[Closed]I Have What You Need, And It'll Cost You

[Ross Thompson]

34 Achtus 2719

Mimsbury-in-the-Marsh

The dawn had brought with it rain. Rain, rain, and then more rain. The leaden sky seemed to be under some magic spell, where the clouds never emptied, and man, wick and beast alike was like to be drowned before the last drop was wrung from them. Along with the rain came a steady, hard blowing wind, with the bite of the coming deep winter’s cold in its teeth. Like a fretful, noisome child, the occasional gusts were near enough to blow a man over, making the bare branches of the scrubby trees rattle. Holes and gaps under the eaves and around the windows let in the moans and sighs and screeches of the air spirits and every inhabitant of the village sought shelter where they could, even the knaves and scoundrels.

Ross, fitting into at least one of those descriptors, and possibly all of them, hurried across the raised boards that served to keep feet (and ankles and knees sometimes) out of the mud that was ever present, but of varying depths. The taproom, which in no way was esteemed enough to warrant the name tavern, or pub, or even bar, leaned a bit leeward, as if the decades of such mean treatment by the weather had put a permanently resigned slouch in the set of its shoulders. Its exterior, grey and drab as the clouds above and the mud below, formed the perfect camouflage, as it squatted in the mire. Mimsbury seemed truly to be in the marsh, at times, or certain sections of it did, and on this day it seemed as if perhaps it would finally let go of its tenuous grasp of solid ground and slide right in lock, stock and barrel.

Just to make an ugly point, the sky shot down pellets of ice, as Ross gained the entrance to his chosen place of refuge. The bits of hail bounced off his hat, his coat, the walkway, disappearing quickly wherever it hit the mud. He pulled the door open quickly and passed into the muggy warmth of the smoky, malodorous interior. Touches of dry rot, and damp rot, and mold stretched searching fingers along its warped floorboards, and snaked up table legs and across benches. A few steps brought him to an equally buckled and bent counter, behind which lounged the barman, also owner and manager of the establishment. He gave a slight nod of acknowledgment, and a whistling greeting from behind cracked teeth. Ross returned same with a grunt, hips against the well-worn edge of wood, digging a coin from his pocket, and sliding it across the stained surface.

There was no need to order any specific type of draught. There was only one on offer, a weak ale that many likened to horse piss. The barman shoved a greasy looking tankard at Ross, who took it silently, leaving the coin on the counter, and turning to see if he could find a seat. For despite its pronounced lack of appeal, the hovel was a draw, to those who avoided the few other drinking establishments in the village. The weather had driven them all to roost, and what a perfect murder of crows they looked, all dark and flapping and restless, with beady eyes roving ceaselessly about, clacking and clattering as they spoke in deep, low voices. Spying a spot on an as yet empty bench, against a wall, far from the smoking fire, Ross wove between the denizens of this dreary dive and sat down, legs stretched out before him, the ale pot resting on his thigh. The hail continued for a few minutes more, peppering the grimy windows, drumming on the roof.

He had just raised the ale to his lips, when through a haze of tobacco smoke he saw the door open again. He watched, with no keen interest, but with idle curiosity, as the newcomer made their entrance. One eyebrow lifted, but that was the extent of his reaction, regardless of whether what he was now looking at was to be expected, in such a place, on such a day, or not.

[Ava Weaver]

Afternoon, 34 Achtus, 2719
A Taproom, Mimsbury-in-the-Marsh

Ava sat straight backed before the black, pitted mirror, studying herself in what glass there was to see through. She leaned forward, and exhaled a breath against the surface, lifting her arm and wiping the wool of her sleeve against it. It was, she thought, marginally cleaner. She lifted her small pot of lip color once more, and dabbed a faint last bit onto the skin of her lips, blinking to examine the smooth black lines of kohl around her eyes.

By now, she could have done all the make up without looking. It had been a part of her these last three years, though it had not begun then either; she had known what it was to paint her face for many years, and was more than practiced in various circumstances – sitting on an uneven stool on the second floor of a guest house in Mimsbury-in-the-Marsh was not, yet, the strangest one.

Ava exhaled out a last breath, and let the cold air wash it from the mirror in its own time. She rose, smoothing the gray-brown wool of her dress. It was neatly tailored, though little could be done by now about the wear from travel, the sense it had about it of grim acquaintance with mud, for all Ava had beaten every bit of dry mud she could from the fabric. The cloak she settled over her shoulders – thicker than it looked, patched with a fabric just shy of perfect here and there – was little better.

It had been a long trip down the Euse, and though not a longer trip in the coach from the river to Mimsbury, a more unpleasant once. She had sat, her hands kept busy with a sampler Ava would be glad never to see again, and made smiling polite conversation with her fellow passengers, listening wide-eyed and friendly to what each of them had to say. In the end, it had not been so hard to guide the conversation around to men who knew what they were about in the marsh, and who were willing enough to sell their skill.

Ava settled a leather handband through her thick curls, pushing them back off of her face; the hem of her skirt was pointed, the sides raised up to reveal a lighter colored well beneath, to create the sharp downward sweeping arrow most human wore. She went down the creaking wooden stairs, out through the shifting, settling entry way of the hall, with a rickety table on three legs that wobbled with each gust of wind.

It was sharply cold outside; the wind seemed to cut through every layer she wore. Ava set her teeth against it, and found a smooth, even smile for her face. She made her way along the boards set atop the mud like small, strange streets; two boys raced past, laughing and scattering mud in their wake, avoiding spots here and there with the ease of familiarity.

Ice scattered down from the sky and bounced against the boards, then stopped; the gray dark haze of clouds overhead didn’t lighten in the least.

Ava opened the door of the taproom, and stepped inside, hood still drawn down over her face and hair. She glanced around the small, dingy, unpleasant room, lifting gloved hands to draw it back. There was a leer in her direction from a man sitting against the wall, which she ignored without so much as a return glance.

Ava went to the bar, and stopped just shy of leaning against it. “Good afternoon,” she said, smiling, though not too much – smiling in the way of one just a little uncomfortable, and just a little out of their depth. The best covers, she thought, were the ones which could be played with ease.

The bartender inclined his head, and mumbled something which might have been ma’am.

“I’m looking for Ross Thompson,” Ava said.

The bartender sucked on a tooth with a faint popping sound; he shifted, and gestured with his chin towards a bench against the wall. Ava turned, lightly, following his gaze to the man sitting there, a pot of ale propped against his thigh.

“Thank you,” Ava said. “Lady bless.”

She turned; she made her way across the room, and stopped just shy of the man. She glanced down, just a little, and let the faintest flicker of a frown cross her brow, a little uncertainty beneath the winged kohl and red lip color. “Ross Thompson?” Ava asked, almost doubtfully, as though she weren’t sure she expected him to be able to answer.

[Ross Thompson]

That same eyebrow arched slightly higher as the woman turned and made her way towards him. He hadn’t caught the mention of his name over the hoarse sound of conversations, which rose and fell against the backdrop of the steady, muted rumble of the burning peat. But even a half-wit could have guessed that the woman – so exotically out of place here – must have asked for him of the barman, and Ross was not at all sure how he felt about that. She came straight at him, her glossy, dark hair catching a glint of the light from fire and lantern. Heads turned, her handsome features and well-made clothes – despite their somber tones and nimbly sewn patches – marking her as one whom the denizens of the taproom did not often encounter, and certainly not in a place such as this dive. She stopped before him, standing straight, her sober expression, to Ross’ way of thinking, bespeaking mild uncertainty, and no doubt an edge of uneasiness. His name fell from carefully rouged lips, as his eyes stayed with hers, and her tone reflected that same small doubt that lay within their shining depths. He hesitated only a fraction of a moment, then nodded, and uttered a simple, “Aye, that’s me.”

What wild fancies tore through his brain, as he tried to guess who she was, and what she was after – and why him? His tankard rested still on his leg, the ale barely tasted at this point, and he did not now raise it to sip. But his grimy forefinger moved restlessly, tapping the chill metal, a near invisible sign of his own wariness about this unlooked for visitation. His view to the door was planned, not fortuitous. Ross had been taught long ago by his mentor never to sit with his back to an entrance whence might come someone who was bent on mischief, of the assaultive kind. The woman was alone, for now. She did not appear to be any sort of ambassador of Hawke, or any of his men. Ross was far more cautious of running afoul of the de facto governor of Old Rose than he was of the Seventen, and Hawke’s talons stretched well beyond the harbor town.

In the few moments while he pondered, Ross immediately threw out any social basis to this interaction. He had no truck with women like this. So that left business, although she was also not of the type of erstwhile employer by whom he was regularly, or irregularly, as the case may be, engaged. Yet what else could this be? Trouble, or a job – he was hoping it would turn out to be the latter.

With that hope in mind, he added, curious, hard eyes still on her face, “Can I do aught for’ee?”

[Ava Weaver]

Afternoon, 34 Achtus, 2719
A Taproom, Mimsbury-in-the-Marsh

Ava was no stranger to grime; for all she had bathed herself, and thoroughly, after the days on the road, she knew better than to think cleanliness truly a sign of anything other than itself. She had been raised – a little human girl in the Rose – to keep clean, to scrub beneath her fingernails and behind her ears, and later she had understood such behaviors, too, for the mask that they were.

She knew, all the same, that the mask she wore now should be a little uncomfortable with the griminess of the man before her. She let her gaze linger on what was either a rough path of hair on his neck, or else a splatter of mud from outside; her lips pursed, faintly uncertain. She glanced down at the bench where he saw, and then at the small stools opposite them.

“I hope so, Mr. Thompson,” Ava said, politely, all the same, when he answered. There was still more than a little doubt on her face – doubt about this whole situation, she thought, grimly, was easy enough to muster up. After a moment, she swept out her cloak, the skirts beneath full and well-tailored, and sat down on one of the stools. Even here, in the midst of this strange, grim, grimy tavern, Ava sat perfectly upright, and with an ease to it: as if she could think of no other way to sit, and imagine nothing else so comfortable. Her nails were painted black, smooth and even despite the travel, without any chips in the paint.

Ava settled her hands over each other on her lap, and studied Ross a moment more, meeting his gaze, looking up at him to do so. “I’ve heard it said you’re a man who knows the swamp,” Ava’s gaze swept over him again, from his tousled hair down to the mud on his boots; her lips twitched once more, and her gaze lifted back up to his face. “I find,” she added, a little delicately, “that I am in need of such a man.”

The best disguise, Ava knew well, was one which had no mystery at all to it; the more people wondered, the sharper one had to be. Given who she was, and what was possible for her to sustain, that was perhaps impossible. Instead, she thought, she would do her best to play a role; like with any role that she played, it ran close to the surface of her, not a costume pulled on but something she wove out of herself: as if she could pick apart the bits of her, and stitch them back together in some new, strange way. The result was her – Ava, Silk, Nellie, whatever the name – and not her, all at once.

She let herself pause there, a little, skeptical; she looked at his face once more, and frowned, just the tiniest hint of the expression. Perhaps, she thought to say, this was a mistake – then, she thought: no. Better to wait a little longer; there was nothing worse in bargaining than walking away too soon.