People usually don’t like it when someone abruptly accosts them on the street and asks for information in a weird, barely understandable voice. They don’t usually like it when said someone does not really look like them. They also have a tendency to throw whatever food they had been holding at that certain someone’s face.
Brathis had reflected all of the above while calmly wiping off the remains of a particularly sticky pie of her face. Why would someone waste perfectly good food, she would never understand. Don’t organics need to eat it to survive? Then again she did not have to eat food, so who was she to talk?
In any case, Brathis was getting slightly desperate. She had been walking around Oakenrow district for a day now, almost two complete cycles (Roughly twenty four hours to the best of her reckoning), and yet she had nothing. Many people simply refused to talk to her or they ignored her. The few that deigned to talk were either rude, unhelpful, or just plain uninterested. Sometimes all three.
Right now she stood at an intersection of paths where many street vendors were set up, and a lot more businesses were open. The people walking the streets moved this way or that, getting cheap food, haggling for some cookware, or even being thrown out a tavern. Brathis got to witness that last one personally and had not been disappointed. It’s funnier when you’re the one not being thrown after all, those bouncers could toss people when they really wanted to. But the Ironkin had resolved to just stand right here, leaning against a building, some general store, and wait for something interesting to happen. That was bound to be more fruitful than talking to the hostile populace. It was not a bad spot to wait at, either. She had bought a new hat within the first five minutes of waiting, then promptly returned it when it did not fit her heat, to her unending dismay.
The current First Cycle, the first twelve hours of a day, was almost at an end, when Brathis heard some people begin playing music.
They were good, their instruments were of good quality, producing a crisp sound with every beat of a drum or every exhalation of a flute. It seem this particular group were a band, because the music itself was most definitely coordinated. And over there, by that building, was that someone setting up a canvas? Yes! Someone was going to paint something, putting to canvas the various houses and buildings of the city that had lights pouting out their shutters, the people flowing through the streets as if they were the lifeblood of the city, and even the street animals wandering about showed an aspect of nature that existed in spite of being in the midst of such an urban place. The street vendors were putting up new signs proclaiming discounted prices and new, better food, having a spring to their steps and a smile on their faces at the thought of a rush of new customers, and with it, money.
It would seem that Brathis had just encountered a beloved tradition at Oakenrow. The celebration of artistry and life at the turn of a Cycle. She remembered hearing music everytime the city bell was struck and heralded a Cycle change, the voices in the crowd growing more exited, sensing more smells of food than usual. Here was her answer as to where it came from. Brathis was admiring the mood, nodding her head to a beat one of the younger musicians was playing, and considering going in to buy a souvenir (Perhaps a better hat?) when something caught her eye in the crowd of people that was growing.
Who was that person, wearing the mask?
All thoughts of merriment and cheer fled her mind as she caught sight of a Lizardken, one who was wearing a strange mask. It was made of black cloth, and it covered the head entirely but for the nostrils in the snout and their eyes. Brathis couldn’t even tell the person’s gender, the identifying characteristics on the head covered as they were.
No one else had that mask, and the people who noticed the masked lizard quickly tried to walk away while remaining inconspicuous.
There was her target, Brathis realized as she remembered a detail. The Death Razors had been described as having a masked motif. This person had a mask. Finally, a lead!
She began walking toward the Lizardken when someone put a hand on her shoulder. Brathis resisted the urge to turn around punch whoever had done that, but only barely, as there had been a few…incidents back when she had first arrived in Ninovacia. Instincts born of surviving in a jungle were hard to supress. She instead turned her head to see who had stopped her and met the eyes of a large brute of a Drakken. He had wavy neck spines running down his head, identifying him as a male. His scales were a shade between red and orange, a touch of yellow tracing snake-like patterns down his arms from his back. He had a few scars, a prominent one going from between his eyes to right between the two nostrils, as if someone had tried to cleave his head in half lengthwise. He was definitely an older Drakken, and his age made Brathis remember an adage that had applied to the Elders of where she had come from.
Always fear old men in a profession where most die young.
Especially if said old men were Ken, who aged slower. Brathis had later amended.
“I hear you have been going around, asking questions.” He said with levity, his voice an additional reflection of his age, grizzled and slow. Calculating. But there was something under that voice that suggested that everything from his twinkling eyes to that smile was fake. This was the face of someone who had killed, and would not hesitate to do so again.
“Since it’s the Belpazan hour,” The man continued, referencing the deity of beauty and art, Belpaza, “We have elected to simply give you a warning. No reason to interrupt such a joyous time in the city such as this. Don’t you agree, Planky?”
Brathis considered her options. She had thought she was the only one watching the streets, but apparently someone else had been watching her. A terrible mistake she must avoid for the future. But now she had to choose. Listen to this threatening man and drop the bounty, or refuse and get beat up?
Well. He called her Planky. Now it was personal.
She nodded at the Drakken in feigned acceptance. He nodded back, that dangerous smile never leaving his face.
“Good. Now I don’t want to see your face here ever again.” He looked at Brathis’ wooden body. “And we both know I’ll remember it.” With that, his hand left her shoulder and he made his way off to somewhere else. Brathis wasn’t looking, for as soon as he had let go she scanned the crowd, looking for that masked Lizardken.
There was no sign of them.
The bounty hunter was back at the Three Suns Inn, later that day. As someone who adhered to the First Cycle, Brathis considered the Second Cycle the hours where she wound down and rested, giving her internal stores of energy time to replenish. A peculiar way of keeping time, it had to be said, considering she came from a background where keeping track of time in segments like this was simply not important nor practical. It was always ‘Hey you. Do this now’ or, if one were particular far sighted, ‘Hey you, do this thing later.’
She had been startled the first time she heard the timekeeping bells toll.
She sat at the far left end of the bar, her customary spot and what the regulars of this inn had taken to calling ‘that seat where the freak is’, with some cheap parchment she kept on herself as well as a piece of chalk. Unsurprisingly, things like ink or even a better quality parchment were expensive for someone of her means. She wrote with a practiced hand on the parchment, noting everything she had seen; the masked Lizardken, the appearance of that Drakken who stopped her.
It was her process of planning out a mission, but also her stress relief. She had written down a few lines she imagined would be suitably dramatic yet insulting when she finally got the upper hand of that Drakken. She was just figuring out what the synonym for ‘ugly’ was when Wifidia called for Brathis’ attention a third time.
“Puppet-girl!”
She looked up at the barkeep, slightly annoyed. She had almost had it!
The red Drakken woman narrowed her eyes at Brathis, then spoke as she slid a tankard of ale over to her. “Someone got you a drink.”
Brathis tilted her head sideways, looking at Wifidia, then the drink, then back at Wifidia again. Who would get her of all people a drink?
Wifidia seemed to read her mind, because she nodded. “I don’t get it either. It was that one. Over there.” She nodded her head towards the corner of the common room. Brathis turned in her seat to get a good look and across the rather large room…
She made eye contact with that same scarred Drakken from earlier. He smiled and raised his mug in acknowledgement.
Brathis quietly swore in Bronzic, drawing an intrigued look from Wifidia who was brought out a notepad of her own and started writing those words down. This was bad. She had been followed to her inn. She had been followed to her inn. This had not happened before in her brief stint as mercenary for hire, as she usually managed to deal with whatever issue she was hired for quite easily, but this was the first time she had let someone know where she lived. This gang played dirty, however, and instead hit her right where it hurt.
She had to end this, right here and right now.
Wifidia saw Brathis’ hand going for her dagger and caught that hand at the wrist in a vice grip. She stared hard at the Ironkin.
“Just what do you think you are doing?”
Brathis turned to Wifidia, trying to dislodge her trapped wrist. Wifidia continued, not bothering to wait for an answer to her question.
“This inn has one rule when it comes to mercenaries like you. No fights. If you have a problem, take it outside. Do I make myself clear?”
Brathis glared at the barkeep, for all she could not make facial expressions, then nodded. Wifidia slowly let go of the hand, then took the tankard of ale as she walked away from Brathis and to her other patrons, muttering on how stupid this all was.
Now alone, Brathis glanced back at the Drakken, nodded back in acknowledgement, then turned to look at her ‘plans’. But it just seemed so childish, now. She put down her hood, though, revealing her almost perfectly conical face in all it’s apparently blasphemous glory. Some heads turned to watch her. She ignored them.
She bent back down to continue writing on the parchment. She needed to think through how to take down the Death Razor gang. But first.
She needed a way to get rid of that man who watched her.
Zygomo, the aged and scarred Drakken who had been tailing the Ironkin, noticed from the corner of his eye a fellow member of his…‘family’. A certain young Lizardken who had worn their signature mask, the one that mimicked an executioner’s. He had done it to lure the Ironkin out into the crowded intersection and distract it, right before it had been unknowingly tailed by his partner in crime. He sat himself down next to Zygomo, waving a barboy over for a drink. Sending him on his way after ordering, the Lizardken who had watched Brathis fix her arm turned to Zygomo and nodded to the bounty hunter sitting at the bar.
“That’s the Ironkin I was talking about, boss.” He said opened.
“Wow, no kidding?” Zygomo sarcastically replied while feigning a surprised look, “I thought I had confused it with another Ironkin. Because those are so common.”
“Alright, alright, you don’t need to rub it in.” The Lizardken, who went by the name Pyhito, replied.
The duo sat in silence for a while after that with Zygomo keeping at least one eye on that bounty hunter while Pyhito just enjoyed himself until when his boss called for action. After a while the henchman began to whistle a complicated melody.
“Stop that.” Zygomo interrupted.
“Why?” Pyhito looked confused.
“You already tried to awaken a Talent many times. At this point it’s just sad.” Zygomo referred to a common practice among aspiring Talent users. One who hoped they were genetically gifted with Talent tried to engage in passionately practicing a hobby they liked to see if they could awaken dormant powers.
It was more likely that the Lizardken was just stubborn.
“Come on, I know I have it!” He complained.
“You have proven beyond any reasonable doubt that you don’t. You are good at your sneaky, stabby crap and that’s it. Now stop, your whistling is painful to listen to.”
Just as the words left his mouth, Zygomo noticed the Ironkin bounty hunter rise from it’s seat. He held up a finger to forestall any retort Pyhito had in order to hear if the bounty hunter said anything. He heard a vaguely feminine voice loudly ask the barkeep, a red Drakken, from a distance.
“Wifidia! Where was my room, again? I have terrible memory.” Zygomo noticed she, or at least he decided it was a she, had her hood put down, exposing her unnatural head.
Yet one more reason to do away with her.
The barkeep, Wifidia, sighed then yelled back where her room was. Pyhito perked up as the bounty hunter nodded in thanks and went upstairs to the hallway of rooms available for rent.
“Boss, this could be our moment.”
“I’m not moving from this seat. I’ve been told to simply watch for her in the inn and make sure she doesn’t leave, nothing more.” Zygomo said. “If you want to take initiative, be my guest.”
The Lizardken nodded in understanding then stood up from his seat, leaving a few coins to pay for his drink. As he made his way to the stairs, he covertly checked himself for his weapon, a dagger.
A slit to the throat might not quite cut it, but the assassin could definitely use the hilt to smash her neck in, he supposed.
Pyhito walked up the stairs, down the hallway of doors. His steps were light, barely making a sound. His dagger was unsheathed, but still concealed and poised to strike if anyone asked too many questions. He eventually made his way to the door of the Ironkin’s room. It was unlocked.
“Idiot.” He muttered.
Pyhito opened the door, entering the rather cramped room. At the far end of the room was a trunk below a window. The Ironkin was hunched over the open trunk, digging through it for something, giving the criminal a good view of it’s odd conical head. It does not seem to have noticed his presence. This was his chance to end a nuisance to the gang.
Phyito crept forward, bracing himself to grab it in a chokehold. He was just about jump in when suddenly, seemingly fast as thought, the bounty hunter whipped a hand back over it’s shoulder, throwing something, a dagger, straight at Pyhito. He barely dodged it, rolling backwards and quickly getting up.
How did it know? No one noticed it when he crept behind them!
The Ironkin slowly stood up, back still turned to Pyhito. And then it spoke.
“Surprised?”
The head turned around at a full half circle, the torso not even moving an inch, until it’s unnatural green eyes locked with the Lizardken’s.
“I have eyes on the back of my head.”
Zygomo drank his third tankard of ale and began to regret coming here. Not like he could have refused his assignment, thank-you-oh-so-very-much, but he really hated sitting around and doing nothing, stuffing himself with food and drink. The middle-aged Drakken of 60, still in the prime of his life, looked at the stairs Pyhito had ascended. Was he not supposed to be back by now?
What’s taking him so long?
Just as he asked himself that question, the whole inn heard loud, thumping noises upstairs. Ah, there it was. Pyhito was usually quieter, not to mention faster, than this. He will need to set things straight when he comes back down. Any second now. Then Pyhito came back down.
Just not down the stairs.
Being next to a window, Zygomo had a very good, very intimate view as he met the eyes of Pyhito falling down from the upstairs’ window with the bounty hunter on top of him.
He stood up along with a few others of the gang who had arrived over the course of the hour discretely.
Rotting trees, I should have brought my spear with me.
Brathis though as she wrestled with the would-be assassin. It was the gawker from the other day! The nerve of some people, insulting your medical practices and then killing you? Unbelievable.
Brathis finally got the upper hand and delivered a swift punch to the Lizardken’s throat, silencing him permanently. She would have to apologize to Wifidia for killing her patrons, and it would definitely be awkward.
The door to the inn slammed open as four Ken exited it, the old Drakken leading the lot. He brandished a club, pointing it at her, before commanding the others.
“After her!”
With no time to even think about fighting them, all four of the Death Razors ran after the bounty hunter. She ran away in a panic, not wanting to find out what they’d do to her if they managed to catch her.
The crowd of people walking on the streets were obviously not ones to ignore such an event. They acknowledged it by screaming and evacuating the streets as Brathis ran past. She needed to go somewhere isolated, with few people an even fewer watchers if she was going to take on that group. It did not matter that she had an official contract sanctioned by the city itself, she somehow doubted the watchmen would be kind enough to hear her out while putting her in manacles.
She ducked and weaved through people still in the way, knocking down some of the passers-by and even a stall or two in hopes that it would slow the chasers after her.
Eventually she came to a dead end, the only way out being where she had come. She did not take a moment to catch her breath, since she did not need to, but she did take one to resolve herself. This was where she was going to fight. She turned around to meet her pursuers head on.
And began to get excited.
The four Ken rounded the corner and came face to face with a charging Ironkin holding a round shield in front of her. Where had she gotten it? None of them could puzzle that before the foremost of their number, Zygomo, was knocked onto his backside by the force of the ramming shield.
Brathis was stronger than she looked! She rolled on the ground right under a punch aimed for her from a nearby Lizardken, causing her to overbalance. Brathis’ roll morphed smoothly into standing back up, fists raised with a shield attached to her left arm.
The four, one of them on the ground slowly getting back up, looked warily at her. Neither side rushed back into the melee for a few tense moments. Zygomo glared at Brathis. Brathis looked back. If she had been able to make facial expressions, she would have had a stupid grin plastered on her face. Then she beckoned them with her hand, almost- no, definitely -taunting them.
Steel-tipped claws emerged from her fingertips.
“Well then, what are you waiting for?”