mince words. She wanted answers, options, something she could cling to that could give her some hope of a new future. “If it’s anything involving laying on my back, I suggest you pick another girl.”
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Mon Jun 04, 2018 4:15 pm

Roalis 47, 2715
The King's Palace
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The King was grinning, laughing at the witch's impersonal introduction, "Belong to the Queen, do ye? Ah, oes. Maybe I've seen yer face after all."

Her defiance did nothing to dissuade him from invading the young woman's personal space, and she would feel the weight of his field grow heavier as he gathered it, which was impressive in strength for a mere wick. He shoved his glass of wine at the shorter man who had brought the last four of his options in, refusing to answer her as his eyes flicked from her face to his employee,

"The rest can go, Orik. And ye, too." Silas' voice was even and unperturbed, almost entertained by making the young dark-haired woman wait on him.

"Y'heard th' King. Let's go, ladies." The short wick snickered, rolling his eyes and leading the three other women toward the door. He lingered for a moment as if he expected another order or a thank you or something of the sort, hand on the handle. When his master ignored him completely, he rolled his eyes and made a show of slamming the door behind him. The force was enough to rattle dishes still laden with last night's feast, disturb a few flies who'd been lazily dining on the remains, and send a few papers scattering off of the already dirty low-lying tables in the opulent dining room.

The blond wick stood and finished the last if his wine (which was both disappointing in its warmth and lack of assistance in the curing of his headache from far too much debauchery just hours before) and then he hissed, tossing the empty glass to the polished wooden floor with a satisfying shattering sound at the dark-haired witch's comment, stepping far closer than he had before, eyes narrowing while he surprisingly kept his hands to himself,

"Boemo, rosh," He chose his name in absence of her sharing her own, a compliment instead of something derogatory. He seemed amused still, for now, and yet there was a predatory air that couldn't go unnoticed about him, half dressed and disheveled, "But know this—If I wanted to take ye for a tumble right here and right now, ye'd say mujo ma, ye chen."

He purred his words and didn't move away, bejeweled fingers reaching up without brushing even the witch's clothes by accident. Silas made a show of not touching her, in fact, almost theatrically comical in his obedience, he instead ran his fingers through his unkempt hair, laughing again, but softer, expression wicked despite how godsbedamned hungover the King of the Underworld knew he was, "But, ne, that's neither what I need nor want ye for—at the moment. I ent in the mood, and I don't expect ye to be changin' my mind with that kind of attitude, rosh. I'm being generous today and yer the first not to appreciate it. Vrunta."

Hawke's tone implied he was used to doing as he pleased, when he pleased, and with whoever he pleased. Which, of course, all of the Rose knew he was. Quiet again, Kestrel could feel the invasive nature of his field as he explored her own in a way that wasn't entirely wick-like. Rumors of the King studying illegal magic were probably true,

"Yer here 'cause I'm lookin' for somethin'. Or, should I say, someone. As nice as it is to have a handful of jents willing to forsake their superior attitudes and serve me instead of that golly fool in Vienda, I'd rather a few tekaa get the glory once and a while, ye chen? I'm hopin' ye catch on quickly, 'cause I'm lookin' to get ye outta the tumble business an' make ye a vroo, under my close observation, of course. If not my tutelage, to be honest." He shrugged, holding his hands open wide in a gesture of mock generosity, waggling his fingers with a wink before he turned his back on her and wandered toward the open window, aware that he was leaving her freedom to do as she wished, apparently unconcerned for his own person in his own way.

"Unless ye wanna go back to fuckin' luggers for coin, of course. A pina manna of that ging comes back to me, after all—"

Reaching to run fingertips over the pale fabric of his curtains and let the chilly sea breeze tickle his tanned skin, he wore his field tighter than his clothing, as if he was poised to cast something depending on the dark-haired woman's response. Sliding from a pocket a fancy cigarette case engraved with a very adventurous ocean scene, he leaned a shoulder against the window frame and removed one, staring out at the water without a hint of impatience. It was a trivial, quipped phrase of Monite that lit the Hessian tobacco in fine hand-rolled paper, and the salty air that danced into the room was filled with the scent of foreign fruit after Hawke took a long, lazy drag and exhaled,

"—I ent losin' either way, ye chen. But ye might be."

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Kestrel
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: smoke and wings
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Wed Jun 20, 2018 7:30 pm

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Kestrel watched him with the eyes of a hawk and the heart of a hummingbird. It was dawning on her just where she was, just who she was speaking to-- who she had basically insulted in his own home. But she was at her wit's end; desperation made people do stupid things, and Kestrel was no exception. This was, after all, the farthest she'd ever been from the Mad Queen.

As the short henchman ushered the other women out, the witch was more than aware of the impenetrable silence that settled before them, before the man called the King of the Underworld deigned to speak again. There was a lump in her throat, and it was a difficult thing to swallow as she listened to the lilt of his voice, the way his words dripped like both honey and poison. Rosh wasn't such a terrible "name", but pride made her fists clench tightly at her sides.

"It's Kestrel," she said, her voice sharp, but exasperated. "My name is Kestrel." Tan cheeks reddened at the mention of an ill fated "tumble" with the man. The thought creeped into her head like a weed sprouting in a field of dandelions. Oh Aerra, what a prick. Only a few minutes into their meeting and she already felt flustered in his presence. In the absence of anything to do, Kestrel angrily tugged a stray strand of hair behind her ear, eyes blazing at his tone.

Then she felt it; like a ripple of water against her, a pressing feeling that could only mean he was gouging her. Her eyes rose to meet his for a brief moment, then widened at his sudden proposition. "Me?" The witch asked incredulously. Kestrel ignored his following diatribes, her mind wrapped up in the prospect of finally leaving the Mad Queen. No longer just a whore, but... something more?

"I'll do it," she answered abruptly, as the smoke drifted from the King's lit cigarette. The heady scent mingled with the sea breeze. "You don't have to convince me," Kestrel continued. "I'm no fool. It's better to live a life on your feet than your back."

Finally, the Muluku witch took a step forward. "But why would you pick me?" She needed to know; the question burned in her mind like a white hot brand. What made her special, to catch the eye of the notorious King of the Underworld? "And what sort of work will I be doing?" After all, he had mentioned that he would take her out of the "tumble business", so to speak. No more clients, no more garish, flimsy attire, no more of that god awful sweet smelling perfume that permeated the rooms. But freedom and bargains always came with a catch. Visible though her chains may be now, under the King, they may merely be unseen.

"Am I indebted to you then?" Kestrel asked, gaining more strength in her tone after managing to compose herself.
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Tue Jul 10, 2018 2:35 pm

Roalis 47, 2715
The King's Palace
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It was well-known among the Bad Brothers that Silas Hawke didn't tolerate defiance, didn't give any quarter to betrayal, and didn't have qualms about crushing rebellion in the bloodiest of public displays. For all of his suave demeanor, the King of the Underworld was still a calculating, ruthless creature somewhere on the inside. He simply hid it well behind a broad smile and a mischievous wink—most of the time. That said, Kestrel's form of defiance was different, alluring in her captive frustration, and Silas couldn't help but let his amusement play itself out visibly across his sun-kissed features,

"Kestrel, then. Junta."

He hummed quietly, toes curling against the warm, worn carpets that hid the old wooden floor below, pausing to let his eyes wander her body again with her incredulity. Skillfully making shapes with the smoke he exhaled, Hawke laughed, but it was more out of wickedness than anything else, "That depends on who ye be on yer back with, I'm sure."

He didn't move when the witch stepped closer, his imposingly strong for a wick field once again invading her own as if he had every right to do so, carefully exploring what he could tell was an untapped strength in the young tumble, "Why? Dze ... I ent pickin' ye 'cause yer macha, but that helps, ye chen."

The blond wick's grin was lascivious for a moment and he met her forward motion with his own until their proximity bordered on beyond impolite. He whispered a few quick phrases of Monite, the curtains shifting and dancing in the breeze he created that breathed through the open window and purposefully tangled in Kestrel's hair, caressing her Muluku-dark skin. The breeze obeyed him and sighed back the way it had come, like the tide washing in and out in just a heartbeat instead of the day it took. He was showing off, obviously, but in a away that wasn't as lethal as he was rumored to be,

"Ye ent been taught proper, but unlike a lot of our kind, ye've got a powerful field. 'S what I've been lookin' for all clockin' day, to be honest. Poor Orik wouldn't know a good bit o' vroo if it pleasured him blind, really. So, seems like it took a few tries t' get somethin' as right as y'self t' show up." Silas shrugged and tossed the butt of his cigarette into the unused hearth of the great hall, exhaling the last lungful of smoke with a long, languid sort of sigh, unwavering in the closeness he chose to place himself in with the woman who was most likely a stranger to the King until today, "Ye will be doin' a bit of studyin', a bit of scryin', and probably a bit o' cottin'. A bit o' other things, too, should I come up with somethin', ye chen. Fun things, I promise. A spy. An assassin if ye've got the stomach for it—"

He reached up then to lightly brush the backs of his bejeweled fingers along her jawline, still smelling of fragrant, fruity Hessian tobacco, obviously unconcerned about the potential consequences of such an overly friendly action, "—an' I hope ye do. If ye agree to th' work, ne, Kestrel, yer debt will be considered paid in full. An honest wage can be yers, too, if one could call anythin' that I do in Anaxas honest."

Hawke chuckled, watching the witch's expression carefully, still tangled with unapologetic curiosity in her field.

"If killin' an' spyin' ent yer thing, I s'pose I'll just have to find someone else. I'd wager a few concords yer a quick study when ye wanna be, oes?"
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Kestrel
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Joined: Thu May 03, 2018 10:09 pm
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Race: Wick
: smoke and wings
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Tue Nov 06, 2018 4:47 pm

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Never in her life had a tumble girl like her expected to stand before an infamous and arguably powerful wick like Silas Hawke.

She felt like a mouse postured before a lion, and she shifted her weight nervously, trying to keep the scent of anxiety away from his nose. But perhaps it was written on her face, and it didn’t matter.

Stupid, she cursed at herself internally. He was testing her, both by field and by sight. She could feel his almost oppressive aura smothering her; the scent of cigarettes, alcohol and the breezy, salty air that drifted from the open windows. It was as heavy as his gaze.

And she froze. Froze like an animal caught in a trap as those fingers trailed along her jawline. Kestrel’s amber eyes narrowed imperceptibly. Is he taunting me? She had to wonder. But what reason could he have for that? He had explained exactly what he wanted her for, and the girl had to admit that it sounded a lot better than spending another night on her back.

And yet?

Kestrel bit her lip, inhaling to steady her breathing—and her nerves. She couldn’t become a spineless puddle now. Not if she wanted to change her future.

“Are you going to teach me?” She asked then, boldly. The witch lifted her chin to make herself look a bit taller. “How to be as good a wick as you?”

Magic? Sure. She liked a good bit of tricks though she wasn’t an expert by any means. If she was, she probably wouldn’t have been at the Mad Queen for so long. But killing? That caused a twist in her gut at the thought.

“I’m good with my hands; I can steal, pick locks… And I’ve been spying whether the Madame knew it or not. But killin’…” She trailed off for a moment, looking back out toward the window, inhaling.

“I’ve never killed anything before,” she said, her voice quiet. “But I’m willing to learn, to get back at the people who put me on that boat.” She turned her gaze back to Silas.

“If you help me get back at the slavers who ruined my life and the lives of many others, I will swear my life to you.”

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