Awkward 'Family' Reunion? - [M] Rating

When a classic job does not go the way you hoped it would.

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A large forest in Central Anaxas, the once-thriving mostly human town of Dorhaven is recovering from a bombing in 2719 at its edge.

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Caina Rose
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Sat Jun 22, 2019 9:26 pm

The Dives • Anaxas/Vienda
on the 22nd of Loshis, 2719 • past midnight
Caina Rose had not been given the codename ‘Hatcher’ for nothing. The shadows seemed to accept her like fami, and years of practice made Caina as quiet as a wild hunter creeping through underbrush. But when she struck, she struck fast, leaving only a corpse in her wake.

Long story short, she was good at what she did. Not the best, that was true… but damn good. And Caina had found herself with plenty of job offers over the years, killing mostly galdor but also the occasional human or wick. If it paid well, and the client had a good reason, Caina would always accept it.

On this occasion, she owed her client a favor. Ava Weaver had, several weeks ago, allowed Caina access to her shop in order to meet a ‘business associate’. Ava had declined Caina’s offer of money, but instead gave Caina a job. Ava had been hurt by a galdor- to what extent, Caina didn’t know- and he was trying to hurt her again. Caina could relate. She’d been quick to accept, and had spent the few days after quietly stalking this ‘Anatole Vauquelin’. For some reason, the Incumbent liked to frequent the Dives. How he managed to not get the absolute shit beaten out of him each time, Caina didn’t know. She refused to get close enough to feel his field, only watched. And the man was terribly predictable. So after a few days, Caina made her move. And now here she was, quietly trailing after a galdor that was the same damn height as her. At least the fight would be well matched. She’d fought against magic quite a few times, and could likely handle whatever this man threw at her. With any luck, the fight would end with only a few scrapes, and she could be in bed before dawn.

Tonight was like any night in The Dives. Dark, quiet, but with an unmistakable air of danger. Caina was the cause of that danger tonight, and she loved it. She loved knowing that no one could touch her, that she was like a ghost- by the time the moon set, she’d disappear.

Anatole had left one of the bars, and was making his way back to the galdor part of town. He was about 20 yards ahead of her. In a few minutes, she’d overcome him, and then…

Somewhere, a dog barked. Caina flinched, that irrational fear still taking hold over her base instincts. Her foot slipped, and she stumbled on the stones- making a quiet scuffle that wouldn’t raise any alarms, unless you were already listening.

Unfortunately, the drunk galdor apparently had some sense, because he turned, took one look at Caina, and started running. Caina cursed under her breath and took off after him. He had the lead, but it was obvious that Anatole didn’t exercise much. He was huffing and puffing as he went, and Caina was quick to catch up to him. The little man managed to duck into an alley, and Caina flew in after him.

She grabbed him by the shoulder, jerking Anatole back to stop his running and knock him off balance. As he stumbled, Caina used one hand to grab him by the neck, shoving him up against the wall. She pulled a knife and pressed it against his throat. It was older than she was, maybe older than Anatole, but Caina held it with a fluid grace- as if the blade was an extension of her arm.

Like she did for the rest of her jobs, Caina wore a hooded cloak cut from an off-black fabric. Her pants and shirt were the same- the only part of her not hidden in shade were her bare feet, which seemed pale in comparison to the rest of her. When Anatole looked at her, he would see simply a figure in black, and maybe a curved knife against his throat. If he managed to survive this encounter, which Caina doubted that he would, then the galdor would likely believe that Death itself had come for him. It was a compliment that Caina had received before, from the few who escaped her blade.

Last edited by Caina Rose on Wed Jul 31, 2019 4:45 pm, edited 3 times in total.

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Tom Cooke
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Sun Jun 23, 2019 8:29 am

the painted ladies 🙫 the dives
past midnight on the 21st of loshis, 2719
Don’t forget your coat, Mr. Crawford.”

“Mmm.” The darkness of the street was sudden and jarring after the warm candlelight of the Blue Egret. His head spun, the stones moved underneath him, and he grabbed momentarily at the brick behind for support. It’d been spitting light rain sporadically, but it was misting now, and his breath steamed in the humid chill.

Another hand on his shoulder, rough and insistent. “What?”

“Your coat,” said the big lad, trying to shove something unwieldy into his hands. “You sure you sh –”

“Clock it, I’m fine,” he muttered, taking the coat, “I’ll be jus’ fine. I can’t die, hey? I’ll be fine.” Giving the lad’s shoulder a little punch, Tom blinked up into his face.

A little light and music from the Egret drifted out into the street. The big lad half-turned, like his heels were itching to get him back inside, but he hesitated; he was giving Tom a look like he’d just said he kept hatchers as pets. Tom couldn’t imagine why. “Listen, sir, I don’t think –”

Tom jerked his shoulder out from under the big lad’s hand, taking a couple of (steady – increasingly steady) steps away and throwing his coat around his shoulders. He shivered into it, wrapping it tightly round him like it was a blanket. Finally, he put his arms through the sleeves and waved a thin hand. “Ain’t far, lad. I’ll be home in a hop an’ a skip.”

It wasn’t exactly a hop and a skip, but Tom wasn’t lying, either. He was a little scattered, but not too drunk, by his estimation; he was steady on his feet, anyway, getting steadier, and the evening chill was already stinging alertness into his nerves. If his head was a whirl, it was owed less to the drink, he reckoned, and more to the events of the last few days.

He knew he would’ve been better-advised to hole up in his host’s house, to double security – being who he was, nobody’d’ve thought twice – and sit tight, but that just wasn’t his way. It’d been months, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling that the streets at night were his, just like they’d always been. Especially on chilly, rainy nights like tonight, in Loshis and Hamis, when the puddles ran with smeared light from the streetlamps. When other night wanderers were shadows underneath umbrellas, behind the turned-up collars of their coats.

But Tom wasn’t Tom anymore, and this wasn’t the Rose, and the distant echoes of shutters slamming and dogs barking were warped strangely in the humid air. He’d got halfway through the Painted Ladies when his neck started to prickle like something was wrong.

He was sharp enough to know not to look behind him unless he had to, unless he could do it covertly and without letting on. Sneaking glances at intervals, he switched up his path, going down broader, better-lit streets he didn’t ordinarily take; he detoured through streets where craftsmen still clung to the lights of tiny pubs like moths. As the lights thinned out, as the streets grew ever more quiet, though, he knew for a fact he was being followed.

Carefully, covertly, he turned his steps toward Woven Delights.

Strangely, the thought that he was about to die hadn’t quite got hold of him. It never had, really, not even when he was alive: he’d never wanted to think too long on it. He had a plan etched out in his head, decent and flexible, and as the still, glossy dark bay window of the shop came into his line of sight, it even seemed like a good one. If he could just get –

A dog barked and there was a scuffle behind him, just loud enough that both of them knew he’d hear it. No time. Without looking, he kicked himself into motion, jerking himself suddenly to the right and skittering down the narrow alleyway beside the shop. He wasn’t sure what he planned on doing, wasn’t even thinking.

He certainly hadn’t planned to be grabbed roughly from behind – with surprising strength from someone he’d thought was roughly his size. It knocked another wheeze out of him; somebody whipcord-strong had plucked him half off his feet, slamming him against the brick wall. He gasped, blinking through the haze of panic. His eyes widened on the shadow in front of him, utterly unreadable, its grip on him like a vice. Is this her--?

He managed to bellow a strangled, “Ms. Weaver! Ms. Weaver! Ava! He heard Anatole’s voice crack on her name.

Then he felt something sharp at his throat. He wondered momentarily if he’d been dreaming. He’d had this dream before, he was sure of it, because the knife felt as familiar as a knife he’d once had: he’d dreamt of the delicate recurve of it pressed against his throat, but he’d also dreamt of the hilt in his hand, dreamt of the weight of it at his belt. Swallowing thickly and barely daring to breathe, he strained to look down. He saw the distant light catch on an inscription along the metal.

A tangle of thoughts flew through his head, beating their wings bloody.

Who in the hell would have--?

It couldn’t be –

I waited for you. I waited for you to come home to me.


All the fear melted away. Maybe it was the whisky’d lit a fire in his belly, or maybe the prick of the knife at his throat, or maybe it was that sense of ugly irony he was so prone to. He looked at her with blood in Anatole’s grey eyes, lip curling back over his teeth.

He snarled, “What the fuck’re you doin’ wi’ my hama’s knife?”
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Ava Weaver
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Sun Jun 23, 2019 10:17 am

Past Midnight, 22nd Loshis, 2719
Outside Woven Delights, Painted Ladies
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It was late, and Ava should have been sleeping. She had opened the window of her small studio, set up above the street. She sat, curled up on the big wooden seat beneath, head tilted back to rest against the wall, and starred out at the dark quiet night. It was cool and clear today, faint wisps of clouds drifting through the sky, with the first stirrings of what would soon be growing heat echoing in the wind.

Ava had slept the night before. It had surprised her, how easily she had been able to fall asleep. She had been wrung dry by the day, all the weighty emotions squeezed out of her, leaving behind a sense of hollow emptiness that hadn’t kept her awake. Dreams though - she had had plenty of those. They hadn’t come at first; her cheek had touched the pillow and she had been gone, whisked away to an empty place free of memories and fears. She had slept there awhile, until something - a dog perhaps - had awoken her, to pale creeping light coming through the window. Ava had tried to find sleep again, and then the nightmares had come - sharp, painful ones, twisted mockeries of memories and strange places she had never been, all wound together. She had woken tangled in her sheets, shaking and sweating.

Tonight, it was the memory of those dreams that kept her awake. She had no books, not anymore. For a time she had balanced her accounts; usually there was nothing which put her to sleep faster. But then the accounts were settled and she was still awake. Hot water with herbs hadn’t helped either, nor even a small cup of precious milk heated and sipped slowly, an old childhood remedy. She didn’t have anything harder to drink; she regretted that, just now, although most of the time Ava was grateful she had never really developed a taste for such things, at least not enough to indulge them on her meager budget.

Finally, Ava had settled into the window. If she couldn’t sleep herself, she would watch the world trickle past, or at least the night life of Vienda’s Painted Ladies. With no lights in her room, she was nothing more than a dark blotch interrupting flowing curtains which, otherwise, would have streamed freely into the streets. Below her, people passed; strands of conversation wafted into the air, husky and light laughter twining together. For a while, the world was still.

A distant dog barked; there was a scuffle of feet on the ground. Ava glanced down, half able to make out two dark figures on the street below. She looked back up, lifting her chin and settling her gaze on a distant wisp of cloud, wondering if it would dissipate into nothingness or puff itself into a thunderstorm.

There was a yell from the street - a familiar voice, raised in terror - her name, sending a spike of ice down her spine. For a moment Ava thought she was asleep already, and this her nightmare. Anatole’s voice cracked on her name and broke and Ava looked down, watching one figure pull the other into the alley that lined her building.

And then she was moving.

Ava scrambled from her seat, half-running and half-falling down the narrow stairs at the back of her shop. She was barefoot, her hair in a plait down her back, wearing nothing but her peach silk robe half-open over a thin lacy nightgown. Ava tripped on the stairs, banging into the wall with her hip, but she kept running. Then she was flinging the door to the shop open and then the front door, fumbling with the latch and leaving it open to the street.

“Caina Rose!” Ava screamed the girl’s name, all pretense of not knowing her gone, desperate to undo what she had set in motion. “Stop! Stop - it’s a misunderstanding - Caina, please stop!”

There was only one explanation Ava could think of for Tom to be screaming for her in the middle of the night, only one explanation for the scuffle of dark figures on the street below. Ava had sent Caina messages, trying to call her off, but she had known - she had always known -

Ava slipped again, pain blossoming sharp in one foot and rounded the corner into the alley. She was terrified that Anatole’s bloody body would greet her, Tom’s spirit ripped from him by Caina’s knife - but she would look anyway, and not shy away from the mess she had made.

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Caina Rose
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Wed Jun 26, 2019 1:17 am

Outside Woven Delights • Anaxas/Vienda
on the 22nd of Loshis, 2719 • Past Midnight
The absolute last thing Caina expected the damn galdor to do was to start speaking like a damn wick. She’d been surprised to hear him yell, would’ve thought he’d be talking to the Mona, or whatever the galdori did. Caina had tensed upon hearing her friend’s name come out of an enemy’s mouth, but had quickly shrugged it off. The man wasn’t an idiot, and he must’ve known that Ava had put the hit out. But he wouldn’t have time to tell anybody. No one would ever know.

She’d drawn the knife back just a touch, grip adjusting to draw across Vauquelin’s throat, when the expected fear on his face turned to anger. Caina’s heart skipped a beat- had he seen her face? Did he recognize her? No, no- the hood still covered her face. He couldn’t’ve seen her. Her confusion lasted only a moment longer until he spoke. It took another moment for the words to actually sink in. They should’ve been twisted as the galdor spoke words he had no right to know, but the Tek floated comfortably in the golly’s mouth. He was fluent in Tek, but what kind of a galdor would be interested in something like that? Definitely not the fuckin’ Incumbent.

And then there were the actual words. Caina’s knife- because it was her knife, after months of it feeling alien in her hand, of feeling like a damn bosch again, of keeping it hidden under a floorboard in her room and pretending it wasn’t there- it wasn’t something that Anatole Vauquelin should recognize. There was only one man that would call the knife’s former owner his hama… and that man was dead.

To Hell with it. Caina wasn’t going to stand around and let a golly get the drop on her for some pseudo mystery. She pressed forward again, only to be stopped once more by a shout from the street.

She turned her head, foolishly looking away from Anatole. Apparently, this dreary night was full of ghosts, because in the dim light, Caina saw her mother speeding towards her. The woman was wearing her pajamas, and a bolt of fear stuck like lightning- if her mother caught her out this late, she’d get beat within an inch of her life, and Father was asleep, he wouldn’t be here to save her…

As Lairia Rose’s ghost came closer, Caina could see that it was actually Ava. The young assassin felt dizzy, and blinked several times to clear her head. Stupid. Your mother’s dead, you killed her, you stupid- Another thought distracted Caina: How did Ava Weaver know her name? And furthermore, why was she screaming it in a damn back alley, while Caina was trying to kill a man?!

The knife remained at Anatole’s throat. It was muscle memory to keep the blade pressed tight to skin, even as her mind wandered.
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Tom Cooke
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Wed Jun 26, 2019 8:09 pm

the painted ladies 🙫 the dives
past midnight on the 22nd of loshis, 2719
It was just a few seconds – just a space, there, pressed up against the cold brick – but it felt like it could’ve been hours. At any moment, Tom expected the blade of Ishma’s knife to open up his throat like a fish’s flank; whatever accounted for it, the irony was astounding. He couldn’t remember the first time he’d died, couldn’t remember what it’d been like to have his soul torn out of him and tossed onto the night winds, but he felt sure he’d remember it this time. That smell of smog and petrichor, that coppery taste of fear in his mouth.

He’d not go down limp like a scruffed cat, mewling for help. Some rational part of his brain was shuffling through its options. Weren’t many, and none of them looked benny, ’course. She was hesitating like his carrying-on had distracted her, and he reckoned he might use that second to get the drop on her: grab the wrist that held the knife, maybe, twist around, knee her in the gut. Throw his weight a little.

But Tom Cooke was weak and small and old, and even if he did manage to wrestle himself free of her grip, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get away. He certainly didn’t want to die running.

He heard Ava’s scream before he made sense of what she was saying. Heard the sound of light, bare feet moving, stumbling, though he didn’t let himself feel any relief. Couldn’t, not with the shadow still bearing down on him. He felt the chip shift her weight, saw the faint glisten of eyes as her head whipped to look at the opening of the alleyway. Tom caught movement out of the corner of his eye, maybe the shiver of silk underneath the street-lamp, but he didn’t dare move his head. Instead, he was stock-still, the knife still at his throat, thinking even faster through the haze. Thinking about his options.

Then he processed what Ava’d yelled, what’d sounded like jibberish. Caina Rose. “Caina Rose,” he murmured. He couldn’t summon up his voice, so his lips just moved silently. He’d been tense, and he went limp; the anger went out of his eyes, his face slack and pale, like he’d seen a ghost.

He realized that fighting back had never been an option. They’d sparred before; he’d taught her how to fight with a knife like that one, promised her she’d have it whenever the Bay took him. (Was that what’d happened? Had someone given it to her? Had hama?) He’d always been in control, though. They’d bruised each other, oes, but despite his size, he’d been gentle. Wouldn’t’ve been a good fighter if he didn’t know where his limbs all was, didn’t know how to demonstrate a blow without landing it. Wouldn’t’ve been a good teacher.

Now, how could he lay a hand on Caina Rose, after how they’d left it? How could he shove her or twist her arm – how could he cause her pain? He’d done it once, not even meaning to, and he’d regretted it ever since. Then, despite himself, he went blotchy with embarrassment and shame. In his panic, the only coherent thing he thought was, Can she smell the whisky on my breath?

Of a sudden, Tom didn’t much care what she did with the knife.

“Epaemo, Caina,” he said, swallowing thickly. Apologies didn’t come easy to him, and his words were tight with tension. The edge of the knife prickled against his throat as it moved. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry. That night in Roalis, with your short hair. Didn’t know it was you. Never’ve laid a hand on you.”
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Ava Weaver
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Thu Jun 27, 2019 12:33 am

Past Midnight, 22nd Loshis, 2719
Outside Woven Delights, Painted Ladies
T
here was a pool of soft yellow light from the streetlamp on the ground outside of the alley. Squinting through it, Ava couldn’t see anything beyond, couldn’t hear a sound, couldn’t tell – there had been no response to her shouts, not from Caina or Tom. Was Caina gone already, leaving behind silence and darkness and Anatole’s body on the ground? Ava whisked up her skirts and plunged through the pale light, the silk of her robe flashing against it, and then she was in the alley, squinting, squeezing her eyes shut and opening them again, trying to see –

Caina was a hooded figure, like a black blur against the dark of the alley, but for the wickedly curved length of knife she held against Anatole’s throat. Tom – it was Tom’s throat. In the dark, unadjusted, Ava couldn’t make out more than the pale blur of his figure against the wall, his face at a level with Caina’s. They were all three nearly the same size, Ava realized dizzily. The knife was held to his throat, but Tom was upright, and there was no blood. Relief pumped through her, flooding her like a wave, tempered with the sharp prick of fear, the realization that it wasn’t over yet, that Caina hadn’t let go.

There was a moment of silence between between the strange trio, taut and strung out, with still no response from Caina. Ava was breathing hard; her foot was throbbing a little worse with every passing moment. Carefully, slowly, she stepped further in the alley, not bothering with the disarray of her clothing, with the loose strands of hair that had popped out of her braid to curl around her face.

“Caina,” Ava said, softly, voice low. She was digging herself in deeper with every word, every repetition, but she didn’t see what else she could do. She couldn’t give away Tom’s secret; it wasn’t hers to share, and, she didn’t think Caina could possibly believe it, not here, not now. But she could say he meant to be useful to them, to them. It meant revealing herself in front of Tom, even more than she already had; would Ava have any secrets left from him, at this rate? She couldn’t think.

Another approach, maybe? She could reveal herself to Caina, tell her who she was. They had been friends, of a sort. Would it be enough, at least as a distraction? Ava didn’t think so, even if that was the cover she would prefer to have to leave on the filthy alley floor, amidst the puddles and muck of the city left here to rot.

Ava took a deep breath, charting out a thousand versions of those three courses in her head before settling on one, a familiar sort of gamble. When there was no certainty, instinct was best. “Let him go, please – ” She took a few small bloody steps closer to Caina.

Tom began to speak, then, his voice thick and heavy in Anatole’s throat, tight with some emotion Ava didn’t understand and hadn’t expected. Not fear, but, then, of course it wouldn't be fear. Ava froze, looking at the blur of darkness and sharp edges that was Caina, at Anatole’s increasingly visible wrinkled face, not smirking now but with the faint traces of ten thousand smirks pulling him that way, always pulling, a little flush in his cheeks –

They knew each other. Or, at least, Tom had known Caina in – in life. In Old Rose Harbor. There was a weight, a heaviness to his words that Ava still couldn’t parse as he apologized for – something, some night that lay between them. Ava froze, softening, and pulled back slightly, folding her hands in front of her. This wasn’t her place; the moment that Tom was shaping here in the alley didn’t – shouldn’t – include her. She lingered, unable to tear herself away completely, fear shaping her as much as curiosity, watching and waiting for Caina to respond.

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Caina Rose
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Mon Jul 01, 2019 12:05 am

Outside Woven Delights • Anaxas/Vienda
on the 22nd of Loshis, 2719 • After Midnight
Ava said her name again. Caina watched unmoving as the shopkeep took small steps forward, as if Caina were a wild animal. And right now, the young girl felt like one. Her chest rose and fell as she took in ragged breath after ragged breath. When was the last time someone had said her name? When was the last time that someone had looked at her with recognition in their eyes? Caina felt trapped, like she was the one pinned with a knife to her throat. It seemed like at any moment Ava would leap forward and try to take the knife. Caina refused to look away from the older girl, using her proximity to the galdor to read his body language, trusting that he wouldn’t try to disarm her yet. He was standing very still, watching her, and Caina was glad that the darkness still hid her face.

The puzzle filled in behind Caina’s eyes. Ava and Anatole had some kind of relationship. She’d known that already, but had thought Anatole used his status to force control over Ava. But now, Caina thought she knew the truth: That Anatole had Ava join the Resistance as a spy. And Ava had used Caina to put out a fake hit on Anatole- one that he was aware of. He’d spent these past days knowingly going to dangerous places, so that when he led her to Woven Delights it wouldn’t seem suspicious. Then Ava was supposed to distract Caina in some way, keeping her from killing Anatole just long enough for them to get the drop on her. Then they’d either kill her or turn her into the Seventen. Caina hoped that they killed her.

If Ava tried to rush her, Caina would throw the golly at her. He’d lose his feet, because he was clumsy and drunk. Ava had a wound on her foot- Caina could see the way she limped, and saw the dark spot on Ava’s sole. Once they were distracted, Caina would rush to the back end of the alley and use her momentum, as well as the rough of the bricks, to lift up onto the top of Woven Delights and use the roofs to disappear. She’d be back at the How and reporting Ava’s treachery to Jon by the end of the night. And Caina wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. That’s what she told herself, anyway.

"Let him go, please –"
Caina wanted to laugh. But mostly, she was confused. Why would Ava work with him? Why would she betray her own kind?

The golly spoke once more, but Caina didn’t turn her head. Even as he spoke Tek, and called her name. He was trying to play to her emotional side. But Anatole would soon learn that she didn’t have one.

His next sentence made her pause, and she turned once again to him. 'That night in Roalis..' How did he know about that? If her hands had been free, they would have begun to shake. As it was, she only gripped the knife and the golly tighter. How in the hell did he know that? For a second, the assassin thought that he’d used a spell on her- but she didn’t feel any different, like someone else was piloting her body, or like there was a hand pawing through her brain and her memories. And if he were to use magic, why would Anatole look back to that night? Why would he do that, instead of making her put the knife down?

Ava stopped moving, Caina could see out of the corner of her eye. She stared at the galdor in front of her, taking a moment to think. There was too much happening. Ava somehow knew her name- that wasn’t important right now. She could rip the truth from the apparent traitor whenever. But right now, she had a knife to a man’s throat- and Caina wasn’t too sure that she wanted to kill him.

In the tension of the moment, Caina finally allowed herself to examine Anatole’s field. As a human, she was unable to feel or understand the nuance’s of a galdor’s field, but she was able to tell the difference between a golly and a wick.

Which was why Caina was confused when Anatole felt like neither. She couldn’t explain it, but something about his field felt wrong. Bad. It reminded Caina of her father’s killer, to some degree, and she hated it with every fiber of her being. Her survival instinct was screaming to get away.

And Anatole hadn’t cast a spell yet. There had to be a reason for that. It was likely that he wouldn’t anytime soon- maybe he was unable to?

A million thoughts raced through Caina’s head. But she let him go. She pulled the knife away. And she took several large steps back, almost to the other side of the alley- although that didn’t afford her much distance, as it was only a small gap between the buildings.

Caina took another look at Ava, and gestured with the knife out in front of her, flicking it from girl to golly.
“Step over there.”
She ordered, not bothering to disguise her voice like she might in other circumstances.
“Keep your hands where I can see them.”
There was no emotion in Caina’s voice, only a steely anger.

Once Ava had moved to Anatole, (did she seem comfortable next to him? Caina couldn’t tell) Caina took a deep breath. She lowered the knife, just enough that it wasn’t pointed directly at the pair. And then she used her right hand to reach up and pull off the hood, finally exposing her face.
"I want answers. Now."

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Tom Cooke
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Mon Jul 01, 2019 1:05 pm

the painted ladies 🙫 the dives
past midnight on the 22nd of loshis, 2719
Ishma’s knife still prickled against his throat, and – worse – he felt Caina’s grip on him tighten, felt the blade press a little more. He didn’t look away, though. He stared right into the shadows of that hood, a deep, guilty frown carved into his face. Then, with another deep breath, he shut his eyes. There was no point even trying to think through the haze of pain and whisky and numb panic. He was sure he’d remember it this time; he’d be laughing at the irony of it into the next few lifetimes, until he couldn’t even remember why it was funny.

Then Tom felt her release him, and he blinked, slumping against the wall and trying to catch his breath. As she backed up, he dared to look over at Ava. She’d come closer, now; the shadows of the alleyway had swallowed her, and the light behind her had made her a silhouette. Seemed to him she was standing funny, and he couldn’t understand why – not until he saw the path of little dark spots underneath the streetlamp, pitter-pattering like pawprints to where she stood unsteadily in the dark.

“Ms. Weaver, you’re bleedin’,” he slurred softly, studying the vague shape of her face. A few strands of dark hair had slipped out of place, limned pale yellow and ghostly.

Caina’s command tore his attention away from her. His head was a maelstrom, but despite everything he was feeling, he couldn’t help but smile faintly at the sound of her voice. He hadn’t heard that voice in years. It was a little different, maybe – a little older, a little harder. Hama’s knife glinted in the dark; Caina held it with ease, gestured with it like it was an extension of her arm. She’d done it perfectly, too, when she’d had the blade against his throat. Swift and silent and whipcord-strong.

He complied, raising his hands, showing her his palms. “Ain’t tryin’ to fuck wi’ your head. Ain’t goin’ to do a damn thing ’til you say so.” He was surprised at how even and calm he sounded; swallowing thickly, he pressed on. “No magic, hey? I ain’t speakin’ it, an’ I ain’t movin’ my hands no special way. None of us here can cast.”

When the hood came off and the faint, pale light fell over Caina’s face, Tom’s breath caught, and he couldn’t speak. It was one thing to hear her, to see the knife, to know that it was her; it was another to see her. Looked like she’d grown her hair out, but otherwise, they might’ve both been standing in that alleyway in the Rose. The years hadn’t marked her – not a scar or a blemish to speak of – but there was something different in the set of her face. There was no childish belligerence, no fear; this wasn’t a mung teenager’s anger.

“Ms. Weaver sent you after me ’cause she thought I was somebody I ain’t. I ain’t the man she sent you after, an’ I don’t mean either of you any harm. I’m—” Again, he swallowed a lump. “Don’t matter who I am. Jus’ – this ain’t Ava Weaver’s fault. If you got to kill one of us, let it be me. Jus’ leave her alone, you hear?”

Only when Ava moved did Tom look away from Caina’s face. Watching her limp, looking again at the trail of blood under the streetlamp, he winced and let out a frustrated hiss between his teeth.

He looked back at Caina. “Hulali’s fuckin’ tits, Caina Rose,” he breathed finally, sounding exasperated – sounding like he might’ve in life, when she was a little lass, if she’d been getting into mischief around the house. “Put my Ishma’s knife away an’ do somethin’ productive. Can’t you see she’s injured?”
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Ava Weaver
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Mon Jul 01, 2019 2:53 pm

Past Midnight, 22nd Loshis, 2719
Outside Woven Delights, Painted Ladies
Ava felt a soft prickle of fear when Caina gestured at her with the knife. She didn’t hide it, eyes wide and soft, and obeyed, limping slightly over to stand next to Tom. The touch of his field - it hadn’t disturbed her so much by the end of their time together, but coming into it again was like a shock, and she flinched without meaning to, swallowing hard at the odd scattered feeling.

The next thing Ava noticed was the smell - whiskey hung in the air around him, the reek of it oddly unpleasant. Anatole’s voice slurred her name and Ava shuddered, her whole body tightening. Only the Ms. Weaver saved her. It took a moment for her mind to catch up, this odd strained night filtered through a haze of unreality; as if none of this was really happening, as if she, Caina Rose and Tom Cooke in Anatole Vauquelin’s body weren’t standing here in this alley, staring at one another, Caina with her wicked, curved knife. Just even Tom Cooke in Anatole’s body was awful enough, painful and terrifying.

And drunk! What had he been thinking? Ava held the anger in, tight to her chest. He had known Caina might be coming. She lifted her hands along with Tom, holding them flat and open in front of herself, small soft hands exposed in the dark night.

Tom was speaking, all Tek now, his own accent rough and slurred in the alleyway; the feeling of Anatole fell away, and Ava could let go of a little of her tight control, listening to him plead for her. He was trying to explain. It didn’t escape Ava that he held his name back. That night in Roalis, with your short hair; those words had had meaning to Caina, she had seen it in the taut tension that ran through the younger woman’s body, visible even through the sleek black clothing she wore. They had known each other, and Tom didn’t want her to know him now. He was too drunk to keep it up though, and when he said Caina’s name – not soft and imploring, but exasperated – Ava, her eyes and focus trained on the assassin, could see fear and anger and maybe even embarrassment.

Ava felt the tension between the three of them stretched like a wire, shaking and quivering in the air, taut and close to snapping. Caina’s knife shifted back towards Tom; Ava felt something visceral in her chest, a faint relief. The knife wasn’t the biggest threat to her, Ava knew; Caina could stab her here and now, and that was bad enough, but worse was the chance that she would go back to the Resistance, denounce Ava. It wasn’t death Ava feared; it was losing the chance to fight.

Ava felt herself in layers, as if she were one of her own bolts of fabric; something hard in the center, wrapped in soft sheets of fabric over and over, masking that final shape. She had peeled away enough the day before with Tom, more than she had in years, and now – now, Ava thought, revealing more of herself was the only weapon she had. She could stay still and quiet, let Tom protect her, and keep herself from dying on Caina’s knife today. But there was no life for her without the Resistance, not anymore.

Slowly, carefully, Ava let herself unravel.

“Caina,” Ava took a single small step forward, using the younger girl’s name deliberately, pulling her attention from Tom. She didn’t look at him, didn’t look anywhere but at Caina, eyes large and soft and dark in the gentle light of the alley; it was as if no one except the two of them were there. If Caina didn’t look at her, she would say it again, soft, waiting until the younger woman met her eyes. “Caina Rose.”

“Anatole – ” That name was the first layer; Ava’s voice broke on it, a depth of hurt welling in her chest and up into her eyes, making them glisten in the delicate light. She swallowed, hard, visibly, but didn’t look away, blinking once to clear the moisture. “Anatole Vauquelin made me his whore.” The name was harsh and aching; that awful word at the end of the sentence was soft and precise, almost without judgment, as if Ava wasn’t insulting herself so much as stating a simple fact.

Ava didn’t look at Tom. She couldn’t; the thick heavy braid of her hair blocked him from view, and she was grateful for that. She needed to pretend he wasn’t there; she needed not to see him. She kept her focus on Caina, wearing her pain like a shield.

“I asked for your help because I thought he meant to do it again,” there were tears now, again, glistening in her eyes. Ava blinked them away again as best as she could, one slipping out down her cheek. “I was wrong. This – ,” she didn’t look back, she couldn’t look back, but one small hand, still raised, gestured delicately towards Tom. “This is Anatole’s face, his hands, his body, but it’s not him. I didn’t know then, but I know now,” Ava was trembling. “I’m sorry for getting you involved in this. I didn’t – I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

Ava held still there, feeling as if she were bleeding through her skin, wondering if they could both see blood welling up through the thin nightgown and the delicate peach robe, staining her. She didn’t look away from Caina, even as a few more tears spilled down her cheeks, her breath aching in her chest, hands folding gently back against her chest, trembling still.

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Caina Rose
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Tue Jul 02, 2019 12:41 am

Outside Woven Delights • Anaxas/Vienda
on the 22nd of Loshis, 2719 • After Midnight
C aina wasn’t surprised by Anatole’s reaction- if he knew her name and her past, he definitely already knew what she looked like. But his words still shook her to the core. Ain’t gonna mess with her head… tears pricked at Caina’s eyes and blinked swiftly, forcing her body to remain neutral. But there was a small, quiet part of her that was screaming to run, to hide, to lash out like she had last time. Before she couldn’t anymore.

But the look in the golly’s eyes reminded Caina that this wasn’t then. This wasn’t him. And she was in charge here.
“Ms. Weaver sent you after me ’cause she thought I was somebody I ain’t. I ain’t the man she sent you after, an’ I don’t mean either of you any harm. I’m—” Again, he swallowed a lump. “Don’t matter who I am. Jus’ – this ain’t Ava Weaver’s fault. If you got to kill one of us, let it be me. Jus’ leave her alone, you hear?”


She’d asked for answers, and she wasn’t receiving any. Even Vita himself knew who Anatole Vauquelin was. There was no way that Ava could’ve mistaken him for somebody else. Not with their apparent relationship.
“I’ll decide what’s important. Who are you?”
She snapped at him.

The rest of the street was quiet. It was as if the whole of Vienda felt the tension emanating from that small alley and had chosen to hide from it.

Caina couldn’t help the glare she shot Anatole at his last remark- but it wasn’t enough to hide the confusion and almost-terror in her eyes. If her eyes had been closed, Caina would’ve been half-convinced that Tom Cooke was standing in front of her.

When Caina had left Old Rose, she had left her name behind her. Her identity, her past… it all fell away when she came to Vienda. Caina Rose had died, and left behind a series of aliases all in the same skin. To hear absolute strangers use that name like they knew her was almost physically painful.

But Ava spoke, and kept speaking. Caina could hear the pain in her voice, and wanted desperately to reach out and comfort the other girl. Instead, there was a violent jerk of her shoulders as Ava said that word. The emotion exuding from Ava was so familiar that Caina recognized it instantly. And yet… it was so different.

Nine years ago, Caina Rose had been in the hands of a madman. He’d hurt her - mind, body, and soul. She still woke most nights from nightmares, fighting things that were entombed in the past. But apparently Caina was lucky, because he had never done… that.

Ava began to cry, and Caina couldn’t help herself- she took a step forward. As the words fell away, it was silent for a long time. Because Caina didn’t know what to say. Because she believed Ava. She believed that somehow, someway.. this wasn’t Anatole. And that meant Ava wasn’t trying to kill her.

But if he wasn’t Anatole, then…

When she spoke, Caina had to fight to get words through the lump in her throat.
“Then who is he?”
There was no demand anymore… it was just a question. Almost gentle- as gentle as an assassin could be when she wasn’t lying.

Another beat of silence.
“We should go inside.”
Wherever this conversation was headed, the alleyway wasn’t safe anymore. The dark would hide them for now, but sooner or later the Seventen would come patrolling.

Caina lowered the knife, but didn’t pocket it. She stood straight, no longer looking like she was about to attack them. And she kept her gaze on Ava, but occasionally looked over to Tom, letting him know that she was still watching him.
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