heartless

those living for death will die by their own hand Rodric Cutler. Thirty-one. Yes, I'm always like this.

[crookedcutler]

City of Fools [Rod & Mal] [HC Flashback]

[silentandswift]

Rodric. What a fantastic name. Malik can’t wait to see what this Rodric fellow will do. Hopefully, he’ll succeed and Mal will have a new, pretty business partner. It would be a nice change of scenery to have someone competent to work on all of the missions Galin seems to have for him lately. It’s not as if he can ask Marcus for help; the boy’s entirely useless. Maybe Rodric will be the missing link he’s looking for.

Malik tails the man because he has to. If Rodric fails and survives, Mal will have to cut his throat. What a shame it would be, to cut a throat that pretty. If Rodric fails, he’ll be dead and Mal still has a mind to wipe clean. The dirty work doesn’t do itself, unfortunately. And, if Rodric’s mission is a success, Mal can get to the meeting spot, pay the man and finally have a useful sellsword for hire. It has turned out to be an interesting night after all.

So Mal tails Rodric’s tail, feeling disapproval at how sloppy the man is. How is he going to test Rodric’s skill with such a terrible job? Still, it’s about more than the tail. Rodric has to get his hands dirty, complete the kill out of sight, dispose of the body and quickly leave the scene. Killing is a brutal, gorgeous artform that is as intense as it is short-lived.

The tail’s face paints the wall and a dagger carves at his neck. Rodric himself is unaffected and reacts without hesitation, killing and hiding the man. Mal watches his face through the ordeal, wondering what happened to the strange man in front of him to shape Rodric into who he is today. Whatever it is, it has to have been terrible. 

He jumps from his hidden spot on a rooftop, out of Rodric’s peripherals and far enough away that his escape is seamless. Mal uses an old door as a springboard and tucks his chin as he absorbs the impact of the fall with his momentum. He’s up and running in the blink of an eye, using a sturdy support beam to fall down to the ground and disappear into an alleyway. He doesn’t have to wait long, not more than five minutes, for Rodric to appear, stony-faced and serious as he had been in the pub. He handles the meeting exactly as Malik has hoped, with the skill of someone who understands when to keep their mouth shut and their shoulders slackened. It’s an invaluable quality to have.

"While the gesture would be quite romantic, I have the utmost faith that you wouldn’t lie." The fact that he watched the murder happen is another point of faith. Malik tosses the rest of Rodric’s payment and a small bonus in a tiny, black bag. He watches the other man catch it and scans the alleyway to make sure they aren’t being watched. The coast is clear.

"You have the skill, Rodric." Mal says with a smile, and he’s genuinely happy. "My name is Malik Swiftfoot, and I believe we have a lot to gain from one another."

[crookedcutler]

Rodric dares to steal a glance at the man, eyes searching keenly over his features. It is the first time he has allowed himself more than a cursory glance; now that they seem to be entering some kind of business agreement that will extend beyond today alone, he's infinitely more interested, though showing that would be folly on his part.

The man, to his surprise, seems genuinely pleased. He has grown used to the masks and veils of those who ask for the deaths of others, the guarded eyes and downturned lips. But the smile that graces the man's lips appears to have been formed from genuine pleasure, and that intrigues Rodric. What kind of man is he, one who might smile so confidently when he is neither a wolf nor a sheep, an all-seeing outsider, a third party in a war that most people don't even know they're fighting?

Rodric suspects that it is that very freedom from the two warring sides which makes his smile come so easily.

The name Swiftfoot is processed with some measure of surprise. He doesn't know many names--the only ones he cares about tend to be those of men he wishes to see the insides of--but he knows this one, and that itself is telling. House Swiftfoot was the dominating family before the Church took over. House Swiftfoot did not believe in putting innocent magic users to death.

This immediately causes Rodric's opinion of this man, Malik, to err on the side of favorable, but he knows he must be careful. House Swiftfoot may be of noble blood, but he has seen what nobles can do, knows the evil that stirs within their hearts. He cannot put any kind of trust in this man, not yet.

Doesn't mean Rodric can't like him a little, though.

The fact that the man mentions his faith makes Rodric laugh. Yeah, of course he has faith--he was probably watching from the side. Still, he's glad not to have to prove himself somehow. That whole process always feels so degrading. He did the job, he's got his payment, and he's happy.

"So what am I to be for you, then, Malik Swiftfoot? Your painter, inviting your enemies to sit for portraits whose canvases I shall paint with their own blood?" His tone is dry, but there's a spark of life, of the promise of more, in his eyes. "Or your bodyguard, perhaps? A man of the shadows, sword ready to defend your livelihood when your quick tongue isn't enough?"

Normally he wouldn't deign to say so much, but Malik has earned his words, at least for now. He just hopes that the privilege does not have to be revoked.

[crookedcutler]

City of Fools [Rod & Mal] [HC Flashback]

[silentandswift]

There’s a brief silence after Malik speaks that he does not wish to fill. The stranger in front of him has a choice, and Mal cannot sway it either way. Even if he could, he wouldn’t; there is no fun in an unwilling or goaded participant. The mission is difficult, life-threatening, and most importantly, classified. To draw in a stranger, a wildcard, is something that just may be the end of him. Only time will tell.

"The game has already begun, love," Malik says with a smirk. So he’s game, whoever he is. Good. Great, even. Mal jumps to his feet silently, leaning in so that his mouth is right next to the man’s ear. His hand goes back to his thigh, and although his touch looks light and playful, his fingertips are there for business, not pleasure. Malik tucks the smallest scrap of paper, folded in half, into the man’s pocket. He isn’t sure if the stranger notices it before or after the weight of a gold piece tucked between the folds. Either way, his brow twitches in recognition.

"There is a man, eavesdropping on us, three tables to your left. He has a false eyepatch, graying hairs and a head full of information I would like emptied out, permanently. You’ll need to do so quickly and quietly." Mal licks his lips and pulls back, trailing his fingers over the stranger’s broad shoulders. They’re firm and toned under his tunic. His eyes are lidded in lust as he looks the man over, but the press of his hands continue to give him away. Mal leans down, slowly, until his nose is nearly pressing against his. "He has connections in the Church. If you’re caught, you’ll be stripped, skinned and sliced in all of the wrong ways. I imagine it’ll take days for you to pass out under the agony."

[crookedcutler]

Rodric falls into the role easily, knowing the instant that the man's fingers brush his thigh again that the situation has changed. He is being seduced, and it's working--publicly, at least. Privately the press of something small and round, something made undoubtedly made of gold, is what really piques his interest and causes his brow to raise, if only slightly. So this is real. It has begun.

The prospect of a challenge tantalizes him more than he'd like to admit.

His fingers curl into the stranger's shirt and pull him closer slightly, not forceful but not without intent, either. The action is laden with the desire to bed, but they both know that's not what this is about. Nose brushing just barely against the other man's, Rodric pulls away and uses his strategic grasp to pull the other man close enough so he can speak quietly into his ear.

"Consider it done," he replies, his voice a near-whisper but still firm, the businesslike tone of it masked by the picture of lust their closely-oriented bodies paint. Something seems to go wrong in their courtship, however, because Rodric pushes the man away slightly, just enough to get up, their eyes locking.

"It's Rodric." He says this in place of a farewell, and it's flippant, made out to be totally insignificant in its phrasing. It would probably make more sense to give the man his name after the job is completed but, well, he feels like the man has earned it somehow. His fingers finally release the shirt from their grasp, the disconnection allowing him to to walk away and out the door of the tavern, heading out into the street with just one thought on his mind: how he's going to end the life of the man who is now tailing him.

He decides not to end it right away, as he doesn't want to cue his mark into the fact that he is fully aware of what is going on. When he finally takes a turn down an alley, however, nestled between a stable and an a fruit stand, he knows that the clock is ticking.

The man's footsteps are heavy, shamefully so for a tail. Rodric slows his walk down considerably, stopping to dust some dirt off his boot, and waits until the man is close enough before he moves. As he dodges quickly to his left the man's hands reach clumsily for his throat which is no longer there, leading him to become slightly off-balance. This is Rodric's window. Quickly he grasps the back of the man's head and smashes his face into the wall, leaving an ugly red smear. Before the man can retaliate the dagger is at his neck, cutting across it in one master stroke, Rodric himself aiming carefully so as to avoid the spray of blood.

As the body falls he pushes it in the direction of the pile of hay nearest to them, tucking him into the mound as best he can in his limited time. It's not perfect, but it will do for now. The alley is so backwater that it's likely to be hours before anyone notices anything suspicious. He laughs a little to himself as he finishes up the job, shaking his head. He's a hired sword and yet here he is, cleaning the blood off his dagger. Life's funny that way.

Stepping out of the alley and into the public eye again, Rodric calmly washes his hands off in a nearby public washbasin and dries them before pulling out the piece of paper that had been wrapped around the coin given to him by his employer. He scans over it quickly and snorts, noting the time. That's some faith the man has, putting such a short time limit on a task like this. An average man could not have performed so quickly or efficiently.

Of course, Rodric is no average man.

The man he'd met at the tavern is already there when he arrives, which doesn't surprise him. He suspects he'd been followed during the job, but when it was finished the employer would have had no reason to stick around. It's all the same to him. Rodric leans up against the wall beside and glances at him offhandedly, as though he's not just dirtied his dagger for some as-of-yet intangible promises. This meeting is of chance, or it is between acquaintances, or it is hardly a meeting at all, merely two men in the same vicinity.

"Shall I present you with a lock of his hair or is the scent of his blood on my hands enough?" he asks quietly, his voice gruff despite his surprisingly light mood. He can only wonder where this will take him.

[crookedcutler]

City of Fools [Rod & Mal] [HC Flashback]

[silentandswift]

A response. It may not be a verbal response, nor the one he wants, but it’s enough. Malik still doesn’t know the man’s name, how skilled he is with his steel, where he’s from or why he’s so desperate for work. It’s no wonder the stranger is without coin and job; no sane man in Cohav would hire someone who is so silent even his eyes can go blank. There is interest, flickering behind all of the void on the man’s face, and Mal wants to crack right through his exterior and dive into his head. He’ll have to be patient, somehow.

But Malik is a betting man, an impulsive man and a risk-taker. He likes the challenge, the possibility for defeat. He hasn’t felt it in too long, and it’s been over a year since Galin could best him in a fair fight. The man in front of him, for all of his gruff silence and withholding, just might be the start to something great. When Malik gets words from the stranger, he’s already decided to commit to the offer. He finishes his ale slowly, enjoying the taste before it gets too warm to go down smooth. A slight laugh escapes his mouth at the stranger’s wording, and Malik’s face lights up with playful energy.

"Many ways, sir, but I’m afraid you wouldn’t be able to afford most of them, if I was to ever try to sell them." His hands rests lightly on the stranger’s thigh before he pulls it back and winks over at him, Malik looks like the cat who got the canary at the verbal opening. Straightening up and taking the smile off of his face, Mal tilts his head at the man.

"The job is simple. I give you a mission. You do whatever task I ask. If you succeed, I offer you a permanent job, all of the gold you could want, a room to sleep in, and even a warm body, if you play your cards right." Mal drums his finger on the scratchy bar, an old habit. His tone stays steady and matter-of-fact. He feels as if the man will appreciate that more than anything. "You don’t succeed, I imagine your death will be drawn out, excruciating and full of questions you’ll never be able to answer."

[crookedcutler]

Rodric takes the man's finishing of the ale as a cue to down his own, finishing it without much ceremony. It really is a good brew; the man has taste--and, well, money. He's found over the years that it generally takes one to have the other, although perhaps that would be giving all the tasteless rich folk he's met too much credit.

He almost has to laugh at the sensation of the stranger's fingers on his thigh. It's both expected and unexpected, because, yeah, maybe he'd phrased his words in such a way that this reaction could be elicited, but he hadn't necessarily expected it from this particular man. Just another interesting tidbit about him to file away for possible future use. Unfortunately, among the list of things Rodric needs at the moment, carnal satisfaction is near the bottom. First he'd like to find a job, then a steady roof over those head. Food would be nice too. Sex is, well. A secondary concern.

The matter is dropped and for that Rodric is thankful. The man's tone takes a turn for the serious and he listens attentively, cursing himself for liking what he hears. It sounds dangerous and perhaps foolhardy, but really, what else does he have to do? What does he have to live for? The agony of an unfulfilled vendetta? The prospect of a permanent job sounds far sweeter than sitting in this godforsaken tavern day after day drinking watered-down barely-ale.

"So when does the game begin?" he asks, referring mostly to the idea of playing his cards right. He feels kind of like he's been dealt a hand that only his opponent can see, and yet he is still expected to play it.

Then again, perhaps he shouldn't be thinking of the man before him as an opponent. He's not very good at working in a team, but it's rapidly becoming apparent that he might have to, or he'll at least have to get used to associating with the same person more than once.

That is, if he doesn't fail as his potential employer has described. Really, it's for the best that he succeeds, anyway. He hates unanswered questions.

[crookedcutler]

City of Fools [Rod & Mal] [HC Flashback]

[silentandswift]

When the mysterious man in front of him takes the ale, Malik lets his grin threaten to overtake his face. It appears the man is up for the challenge. Fantastic. Malik takes out a pressed silver piece. It’s an old heirloom of House Swiftfoot, crafted when silver was the most expensive metal found in all of Atleos and only the rich could use it as decoration. The coin is a simple chunk of a larger headdress, meant to be worn during official ceremonies to the Pantheon. Now, the rudimentary angles it is cut on make it difficult to spin. Mal does so perfectly on the scuffed, wooden bar in front of them.

"Any man who can scare old Peter back into his stall and still fail to acquire a job is… unique, sir?" Mal trails off, waiting for the man to fill in his name. He doesn’t seem like the chatty type. He takes a drink of the ale, rolling the fresh flavors around. It’s a sweet spring brew, and Malik enjoys the way the flavors clash and bend on his tongue. He has the errant thought that the man in front of him would as well.

Malik reaches for the coin, plucking it off the barfront and  weaving it in and out of his fingers. It blends and ducks seamlessly through his fingers as he takes another sip of his ale. He motions over to the man behind the bar and another round of ale is placed before them.

"Better. Yet here you are, drinking swill, eyeing the board as if it’s a welcoming woman who has just yet to lay eyes on you." Malik lets out a soft, dramatic sigh, the smile still on his face.

"But she is a whore, my friend," Mal says with a small tut of his tongue, "and while she looks full-bodied, there is no substance there. You receive a lick here, a blow there, and suddenly it’s all over. Done too fast. And you’re still without coin and without satisfaction."

Malik flicks the coin up into the air, high enough that the man flinches and reaches for it. Malik catches it. His reflexes are those of a fighter. Good.

"I am a man of satisfaction, you see. Something tells me you are as well."

[crookedcutler]

The appearance of the coin surprises him. It's old, from a different era, and the story of how this man got it Rodric is certain is an interesting one. The man spins the coin with skill and he suspects that a lot of practice has gone into the action. It is the indication of a story, something deeper, something unknown. This man, he with the plain look that is at odds with his mysterious smile, hides much more than the eye first reveals.

Rodric wants to find out what.

Not enough to deign most of what the man says with an answer, the masked request for a name included, though. He likes to talk. Rodric's words aren't free; this man will have to earn them. There seems to be no price on his own speech, for he continues on, but Rodric has to admit that it does earn him something: the tiniest grunt of a laugh, barely there, a small passing of air through the nose, practically unnoticeable in its subtlety. This man notices it, though, Rodric is sure of it. He has a quick tongue and a keen eye and it would be inexcusable for him to miss the cue.

Rodric finds himself liking the man a little bit.

Their eyes both trail on the coin as it goes up in the air and, when it appears the man isn't going to catch it, Rodric reaches for it, intent on getting it before it can clatter to the floor. The man is one step ahead of him, though, and snatches it from the air before he can, that same expression on his face. Rodric isn't annoyed, just intrigued.

"Satisfaction," he echoes, the corners of his mouth quirking up slightly. The gesture is an answer to the man's question by itself. It says: Alright, I'll play along. For now.

"And how can you satisfy me?" He scans the man up and down, trying to discern what kind of job he could be hiding. The idea of finding out excites him more than he'll let show.

[aurorahaleofcohav-blog]

Today seems as good a day as any to head out to the market. 

[crookedcutler]

Every day is a good day to go to the market as far as I'm concerned, ma'am. Always new people, new stalls, new goods to be found.

What is it that you seek today?

[crookedcutler]

Complacent [Self - Church]

There was something a little bit sad about the dulling of anger. Anger could be troublesome, sure, but it was wild and hot and uncontrollable, the spread of wildfire in the mind, coursing through the veins as all-consumingly as the blood that belonged there did.

It was a reminder that you were still living.

Rodric was no model citizen, but he attended church every Sunday. It wasn't like he wanted to, of course, but it would have been terribly suspicious if he didn't. So to church he went, right on time, seating himself in the same spot every week, every month, every year. Once upon a time all the talk of their God had upset him, had made him clench his jaw and grind his teeth with the effort of staying calm, but now the mask he wore had become him.

As the service on that particular Sunday had progressed, Rodric had found himself nearly desperate for anger's familiar caress. It would almost have been better if he were still internally furious, because then at least he'd have been reminded that he was still alive, he still had a purpose. But he hadn't felt anger that day. He hadn't felt life.

He'd felt nothing.

[crookedcutler]

City of Fools [Rod & Mal] [HC Flashback]

[silentandswift]

Malik’s been watching him all morning. On days like these, when Galin has nothing for him to do, Mal lazies about the black market, people watching. It’s a fantastic hobby to take up, and Mal’s learned more than he should probably know just watching people interact with others. While his name is well known in the streets of Cohav, he’s done an excellent job at making sure his face is still a stranger to most. Mal strolls, easily and readily, watching one of the new arrivals.

The man has the people skills of a sullen rock covered in mildew, and he radiates enough anger to send one of the shopfronts shaking back when he stutters out he doesn’t have work for him. Interesting. That sort of killing intent, when guided correctly, is an unstoppable force. Something to be feared. Mal instantly likes the man.

He’s broad and bulky, and he wears his sword as an extension of his body instead of a tool to be used. The man’s hands are calloused, a laborer, and his face has the wear of a man who has worked all of his life. He’s attractive, in an emotionally-stunted, brick wall sort of way. He’s a challenge, right away Malik can tell although he doesn’t know how, and Mal just loves a challenge. He follows the man to the bar, unnoticed, and waits a beat for the man to order his drink. A simple ale, cheap and meant to last lost. He needs money. Malik has money.

"You’ve caused quite a stir, good sir," Malik says with a cheery smile as he sits down next to the new man. He drops a gold piece on the bar and points to his target. The barkeep swipes it, nodding at him, and brings out one of the finer ales, aged just right. Fantastic. "Are you half as good as you look with your steel?"

[crookedcutler]

When the man sits next to him, Rodric's eyes scan over him quickly, discerning what he can. The face looks vaguely familiar, but not important enough to be notable--although he supposed he ought to take note if this is a potential client he's looking at. He exudes a kind of confidence Rodric doesn't see often, this subtle sort of daring, and he wears the kind of smile that provokes questions in the more observant. Like, for example, what's actually going through the guy's mind.

Rodric cares about that, but not enough to pay attention to it over the idea of a potential job. At the moment, as much as it pains him, money comes first. He'd rather have a roof over his head than knowledge of the inside of a stranger's.

His lips quirk up just barely when the man buys him a drink. So his predicament is that obvious... although, really, no one who drinks the ale he's got in front of him without being in a predicament. It's watery and near-tasteless, something more useful for passing time than for getting drunk on.

The ale the man bought him, however, is good. It's got a full body, the slightest hint of fruit tinging it sweet. Something you drink to enjoy.

Rodric says nothing of this small kindness, electing to respond to the man's statement with a bland "Have I?" and a few sips of the ale. His interest is piqued, however, at what he says next. So this is a job offer. Hopefully.

Draining a good part of the drink, Rodric finally meets the eyes of the man beside him.

"I'm better," he says simply, and that's enough.

[crookedcutler]

City of Fools [Rod & Mal] [HC Flashback]

He is angry.

He is always angry. It's something he can't escape these days. It plagues him, twists any chance of a smile into, at best, a grimace, keeps his hands fisted and his sword at the ready. Perhaps it makes for an intimidating persona, sure, but when you're trying to get work, it's more of a curse than anything.

Rodric is working as a hired sword. He's worked a few jobs since his arrival in Cohav just weeks before, but overall the pickings have been slim, and he attributes this not only to his age and to his relative inexperience, but to his mien, too.

He'll have to work on that.

For now, though, Eisa's spilled blood runs freshly through his veins, acidic, corrosive, and every moment that he successfully keeps his rage in feels like an eternity. So it is that he must distract himself with work, with the clash of metal and the cries of men affronted, anything to get his mind off of his real mission, the true desire that brought him to the city.

He must distract himself, and so he waits.

At the moment he's seated on a barstool in the tavern to which the advertisement he'd posted concerning his skills referred, taking sparing drinks from the pint in front of him. He hasn't got much coin to waste on alcohol but knows he can't remain without patronage, so he makes it last, hoping that someone looking for a job to be done comes in sooner rather than later.

[knightkit-deactivated20140116]

I see you fully understand.

Yes Sir. Oh well thank you Sir. I do take that as a complement.

[crookedcutler]

It most certainly is a compliment. I, too, find myself often occupied with a sword, so perhaps one day our paths will cross anew. For now, however, I fear other duties are calling my name.

Until we meet again.

[knightkit-deactivated20140116]

That is one thing we seem to have in common. Plus then it is cooler it does make guard training much easier.

Well good luck to you then. Hopefully it will go your way Sir. I am competing for House Greene. While my father is proud, I can’t say my mother will be here to watch.

[crookedcutler]

Oh, I'm sure. There's so much hot metal involved--a veritable oven in the sun.

Good luck to you as well. Ah, House Greene! I know it well. You must be Kitiara, then. Your skill with the sword is well-known amongst the circles in which I travel.

[knightkit-deactivated20140116]

Well that sounds wonderful. I know the weather around her affects my mood too. I rather enjoy it more like this.

Hand-to-hand? From the looks of your opponents you would be the one to bet for. I myself will stick to my jousting and swords.

[crookedcutler]

As do I. Nothing's the same with the sun beating harshly down on your face... I'd take an overcast sky or a bit of a drizzle over that anytime.

I'm glad you think so. I'm hoping to take home the prize, but hand-to-hand isn't my area of expertise, so it's still a toss-up. I suppose I thought I would try something different.

Jousting, you say. This I look forward to. For which house will you compete?

[silentandswift]

To Be Alive // Malik & Rodric

[silentandswift]

The footsteps are unexpected, but Mal is far from panicking. He allows Rodric to tug at his wrist, knowing the man already has a spot in mind to hide. They slip under the table easily, all thoughts of personal space gone when adrenaline is coursing through Mal’s veins and he feels the thrill of almost-capture. It’s a terribly addicting rush, much more than gambling or alcohol could ever provide, and Mal’s lips quirk up at the situation. What a day this is shaping up to be.

They won’t get caught. Mal has no doubt, no fear or worry  about the squire and older lord finding out what they’ve done. He’s too precise and practiced to fail to someone like them. It’s the almosts and what-ifs that get his mind racing and his blood pumping, and Mal feels incredibly human and alive. With a quick glance over at Rodric, he can tell the other man does as well. Rodric’s cheeks are the slightly flush of pink, and he can see that sharp look in his eyes that Mal knows has to be reflected in his own. This is the life they’ve chosen for themselves, and they enjoy every minute of it. If they didn’t, they’d be dead.

"Do you think Sir Ralden knows?" Mal picks up, and his ears perk up. Sir Ralden Yensin, noble knight and defender of the Church’s pocketbooks. It is Ralden’s armor that they are tampering with, and Ralden’s defeat that will make them rich. Malik can’t make out the words, and he looks over at Rodric with a slight shrug of his shoulders, as if to say ‘what can you do?’. Rodric is already scowling at him, but Malik keeps low to the floor, using a small table of cleaning oils and brushes as cover.

"It is not Sir Ralden’s will that matters, but God’s, son." The squire’s eyes shift about, and Mal is more than curious to know just what in the Pantheon they’re talking about. The two men are quiet though, and he can’t shift and move until the squire busies himself with pouring Sir Ralden’s wine. The shoddy design of House Yensin is embroidered into his tunic and he can’t be more than twenty years old. He pours with shaking hands, the trademark of an undecided soul, and Malik has his next personal assignment already penciled in.

It’s easy enough to shift from the small table behind the suit of armor, and Mal stands straight and still as the men converse. It’s all small tall, filling anxious and unsteady holes in the air and Mal goes unnoticed among the indecision. When they finally leave, he reaches up to scratch an itch on his forehead and looks over to the table that Rodric’s hidden behind.

"Come on out, Rod. I shooed away the scary owl men."

[crookedcutler]

Rodric's gut clenches at the mention of their God. It's a miracle he doesn't out himself to the Church every damn day, considering how angry he gets every time the name of their deity comes up in conversation--which it does all the time. He tries his best not to hate the common people for their blind faith of course, as they really don't know any better, but when it comes to men like these, men with power, with far-reaching voices, it's difficult to contain his rage.

His shoulders tense up and his hands try to become fists before he quickly forces them to stay relaxed, unwilling to let his emotions get the best of him. If he let himself get angry every time he wanted to, well, he wouldn't be in nearly as good a position as he is now. His self-control is a true gift, one that was forged in fire and in blood.

Mal knows he is angry. Rodric knows this because Mal always knows. He doesn't have to verify with his friend; he knows that Mal knows, and he also knows that Mal knows he will calm himself down as quickly as his rage first arose. This is their system, and their system works.

Sure enough, the light tone in Mal's voice signifies that the moment has passed. It's like some great spring has unwound in Rodric and he's able to come out from his hiding spot and stretch out, gaze quickly sweeping over the tent. None of their handiwork seems to have been disturbed; if their trick was found out, the two men who had been in the tent clearly didn't mind. Rodric's bet is on them not discovering it at all.

Which, really, is just as well.

"Thank goodness," he says to Mal's comment. "You know how bad my fear of fowl is." He says this wryly, and though he does not allow his expression to become one of pleasure or amusement, the sarcasm in his tone is clear. There's something especially potent about straight delivery; Rodric frequently takes joy in this (with a straight face of course).

The coast appears to be clear. Rodric heads for the entrance to the tent and looks back at Mal, his stance doing the questioning that his vocal chords don't. Together they'll sneak back over the fence and rejoin the crowd and wait and wait and wait, and when the sun has risen just high enough the knights will line up and the crowd will gather in droves, ready to watch a bunch of old men gamble with their tax money. Yes, they will gather and they will make a time of it, voices cheering loud as the competitors are announced.

And then the show will begin.

[youngmarcus-stone]

Right. Of course not. How lucky we are to have you watching over us. 

[crookedcutler]

Well somebody's got to do it.

Not everyone is as competent as they seem, so I need to be on point if ever there are any... slip-ups.

[defectivetowndrunk]

"Would I lie to you? Oh the implication wounds me! I’m a good and honest breed, me. Look at this face, it’s the face of an angel."

"Ah, and bless you, sir! What generosity~ If I’m an angel then you’re a bloody saint. Cheers!" Grinning, he lifts the glass in salute. "Join me, why don’t you?"

[crookedcutler]

"Not sure if I care about it wounding you yet. Give it some time."

"Don't get used to it." He lifted is glass up anyway, clinking it against the other man's, signifying that Rodric did, in fact, intend to join him. "You got a name?"

[youngmarcus-stone]

Oh I have. You don’t have to worry about me, love. Though I have to say it’s very cute. 

[crookedcutler]

I'm sure.

You know me, I wear my heart on my sleeve. Can't help but show concern for a comrade.

[defectivetowndrunk]

"Need, maybe. But deserve? Naw, I’ve been such a good little boy! I haven’t been in trouble for… Well, long enough to deserve a nice drink."

"Don’t tell me you haven’t partook in the festivities yet?”

[crookedcutler]

"Not sure I believe that."

"Oh, I've partaken. I'm just good at keeping my composure." He looked the man over, thinking for a moment before gesturing to the rapidly-emptying cup in his possession, making eye contact with the bartender. "On me."

[knightkit-deactivated20140116]

Very rare indeed.

Myself? Of course. It’s a wonderful day. What about you good Sir?

[crookedcutler]

It is. The weather is quite nice, and my mood is more closely tied with the feel of a pleasant breeze on my face than I'd like to admit.

Were I not preparing for the hand-to-hand tournament, I might even take a walk. Will you be competing today?