Closed Right On Target (Brandi)

[Kit Rowan]

Day 37, Season of Fall, 513 AV

It had been over a third of a season since Kit had last ventured into The Spot; that had been an overwhelming mistake. Still when she meandered onto the tavern-boat she Kit found herself shirking a little. Some turned their eyes toward her, frowned or muttered something under their breath. One didn't start trouble and expect everything to blow over . . . But neither did anyone stop her from coming in. And no longer was she overwhelmed by overgiving-driven panic. So far so good!

Kit was wearing her courier's leathers tonight, and she did not make the mistake of leaving her belt and tools behind this time. Her dagger hung in its scabbard by her belt, her knives all tucked into her jacket. It would do well for her, Kit thought, to be seen as someone actually capable of defending themselves before she tried any performing. The way she had been approached even just while sitting down had not been good.

Rather than the stage, this time Kit wandered backward toward the target. It was a painted bit of wood nailed to the wall, pockmarked by little holes left by other marksmen attempting to improve their aim, white and black circles within circles until it closed on a dot in the center. Measurements of accuracy, Kit thought. She straightened her jacket and looked around her. Mostly people stared into their drink, muttered darkly to each other, but some looked up, trying to take her measure in. Kit swallowed, pulled a throwing dagger from her coat and tested its weight in her hand, coiled two fingers around its hilt.

She raised and lowered her hands almost mechanically, going through with the motion of the throw again, again, again. She raised her hand up, swung it down. It was important, Darilava had taught her, to not throw it the same way you threw a ball or a stone. That spun it, and spun it fast. On an object that was more or less a circle it didn't matter, but the knife was not. Controlling the spin precisely was essential, and that meant throwing with the arm instead of the body. There would be far less force behind the throw, but at least then Kit could be near-certain that the sharp end would land, instead of the dull hilt.

One last time she swung down her arm and let go just then, the knife flung forward, spinning once, twice in the the air before sinking into the wood, vibrating where it landed, on one of the outer rings of the target. Kit bristled at her inaccuracy. Look at how small that target is, she willed the watchers notice. It's about the size of a torso, and I can hit it.

With chimes of preparation and testing, sure. Just ask the next shadowy figure who accosted her to stand still, and they'd give her time. Ha! Kit hissed through her teeth and pulled out another dagger for a second try.

[Brandi]

It was only just over a third way through the season. A third! And much to the displeasure of Brandi it had currently become slow and arduous. The evenings were the worst, a long period sapped dry of tasks leaving him to do little but twiddle his thumbs and wait for a bell in which he could finally fall into a slumber. Of course, that was not coming any time soon, so he was left his room to partake in strange wanderings around the docks. Or least until he eventually stumbled into The Spot. There were a few odd glances to the boy, a few eyebrows rising to the presence of such a baby face appearing in the tavern, before the grumblings of older patrons returned them once more to their drinks and words. Brandi sauntered in; low boots tapping against the floor as he weaved around the tables. His shirt hung on him, the top button having gone missing many moons ago, with the ends failing to be tucked in correctly. On top of that sat his waist coat, the occasional fleck of dirt having marked the black surface. He gave a nervous scratch at his wispy stubble, and slid his way to an empty table with the clattering dagger on his belt serving as an echo. He gave a sheepish grin to a burly looking bald man, matched with a half wave. Dishevelled would be the best way to describe his present state. Even as he eased himself down to watch the world around, a heavy clicking in his mouth of boredom the boy still looked scruffy. For a while, he looked about the room trying to find a lease of entertainment from somewhere, until inevitably his eyes fell upon the little foreign girl who was eying up the target nearby. He gave a tilt of the head, followed by a lean to receive a better view. She looked foreign to say the least – then again everyone did until they provided their papers -, and so he presumed it for the meanwhile. His sight drifted lower, followed by a low snort and the distinct pursing of lips before finally snapping back up again. Steel glinted in her hand, her fingers wrapped around the knife as she aimed for the board. Back and forth his head went as he watched metal drift and before his vision, or at least until he flinched to the sudden twang of wood and steel. He wasted no time after that. Even if it did look like she was going for a second go he was still going to express his enthusiasm. With a mighty cheer, Brandi applauded the woman. A heavy clap rested in his hands, a bright, unfazed grin directed at both her and her marksman ship, “Good shot! Maybe next time you’ll get closer to the middle, no?” he leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed upon her second attempt with the knife, “Don’t mind me now! I’m just going to watch.” The boy leaned back in his chair, bright eyed at this new found point of observation. Perhaps, this evening would go a little quicker than other ones.

[Kit Rowan]

Kit was rearing up from another when Kit heard a voice calling out at her from behind. She was expecting derision, if anything, but what she got instead was . . . Praise? Kit peered over her shoulder, eyebrows pinched inward as she examined the speaking up and down.

He was a young, scraggly example of boy, with sketchy facial hair a fourteen year old might be proud of until they saw the expression on someone's face, dressed simply. By Kit's estimation, he was her age, maybe? He looked like a fresh-faced kid to her. There wasn't much of anything about her swing really worth cheering for; she'd reveled in deserved cheers, but she did not feel deserving now, with an off-target knife at the very edge of the board. There was little hint of it in his voice and expression, but Kit could think of no motive but mockery.

She turned toward the boy and let a hand rest on her hip, giving him a level look. "I'd love to see you do better," she said, turned back toward the target and swung her arm in one smooth motion, released . . . The knife buried itself off to the side of the target, on a broad board made to catch wide misses. Kit heard the room erupt into laughter around her. Kit felt la warmth crawling across her face, her hands clenching into fists. She closed her eyes for a long, humiliating moment. She marched stone-faced toward the target, wrenched her knives out of the board.

"You heard her, boy!" A gruff voice called from the crowd behind her. "Don'cha know it ain't polite to turn down a lass?" Kit sharply around to find the perpetrator, but found nothing but smiling faces. Only years of enduring keenly watching eyes kept Kit from wilting. She turned her head up toward the ceiling, sighed. Trickster take your tongues, Kit mouthed at no one in particular.

Well, the show had already started. An accidental comedy, with Kit the butt of every joke. Her only hope was to find someone to share the shame. She made her way back to the edge of the crowd, slipped one knife into her jacket. The other she flipped in her hand, so the edge was pointed toward her, and held out the hilt for scraggly to take. "Well? Go on."

[Brandi]

Brandi continued his broad grin, even as the girl turned and gave a growl to his comment. For a chime, the tavern fell silent, watching in anticipation to her next throw. The arm went back, and swung forward once more, the steel flying through the air and then embedding itself. Humiliation hit the girl, quiet quickly in fact with the loud laughter of others. Even he himself could not resist chuckling. Frustrated, the girl claimed her knives whilst the boy was pressed into standing. He gave a stretch, rising to his feet with little grace whilst the miniature offered the blade. Gingerly he took it after her jeering prompt, fingers wrapping around the small hilt. He scrutinized it for a moment, turning it round and over. He pressed the point against one digit, the other hand attentively twisting the pommel so it spun. There was a blink, and his head turned to face the watching tavern crowd. He grasped the blade properly, and cleared his throat to speak. “Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Please calm yourselves!” he gave a low, sweeping mocking bow to the tavern, “I will now show my unique and fabulous skills of missing the target!” He pivoted on the spot at that point, brow raised with shallow dimples having formed in his smile. He was far from the sort to deny such fun as he put it, and being at the brunt of a joke did little to disturb his mind. There was a firm nod to the foreign girl, before he positioned himself to face the target. In honesty, the Ravokian had no idea how to throw such a weapon and so for a long few chimes he spent shimmying it about in his grip. Until at least he held the narrow blade between his tips. From there he went from rocking his arm back and forth, exaggerating the movement at first before finally he turned slightly more serious. He threw the knife, his fingers extending after, his arm following the swing through. The knife spun, flipping over itself faster than the eye could follow. It was with a loud clatter that the knife hit the board, and then finally the floor. Laughter grew into a mighty roar, but his face did not change. He roamed over to the board, taking up the knife with little more than a stupid smile. He turned it round in his hand as he returned, and presented it to her as she did him. He did not speak as loudly as before, but his words still remained definite, “I believe this is yours little lady.”

[Kit Rowan]

The difference between Brandi and Kit was that he was entirely willing to play the part of the comedian. Kit smiled, nice broad, knuckled at her back and flicked a bit of hair out of her eyes. "Good gods!" She said, as the room erupted in laughter, "you're terrible!" But the way he rolled with it made it impossible for Kit to push venom into her words. Just like that, no one was the butt of the joke. Brandi had risen above the laughter, made it a jovial and fangless thing whether he knew it or not.

And he'd given Kit a way around it too, intended or not. "Com're." When Brandi offered her knife, Kit took his wrist instead, pulling him a bit closer. She took the knife from his hand, flipped it around and slipped it back between his fingers. "If you wanna throw a knife, you've gotta pinch it between your thumb and forefinger, like this." Kit did her best to move Bandi's hands into the position, and pinched her other knife between her fingers as well, as an example. When she was sure she'd gotten the grip as right she could, Kit let go and stepped away.

The Spot had decided in the moment that Brandi accepted his failure with a laugh that they liked him. Now, getting them on her side was as easy as offering him a hand. She out her knife, point first, toward the target. "You can't throw it like a rock, it won't work. Point your knife at where you wanna hit." She bent her arm, still completely vertical. "Then point your elbow there too. Bring it down, and release it right when your knife is pointing at it again.

She could get it wrong again! Could miss again! Maybe turn the laughter back on her before she had completely driven it off! Kit breathed once, twice, thrice . . . She threw her hand down, released the knife. It buried itself into the target, about a hand away from the center. "Ain't so hard." She said, all smiles.

[Brandi]

Brandi gave a firm nod, “I know I’m terrible. But what can I say? My conscience said not ta deny the little lady. Be rude ta.” His wrist being grabbed did cause him to flinch however at first; to be forcefully grabbed by a stranger was far from the normality of his life. And so with a quick, squeaky voice, filled with false fear and terrible humour did he announce, “Quick! I’m being accosted by this little lady and we haven’t even had the first date! I think it was my throwing skills that did it for her.” There were a few chuckles and laughs, a general flare of good – or poor to some others – humour in the air. Not that it lasted long for the boy turned his attention to the task at hand, or more over the knife that was being pulled and prodded between his fingers. Rather forcefully his hold was turned and moulded into something more practical for throwing. The boy took a step back to watch her line her own knife up to demonstrate. Back and forth his head went, watching her own knife dangle teasingly in front, her words barely meeting his ears. He gave a mimic, lips pursing, eyebrows knitting. He pointed the tip of the knife towards the target, eyes focusing on its centre. His elbow raised, his arm bending as he brought the blade back and finally forward again. But he did not release it. Instead he only straightened whilst the girl threw her own and once more struck the target. “It reminds me of the fishermen,” he mumbled, as he slowly repeated the movement with a gradual increase in speed, “You know, when they’re sitting at the docks looking all grumpy and miserable, reeling in the line then throwin’ it back out. In, and out. All day long. Must be pretty boring. Least it pays though.” He inhaled sharply at the end, chest pulling out, lips forming a thin line as he gave a final, hard swing and released the knife. Only for it to disappear. Brandi glowered at the target and the board, as it was suddenly the source of the knife magically vanishing into thin air. He looked side to side, even towards the floor to see if it had managed to embed itself into it. But there was no sign of it. And then, finally, he looked up and gave a sigh. His shoulders dropped, his eyebrow cocking whilst his lip gave a twitch. Blue orbs slid down to the foreigner, and he gave a swallow, “Hey, Little Lady. You know your knife? Well I sort of left it in the ceiling… Don’t worry! I’ll get it down!” there was a long paused as he gave a sniff, “Eventually.”

[Kit Rowan]

Kit neatly ignored his protests to her invasion, without so much as a batted eye, stepped back and planted her fists on her hips, waiting to see what her lessons might have done. Her eyes turned to the audience for a moment, a number were still watching but their expressed were amused. Even those that had turned back to their cups seemed to have a smile on their face. It was less like a competition now, more like a duo performance. Kit could work with that.

"I guess it's a bit like that," Kit allowed when Brandi gave his comparison to fishermen. "But the sharpest thing a fishermen's got is a hook, or maybe just a net. These are knives," Kits aid. "And knives are always keen."

She was watching him close as he reeled up for the final swing. His arm spun just right, she heard the distinct thunk of knife sinking into wood . . . turned and saw nothing in the target. She scratched her head, looked left, right. The rest of their watchers seemed perplexed as well, murmuring, suddenly worried. An edged thing vanishing into thin air was not a good thing.

Kit looked up, sighed, and the rest of the room looked up as well. And then the room erupted into laughter. She prodded him in the side with an elbow, sharply. "I'm gonna need to whet that knife down before it can cut through anything again," she said, a frustrated edge to her voice while the bargoers around them were slapping their knees. "Does someone gotta pay for that?" Kit asked, pointing at the ceiling. "Cause I ain't gonna pay for that." She earned herself a guffaw or two.

An older girl with brownish hair pushed through into the crowds. She had something of an air of authority, and Kit had seen her before, working here, busing tables. What was her name? Anadyne? Annabeth? . . . Annabelle. "What's going on in here?" She insisted.

"Young lovers playing darts at the ceiling," a spindly with a sly smile said, pointing up at the place where Brandi had lodged Kit's dagger.

Annabelle shook her head. "I ought to throw you out," she said, looking them both down with a steady eye. "Other customers could have gotten hurt." She said, crossing her arms, but her tone was too playful for outrage. "How's about you offer some payment for damages, hm? Five gold?"

Kit raised her hands, palms turned upward. "Don't look at me, I'm not the one who put a dagger in the ceiling."

"Is your dagger, though." Spindly said.

"Your dagger," Anna mimicked with a cocksure smile, not missing a beat.

Kit scowled. "You're too greedy, this is free money for you," she hissed. But could she risk being thrown out of the Spot? Kept out of the Spot. "Two gold, no more, and I ain't paying more than one!"

[Brandi]

Brandi hung his head in shame, eyes growing large for a moment as he shirked away almost to her sharp tone. His shoulders rose, a definite crease forming across his face. It became apparently quickly that he had done something wrong; there was no two ways about it. Hands went to his pockets as he rocked there awkwardly for a moment whilst the rest of the tavern broke into laughter. There was a nervous smile, a small shrug whilst his eyes kept on looking up at the knife. It was not that high up – or at least that was what he thought – and he most probably could reach it with a chair to hand. Lips released a forced chuckle; eyes turning to the young girl Annabelle appear on the scene with a strong lack of approval. It was with a mad scramble the moment her mouth opened that he reacted. The boy wasted no time going for a chair and quickly dragging it over to where the obvious problem was. And whilst the two women prattled over coin, he sent himself to prying the knife free. Clambering onto the chair, Brandi gave a quick look down to the other patrons before snapping his attention back up to the protrusion. He pressed a hand flat against the beam, head leaning in to study where it had struck. Cheeks puffed out, his free hand grasping tightly round it. He gave it a shake, bracing himself on the rickety chair as well as he could. “Oh, ther’ goes the boy for his next act,” came the mutter of one of the drinkers. His brow creased further, a heavy sigh as the words continued beneath him. He gave a wobble, his foot raising as he braced himself before continuing with the blade. There was a rock, his teeth gritting as he poured all his focus into removing the blade. Below however was the steady rise and fall of voices, almost in anticipation that he was going to fall. “Have patience!” he shot a look down from his temporary platform, “You’ll have your jingles in a moment. It is my fault after al-” he gave it a firm yank, and pulled the steel free. For a moment he was suspended in the air one foot on the seat, the other resting firmly on the back of the chair. The whole of the spot fell silent, neither a breath nor a squeak as the chair rocked onto two legs. Brandi went rigid, his knuckles clenching around the hilt of the knife as if his life depended on it, his face screwing up into a wince as the chair continued to tip. There was a loud announcement of “Petch!” as the wood let out a groan, and the Ravokian was sent tumbling forward. With a crash he landed, the chair clattering – unbroken – to the floor, the knife skidding away towards the board. His chin kissed the ground, his underside slamming against it shortly afterwards. For a moment he laid there motionless, legs snagged up in the back of the chair, a slight twitch of pain and discomfort before finally he raised a hand. A groan was released, “I’m okay…”

[Kit Rowan]

"Two gold, really? Don't be stingy, girl. After that little disturbance you caused on the second, it'd be an easy call to make. You're gonna want jobs in the future, aren't ya?"

"It's—" Kit! She almost said, caught herself, her conversation stopping like an arrow interrupted in its flight. "It's Shy," she tried again. "And if you know what happened on the second, you know I had an intent to perform then. Maybe entertain your patrons a bit."

Annabelle raised an eyebrow, eyed Kit up and down. "An entertainer, huh? That's nice and all, but I don't see how that would—" Her jerked to the side, over Kit's shoulder. "Stop! If you break that chair . . !" Kit turned in time to see the boy yank on the knife, and begin to waver. He toppled down on top of her, and Kit dove to the side across the floor while Annabelle backstepped fast.

Kit hit the floor, skidded across it and heard—and felt, through the floor—the impact. She peered over her shoulder. She saw the boy sprawled out across the floor, motionless. For a moment, the tavern was completely silent. Then he put up a thumb. Annabelle turned to where Kit was laying with an even stare. "Five." She said, and crossed her arms. "Or neither you nor your boyfriend set foot in here again." Kit felt a spike of hate for the boy just then. He could scarce have picked a better way to undermine her.

"Not my boyfriend. He just borrowed my knife." She reached into her pocket, rummaged through things. It was worthless to barter now. "Two gold, five silvers, and you let me back in." She plucked out five silvers and two coppers, hiding them from Annabelle's eyes with her hand. With an effort of will, the rims turned gold, and would remain that way for three bells hence, hopefully after Annabelle had gone, counted her blessing and mixed them in with the rest of her mizas. Kit stuck out her hand toward her extortionist, seven mizas with different rim spread across them, two gold, five silver. "I don't care if I never see him again."

"Fair enough." She shrugged, snatched the money from Kit's hand and dumped it into her pocket. Kit leaned down, grabbed her knife off the floor and tested the point with her finger. As she suspected, dull . . . It would take some time with a whetstone to make it sharp again. "Best cough up too, loverboy." Annabelle said, crossing her arms and staring down at Brandi.

[Brandi]

Brandi gave a twitch. His head was dizzy from the fall, his sides still aching as he pushed himself up. The foreigner had shifted in the fall, and as the scene played on around him, the boy picked himself up. Twisting himself into a perch, he pushed the chair upright before snapping his hands away. It seemed that touching things this evening only caused accidents in one form or another. He did not look at Annabelle as she towered over with a strong look of disapproval on her face, he did not even turn to the foreign girl who had introduced herself as Shy. Instead, he simply sat hunched in, twiddling his thumbs. Or at least until the direct comment came his way. Fingers fumbled for his pocket, the pouch in which he contained some of his coin. In a flash he was already reaching in, squirming about the inside of it as he fought with the fabric to release them. He did not fancy furthering the wrath of either of the girls, and so proceeded to quickly press the necessary money into Annabelle’s hand. Shy’s words however, still stung – though even he had to admit that they were little more than strangers. Forcing a glance to Shy, he quickly stood up. There was no rearranging of himself, no sorting out of his dishevelled state, just a small bow of the head to Annabelle with his eyes focusing intently on the floor. “Sorry for the disturbances,” he gave a mumble, “I’ll take my leave now.” He gave a nervous wave to the girl, lips parting slightly into a forced smile. His brow seemed now to be permanently creased, his jaw having tightened up. In honesty, the boy looked more petrified of Shy than of Annabelle, it was clear in the way his hands clenched and his face went pale. Brandi released a croak, “And sorry about your knife, Little Lady Shy. But I did say that I was terrible ta you. Well… at least you got it back now, right?” There was a pause after that, a long one. It was almost as if he was weighing up continuing talking, a nervous swallow halting him, “Anyway, I’ll be off!” He pivoted round on his heel, turning to the sea of faces of the tavern. Eyes stared at him, whilst he stared back and then announced as loudly as possible, “That’s all tonight folks! Good night!” And with that, the boy begun the process of attempting to make a hasty escape.