Hunting for His Readied Sword

[Matthew]

27th of Spring, 514 AV. "Noven?" Isme blinked wide eyes at her fellow harlot, biting at the inside of her cheek as she studied his pristine figure. For a , she wondered how the harlot managed to keep so very clean. He had to spend quite a bit of money on product of some sort. He didn't seem to be like the other men and women of their profession, ones who dolled up with make-up or went for a rough and tumble look. He combined handsome features with a touch of beauty, and it seemed he did it by keeping his natural self incredibly clean. And now the harlot was asking for... Noven. It was the exact opposite of what Isme would think Matthew would decide to hang out with. Did Matthew even hang out with people? "...Why do you want to know about Noven?" Matthew didn't hesitate, blue eyes staring steadily at Isme. He was positive she would know. He had heard the nickname on the lips of various women at Brega's House. It made him curious. So very curious. "Noven of the Readied Cock. How did he get that name? I want to ask him. The story is always more interesting when it comes from the view of the actual subject of the story." Isme's mouth fell open, and then her red lips curved into an extremely sly grin. The whore was more than happy to tell Matthew where he could find Noven. ~ Jillene had been a bit of a different story. While the woman was short, she seemed to loom, and she didn't seem to have time for Matthew's questions. She didn't know when Noven was going to be here. She didn't know if he was even going to be here. She didn't even really particularly care. She had almost seemed hostile that Matthew was asking about the young man, but noticeably relaxed when the children immediately took a liking to Matthew. While she was quick to send them on their way, her attitude relaxed. She seemed even more pleased that he had been stern with the children himself. He had no time for the fiendish young ruffians. Children intimated him, even more than Jillene had managed to intimidate him. So in the end, he was left intimate by children and a single short woman. While his questions and meager Intelligence skill had gotten him this far, he was now left simply waiting. Should he wait all day? It was a simple question he wanted to ask. Well, perhaps two questions, now that he thought about it. He'd have to decide whenever he finally saw Noven for the second time. Without much else to do, Matthew had reverted back to his professional self. The children were doing chores, so he quietly helped. Any time that they started to bother him, Jillene was quick to harass them. He swept and he scrubbed, dusted and mopped, even awkwardly chopped some vegetables that were apparently going to be used for dinner. A few bells later he was sitting on a downstairs stool, chores all done, nothing left to do but wait. Jillene had gone off to run some errand, so the quiet harlot had been left alone with the children. A few of the younger ones were more than happy to climb on him, over him, under him, everywhere. He was dressed neatly like normal, with simple form-fitting clothes that were just as clean as he was. And the urchins were wrinkling them. He could only handle it for a few chimes before something in the back of his mind throbbed. "Who wants to play hide and seek?" The young bunch cheered in approval. "Go hide! I'll count." The children ran off, and Matthew counted. He counted until he reached fifty, and then... He didn't move. Hopefully they'd hide awhile, or at least until Noven showed.

[Noven]

From the creaking door of one unkempt, shabby Sunset apartment emerged the visage of a very bleary-eyed, very grumpy looking cook. Dark hair uncombed, as always, and eyes glowering through the blurred limbo between drowsiness and dread--the usual ensemble preceding his sullen march down to the kitchens to throw together breakfast for an army of hungry, scheming runts.

Sodding hell. How he hated morning shifts.

Nov took to the stairs with all the enthusiasm and cheer of a lump of coal. Left, right, left, right...one well-worn boot moved past the other in sluggish apathy as he muttered darkly to himself. "...how many times...petching tell her...hate morning shifts...SHYKE!"

The cook's arms wind-milled for a tick before they braced against the walls, preventing him from falling face first onto the rickety floorboards. Cursing with colorful creativity, Nov glared down at the small lump of orphan scowling back up at him. "Shhh!" the child hissed, as though he was the offender and not she with her dark frame blocking half of the stairwell.

"Piss off," was Nov's tactful reply.

He was just about to step over her when Mira's hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of his trousers. "There's a man in there," she whispered. "He's pretty, and he smells nice. Too nice."

"Why are you telling me this."

Mira hmphed. "Cause, he's looking for you. Why else? Oh, but don't tell him I'm here. We're playing Hide and Seek!"

Nice ploy, the cook saluted to his unexpected visitor as he shrugged and continued on his way. Now that he was considerably more awake, he was less concerned with grumbling and more so with wondering why on Miz the harlot would be looking for him at the orphanage.

From Mira's simple description, it was hard not to assume. Only two types of people in Sunberth had any real reasons or means to keep themselves well-groomed: the rich, and the whores.

When he entered the mess hall at last, his second reaction was to congratulate himself for a guess well made. His first was to wonder, How is his hair so perfect? Nov scratched at his own, unruly locks absent-mindedly. And the runt wasn't kidding about him being clean. Doesn't look to be a speck of dirt on him. As usual.

Which was saying something. Because they were, after all, in the heart of the City of Slums.

But the longer Nov thought about it, the more he began to question Matthew's origins. The few rich bastards who weren't gang leaders within Sunberth were far from tasteful. In fact, they tended to be as crass as the rusted backside of his oldest cooking pot. And the whores weren't much better. Cleaner and less burdened with symbols of wealth, perhaps, but no less tacky. The young man waiting for his arrival, however, seemed to be of a different breed altogether. Something far more polished, calculated, and...meant for display, for lack of a better description.

He had sharp blue eyes, a tall but slim build, and darker skin and hair that were similar in hue to Noven's own, but otherwise bore little to no resemblance. Where the cook was disheveled and clearly irritated, the young man seated outside of the kitchens was immaculate and perfectly composed. And he was pretty. Nov didn't trust pretty things.

The cook narrowed his eyes in suspicion before he blurted, plainly and bluntly.

"Why the petch are you here?"

[Matthew]

The harlot heard voices coming from one of the hallways, tilting his head in that direction and blinking at it a few times. He couldn't make out much of what was going on, but it didn't really matter. What mattered was the fact that one of the children thought it was acceptable to make any sort of noise when trying not to be found. It was simple strategy. Had he been that dense when he was a child? From what he could remember, he had been quite the bright child. Perhaps it was because he had grew up with a University professor as a mother, though. Whatever the case, he still didn't make a move. He just patiently waited, hands politely folded and posture as picture-perfect as ever. Then Noven made his entrance. The harlot took a moment to size him up, noticing the heavy lids and the somewhat dreary look in his gaze. Had he encountered a rough night sleeping? A polite smile crossed Matthew's lips, and soon after Noven introduced himself. Well, that wasn't the term for it. Demanded that Matthew introduce himself. No, no, he knew who Matthew was. He wanted to know why Matthew was here. That made sense. Matthew had been too eager to send advance warning. "Waiting for you. I wanted to meet you in a less formal and secretive way." He gracefully stood, not a single movement wasted, his lean body arching in a slow stretch. Noven would perhaps realize what technique was being used here. Matthew arched like one of the woman at the House did, all suggestive and slow, showing off rippling muscle and lean features. Was the harlot actually hitting on Noven? Not purposefully. He had trained himself to be a walking advertisement, though. Only if Noven actually showed a glimmer of interest would Matthew suddenly be on the prowl, a potential customer sniffed out. He strode to Noven with that same slow, confident stride, blue eyes never wavering from the irritable stare of the cook. He wasn't trying to make a statement, or stand up to any unspoken threat. He simply wasn't good at reading the mood. "I am familiar with Isme, of Brega's House? I had heard of you before, whispered in the brothels. Noven of the Readied Cock. Where did you get that name? I have been a prostitute for some time now, and even I haven't recieved a title such as that. Isme seemed to think you would be able to tell the story better than I. She told me where I could find you." Matthew reached Noven and slowly held out a hand to shake, that same polite smile still sitting on his lush lips. From a nearby closet one of the younger children spoke up, betraying his hiding spot with a simple whisper. "What is a cock?" Matthew didn't even hesitate. "A slang term for male genitals." The not-so-stealthy child paused, then whispered again. "Slang...? Genitals?" Matthew blinked. "I think I might know where you are hiding at." Silence followed.

[Noven]

"Shut up, idiot," a shrewd little boy by the name of Thomas hissed. The younger child sniffed and obeyed, clearly unfamiliar with more than just genital slang. Probably was thrown out or sold too young to know much more than his own name and lack of worth.

Nov, however, was too caught up in a single thought to notice their antics.

Isme.

The cook cursed her in silence, his lack of words only deepening his vehemence. That absurd nickname was supposed to be kept under wraps. It had been growing in notoriety like wildfire, spreading from mouth to ear to mouth even without her devious two cents. Now, she had led what Nov had quickly deemed as the sliest of whores straight into his path. On purpose.

Krysus take her. What he wouldn't give for their agreement to be retracted, even just long enough to grab Ade by the scruff and threaten to stew him alive if his whore of mother used that nickname one more time for her own amusement.

Ire alone kept his feet grounded in place as the harlot had slinked his way up to the mercenary, all grace and polite smiles. Matthew even offered his hand in greeting. A very smooth, elegant, well groomed hand, which Nov blatantly refused. "So yer here for a story,'" he reiterated instead, tone dripping with skepticism, "and nothing else?"

"Oh!" a plump faced boy named Loy chimed. "A story! I like stories. I wonder if we'll get to--"

Sounds of boots scraping against the wood and elbows banging into one another erupted until Loy and his muffled protests were sufficiently silenced. "You stupid pig," Mira hissed in a voice scathing enough to give the Isur a run for her money. "He almost forgot we were here."

"I haven't forgotten shyke," Nov growled as he turned around to face more than two dozen pairs of calculating eyes. "Drills. Outside. Now. And twenty laps each. Before I change my mind and double it. Right after I send your breakfast out to the tents."

There was a moment of stunned silence. "Get moving!" he bellowed, and all the orphans stampeded out of their hiding spots to funnel out into the makeshift courtyard.

The cook turned back to his well dressed visitor as the oldest children outside could be heard vocally whipping the younger ones into action, eager not to have some lackwit tack on another term of torment to their current, spontaneous punishment. He wanted very much to toss the silver tongued harlot out on his ass for a hundred different reasons, the top most including but not limited to suspicion of black magic and a general, intense distrust for anything and everything that was pleasing--too pleasing--for the eyes in Sunberth.

But Nov knew he couldn't. The man was connected to Brega, somehow, someway. And that was incentive enough to show just a tad bit more diplomacy. Besides, Matthew was, to his knowledge, a fellow Scar. If he was willing to work against the Daggerhands, it wouldn't hurt to divulge part of the story. And if he wasn't...well, one way or the other, Nov had the distinct feeling he was going to find out anyway. Time would tell eventually.

"I have work," the merc stated curtly, "so I tell you this story that yer so keen to know, and that's that. No funny stuff."

He nudged at a wooden, dining bench with his foot, then sank down onto the other side of the table. The surface had been scrubbed hard and clean as a rickety old mess hall table could be by the orphans. Or perhaps even by the harlot himself, seeing as how he'd been helping with the chores, much to Nov's surprise.

"So," the cook started, arms folded over the edge of the table. "I needed a Daggerhand. Dead. For our mutual associate, as proof of my commitment. Isme was the bait, but my target showed up early in the middle of...preparations, so I had to think of a way to get rid of him."

Nov left out the parts about Mae, still smarting over how things had unfolded but considerate enough not to incriminate her further. He still wasn't entirely sure if he could trust the harlot, if he could trust anyone at all with knowledge of her contributions to his plans.

"I did the only thing I could at the time," the cook continued, eyes maintaining the harlot in wary speculation and ears alert for sounds of orphans returning from their exercise, "I acted the loudest, lustiest, most drunken patron Happy Endings had yet to witness that night and forced the--Isme--back into the room. If I hadn't, at least one of us would have been dead."

Nov tapped his fingers against the wood as his story drew to a close. "And that's how that nickname came to be. End of story. Satisfied?"

[Matthew]

The offered hand was retracted and the harlot sat across from Noven, not another word given to the greeting and apparently not a second thought spared on the fact that his handshake had just been completely ignored. It didn't seem to put him off in the slightest. Instead he waited for Noven to start his story, crossing one leg over the other. Matthew watched with rapt attention, his intense stare briefly resembling the enraptured gaze of a young child listening to a story for the first time. He gave small nods and quiet noises to signal that he was listening and keeping up, and when the story was done, leaned back and considered it as a whole. After a moment of brief silence, he slowly nodded his head again. "Yes. I am satisfied. I was actually hoping to hear that you had some unique sexual technique that had managed to gain you that name. I have been a harlot for at least a year now, and in that time I haven't actually managed to gain a nickname. I was curious to how you did it, but I suppose it now makes quite a bit of sense." Isme as bait, hm? It was odd, but out of everyone he had ever met, it was always his coworkers who he felt a bit protective over. He still had yet to discover exactly why that was. He pondered a moment longer and then abruptly stood, the sudden movement still filled with a certain level of effortless grace. "I appreciate you taking the time to explain it to me. What sort of work needs to be done? I would be happy to help." The harlot threw out the casual offer, simulataneously dipping an inner hand deep within his well of djed. He churned his palm, swirling it, swirling the djed in turn and dispersing it warmly throughout his form. He considered his options for a moment, wondering if it was worth it to use the magic to encourage some level of comfort inside of Noven. He didn't have anything to prove to the young man, though. Perhaps he should try poking at the anger that was already there, see if it could be stirred and how Noven expressed it. "Breakfast, I assume? I can't think of any other chore that would need doing." The harlot made an educated guess and motioned for Noven to follow, actually taking the lead in getting the activity started. He was familiar with the kitchen, having been the one to just recently wipe it down and mop the floors. It had already been quite clean, but Matthew didn't think there was such a thing as too clean. "How can I help?" The harlot was a persistant one, imposing himself on Noven's tasks without consideration to if Noven actually wanted him there. "Why do you bristle with a constant feel of anger? There are angry people in Sunberth, but not many walk around with it as a constant edge to their voice." Sometimes he was good at reading people. Most of the time he was utter rubbish at reading people. Noven made it obvious enough for even the harlot to notice it, though. He stated his question quietly and politely, unaware that most people wouldn't just straight-up ask such a question. Matthew had never seen a purpose to beating around the bush, personally.

[Noven]

It unsettled him, sitting beneath the rapt stare of the overly-groomed harlot, as though they were engaged in the orphans' favorite past time. Nov was more accustomed to getting a hoard of squealing, whining would-be urchins to shut the fuck up and get to bed with stories entirely inappropriate for children. He was not quite as accustomed to performing this hideously tedious task for a full grown adult. Let alone a prostitute.

And, speak of the devil...

Nov's expression narrowed at Matthew's confession of his motives. Nevermind that the whole of Sunset was going to know of this sooner than later, since at least two, notorious rascals were certain to be eavesdropping through the cheap slabs of wood passing for walls. More importantly, what was this guy's deal? Did he actually come all this way--and perform a good amount of chores at that, too--just to find out how the cook had earned that absurd title?

To be honest, Nov had suspected the name to be a crude joke. He was reportedly known to hold back more than he ever put out. It only made sense. But then the harlot had waltzed in here with not a shred of crudeness or undermining to be seen, and things took a turn for the confusing.

Before he could analyze any further, however, the whore was running off with questions. Work? How could he help? Were they making breakfast? Why did he sound so angry? It made the cook's head spin and he felt his temper flare.

Noven wanted to seethe, to pound a fist onto the table for emphasis. It felt like he was dealing with one of the runts, except the words flying his way were more eloquent, if no less blatant and piercing. But he lost his chance as the harlot rose to lead the way to the kitchen, maintaining the steady stream of mild interrogation and even go so far as to question the source of his host's anger.

Krysus, this guy was somethin' else.

"Stop," Nov growled and batted the whore's hand away from the door to the kitchens. "You don't want to do that."

To prove his point, the merc picked up an old rag and quietly dipped it in a bucket of murky water. He used it to jiggle the latch before unleashing a convincing shout of pain and tossing the rag aside. If the harlot was paying close attention, he would see that the water from the rag evaporated almost instantly against the metal surface...

...right before it snapped downward and two triumphant orphans burst through in a mad scramble for their lives. Behind them a pot of boiling hot liquid crashed to the ground and splattered in every direction.

Fortunately, Nov had grabbed both Mira and Thomas and flung them out of harm's way. Unfortunately for the two orphans, he was also grinning in maniacal glee. It was his turn to have the last laugh now.

"Glad to know you two nasty little buggers stopped torching my kitchen door instead," he leered, a fistful of ragged tunic in each hand. "And that you're stupid enough to think I'd fall for the same trick twice. Well, what's it gonna be, eh? Caught spying and making a mess in my kitchen. Again. Seems like yer last punishment wasn't good enough..."

Both children gulped and began pleading at the same time.

"Oh, no please don't make us do the washing again!"
"I can't do that stupid petching job no more can't reach the--
"It gives me blisters and I heard I can catch something bad from all those dirty, disgusting rags."
"--petching clothes line anyhow."

Really, Nov mused, they ought have standing ovation or something for their spectacular performance.

"SHUT UP!" he barked, and the two orphans caught in his merciless grip promptly sealed their mouths. He gave them a long, gloating stare before delivering the final sentence.

"Latrines."

Mira and Thomas went slack jawed.

"For a whole season."

Now they began struggling and begging in earnest. At least for a while, before the two started wrestling, clawing, and blaming each other instead, having utterly forgotten about Noven. With a look of satisfaction, the cook let them have at it while he fished around for a couple of mops and buckets. Then he armed them both, bruised and scratched and furious as they were, and sent them on their merry way to the latrines.

"Welp, you said you wanted to help," Nov sighed, glancing at the harlot with a raised eyebrow. "Those potatoes aren't going to peel themselves. Best get to it then, while I get red of all this petching water..."

The cook grumbled as he busied himself with mopping up the floor. Though, for once, he was somewhat--just a tiny, teeny smidgen--grateful for the extra help.

[Matthew]

He was reaching out for the doorknob when his hand was popped away. He didn't take it offensively, merely blinked with blue-eyed confusion and quietly spoke in a puzzled tone. "Yes I do. This is the way to the kitchen, isn't it?" Noven's reasoning was made clear as he fetched some nearby cleaning materials and showed Matthew how to test a doorknob for what appeared to be a well planned trap. So they had heated the latch up in order to burn him or Noven? His brow furrowed as he puzzled through the logic, his voice absentminded. "Thank you. I see. It was your method of warning me about the door." The harlot was painfully open with his simple thought process, social awkwardness giving off quite the impression that he was actually mentally handicapped. He was, in a certain way. Then again, he thought it was an advantage. Other people would beg to differ. Matthew turned and watched as Noven snatched the two fleeing children, the harlot having to lightly step out of the way as they tried to bolt. It seemed that the young man was getting a certain level of amusement from this. The children were certainly terrified now. He folded his hands behind his back and just patiently watched the scene, interested to see how the little show would unfold. It was certainly a good way to learn about the dynamic between Noven and the little beasties. He was slightly impressed by the leadership skills of the young thug. That, and the performances by the children. They were so very quick with their excuses and stories. They were clever, in a certain type of way that Matthew wasn't sure if he'd ever be. The punishment was dealt and Noven seemed pleased. A quiet nod was given in response to the order, Matthew moving towards a nearby stack of potatoes. A bit of searching produced a small knife, a small bowl of water, and a little stiff brush. He set his tools in front of him and paused a moment, clearly defining three seperate workspaces in his mind. Dirty potatoes, clean potatoes, peeled potatoes. He soon started to work, a steady pace that was quick and methodical, eerily composed of the exact same motions. Dip potato, scrub. Scrub, move potato to the side. Grab potato. Dip potato, scrub. There was little to no variation in his movements, blue eyes focused on his work. "What is on the menu?" He attempted idle conversation, knowing it was something that he needed practice with. He only let the question linger for a moment before moving on to more interesting subjects, like things he actually was interested in. "Is there a story behind the scar on your cheek?" He didn't look at Noven, showing that there were certain details the harlot had apparently just picked up on. "Do you have trouble sleeping at night? Your eyes look tired, but you are operating like a normal person would, as if used to it. Perhaps headaches? Nightmares? Your forehead has a variety of crease lines that gather near the brow, as if you make a scowling expression extremely often. Also a sign of chronic headaches, constant nightmares, or deep thinkers. Skin cream applied during the morning will help some of those smooth out." He spoke with that soft and single-toned voice, each word slow and pronounced, brush scrubbing away at the potatoes one by one. Eventually he would finish them, moving stations, picking up the knife and taking a moment to study and plan his next few steps. There was no doubt an effective way of doing this. "I used to study medicine." He offered the knowledge quietly, an explanation for his sudden analysis of the cook.

[Noven]

Slop, slop.

Nov gritted his teeth as he mopped up the slew of dirty dish water from the floor, trying his best not to dwell on his toil. It would only bring back the headaches sooner. And, though the harlot made for a tempting target, not even he and his persistent questioning deserved that kind of pain.

"What is on the menu?"

The cook straightened as he finished his task and stowed away the molding equipment. "Soup," was his flat, grunted reply before he moved to inspect Matthew's progress. He had to admit, the whore knew a thing or two about manual labor. All innuendos aside, there was an efficiency to his movements that made the Sunberthian native look like an oaf in comparison.

And Nov supposed, in every sense of the phrase, that he was. A thug by trade and all that was natural and logical in Sunberth, though Nona had worked to the edge of her sanity to prevent such a future. Thinking of her brought a familiar wave of guilt and pain. He forced himself to shove the fresh feelings aside, reminding himself for the thousandth time he had to live this way out of necessity. That his life held no other true purpose aside from hunting down the Daggerhand boss who had slit Nona's throat and gutted an innocent boy in cold blood.

He could feel the hatred rising in his throat. It had a distinct, metallic tang that he could neither prevent nor forget. No matter how many pints of ale he drowned his black moods in.

Nov dragged himself out of a potato peeling induced trance as Matthew asked him yet another invasive question, realizing a bit belatedly in those few, preceding moments he must have looked ready for murder. The young merc stared warily at his uninvited guest's immaculate, focused form, wondering yet again what the petch this harlot was doing here. Was it truly just to pester him with this pointless inquisition?

"Yeah," he answered, failing to elaborate. Not that Matthew seemed to mind, as he was now moving onto a different subject altogether with his usual, oblivious objectivity.

Truth be told, Nov found himself rather impressed that the harlot could deduce so much from so little. Whores tended to be observant that way, though not many were as determined to fish for answers without the promise of gold. Well, that was a new possibility he had yet to consider. Was someone plying his talents with the promise of payment? The cook chewed over this idea for a moment before eventually dismissing it. Judging from the way he talked and walked, the young prostitute seemed hardly in need of more mizas.

So...perhaps this was a call of pure curiosity, then. It was hard to believe, even in the most lawful and orderly of cities, Noven imagined, but not impossible. Besides, who in their right mind would sit there peeling dozens of potatoes, on top of having done gods knew what else under the orders of Jillian the Ice Queen herself, all for the sake of a few lousy answers?

Well, shit. Nov set down the ladle and rubbed at his eye with the palm of his hand. Now he was actually feeling a bit...bad about the whole thing. Treating the harlot like slave labor, giving less than half-assed answers in return.

Krysus. Noven looked down at his gloved hands and grimaced. This was really happening. He was seriously considering cooperating now.

Then Matthew suggested a skin cream to smooth his brow, and the cook lost his cool. He snorted in laughter, shaking his head and staring up at the ceiling as if to beg the question, what the hell did I do this time to deserve this? "I do," he answered bluntly, though not without reluctance, "get headaches and nightmares, that is. But probably not for the reasons you'd assume."

Nov cast one last baleful look at his gloves. Then he pulled them off and set them on a shelf, out of reach of bubbling soup and other stain-producing substances. "I don't know about deep thinking," he continued, balling his left hand into a fist and raising it so Matthew could see the veins of crimson that webbed over his darkened skin, voice laced with a poisonous sort of conviction. "But I do know something about hatred. The deepest, blackest kind there is out there. Fed and honed by the Goddess of Murder and Pain herself."

[Matthew]

Soup for breakfast. Breakfast soup? Matthew peered at the potatoes as he slowly diced his way through the flesh. "How do you want me to further break these down after they have been peeled? Or does your soup require them to be whole?" He continued his slow and methodical method of washing and skinning, now mostly past the washing part and onto the skinning part. He would slice off a small bit on one end of the potato and stand it up on that end. Then he would shave down the potato, removing the flesh strip by strip. Any small little spots on the potato would be picked out by the tip of the blade that he used. While he was perhaps still a tad slow with his work, Noven would be able to notice that he wasn't missing a single spot on the pieces of starch. Matthew had an eye for detail if he had anything. His profession required a certain amount of detail. He continued to focus on the task, fairly unaware of Noven's inspecting stare. His mind briefly wandered, flitting through the recent Intelligence knowledge he had been learning. When it came to Intelligence, there was a certain way that one observed things. There was a certain way that someone gathered data and then stored away that data for later use in their operations. What data could be gained from this? Some of it was obvious, such as the link between Noven and the children. Others were not so obvious, such as the glimmer of anger in his eyes and whatever the actual source was. Each of them were still noted and filed inside of his mental library, though not with any intention of being used against someone who he could consider a professional contact that he was on seemingly good terms with. It was just practice, really. He refocused right as Noven answered his question. He waited for more, then realized that there was to be no more. He couldn't blame Noven, it wasn't as if Matthew had asked for more. Noven had answered the question given and only that, which was more than a lot of people could do. There was a long moment of comfortable silence as Noven seemed to busy himself with his own thoughts. Matthew didn't mind such things. Working in comfortable silence was a rarity that he often didn't get to enjoy. A lot of people seemed to need to fill the silence with words of some sort. He didn't mind idle conversation, he just wasn't good at it. Comfortable silence was one of the very few things in this life that he actually was fairly sure gave him a sense of pleasure. One that was growing more distant as of late. The young harlot nodded at the confession that Noven did indeed suffer from headaches and nightmares. "It might take a bit of practice, but back when I was studying medicine in a place called Mura, I learned a bit about philtering and herbalism. Perhaps I could whip you up a tonic that would give you a more peaceful night sleep, or perhaps one that would help with your headaches. It would be my pleasure and a learning experience." He turned his head a bit as he noticed a different sort of movement, pausing his cuts with the paring knife to make sure that he didn't accidentally nick himself. He watched with that intense but oddly empty stare of his, blinking twice as the veins of intense crimson throbbed under the flesh. He tilted his head with that insect-like motion, blue eyes glimmering as they studied the scene before them. "Hatred. It is something I can't ever remember experiencing. Perhaps that is why I am not intimately familiar with this thing of yours. Krysus, correct? What exactly does this do?" Perhaps Noven would note the slightest tone of unfiltered curiosity in Matthew's voice. For the briefest of moments, the harlot sounded like a puzzled child.

[Noven]

"You can just chop em, whatever which way," he'd answered the harlot. "It'll all be mush by the end anyhow."

Which was whole point of the thing, really. Soup might not have been the most traditional sort of breakfast out there, but it was easy to make in bulk and it would last all petching day. Less cooking meant less working. And less working in that cramped little kitchen was a blessing any time of the season.

When Matthew mentioned something about tonics and herbalism, some part of the cook found his interest piqued with an embarrassing amount of enthusiasm. It made him feel a little too eager to get his hands on a cure, a little too desperate for his liking. Not that the feeling wasn't true. Oh, he was desperate alright. And with every night that sleep continued to evade him, with every fruitless attempt he made to rest in peace, he felt his pitiful desperation grow.

The guy just didn't like to admit it. Probably why this problem had gone on for as long as it had. Probably why a lot of things had gone on for as long as they did.

He was in the process of taking off his other glove--might as well, now that the secret was revealed and with plenty of cooking still to be done--when Matthew asked of Krysus and how the curse worked. Something about the whore's expression reminded him all too much of one of the more inquisitive orphans. It brought on a familiar wave of irritation, but he quelled it for the time being. This was the first time anyone had asked so directly and for some reason it compelled the cook to answer in kind.

"Pain," Nov intoned. "The worst sort you can imagine."

He began cutting up the rest of the vegetables, stirring the giant pot with his giant ladle every now and then. Unfortunately, Jillene preferred having him do this heavy shyke whenever possible. Which was always, considering he had about zero say in the matter. The Isur claimed it was because he could handle lugging that stupid soup pot around and Old Hilda couldn't. She was too old, her back would break, can't handle those unruly children, blah blah blah.

Nov had other theories. Mainly those involving torturing him as often as she could get away with. Which was, again, all the time. Because, again, he had no damned say in it all. His only consolation was that if he did this once he was home free for the rest of the day. Maybe even a bit of tomorrow, if he was lucky and the weather stayed cool.

Before his mind could roam any further--and Nov knew from experience mind roaming did him shyke all for good--the cook moved on with his explanation. "All I really need is to touch someone. Or hurt them. And that wound I cause can be turned into something that feels ten times worse." He threw in a few more carrots and pushed them down with the wooden ladle. "The wound itself won't get any uglier, but the pain does."

He paused for a moment, unsure of whether he should continue. Knowing how he could inflict pain on another was one thing. But knowing the curse in turn inflicted pain on its bearer was another thing entirely. It was a weakness, a possible risk. And Noven had too much to do before something as trivial as a slip of the tongue bought him an early demise.

"It has its price, though," he mumbled and left it at that.