The hand squeeze, and then the words concerning the origin of the title of Scars-- two things Kellyn would most likely remember for a long, long time of their own accord, and not through having to memorize. Something about the tone of the words, or maybe the content, made her shudder. That, combined with the grasp of leather-clad fingers around hers, briefly but fiercely, and the shine of those clear, hazel eyes, left a vivid, and almost startling impression. Will, Kellyn had said, had advocated. Now, with her hand tucked safely back to her person, following silently in the wake of the other --Bitzer, she purposefully thought again, as she would likely have to many times before the use of the name came naturally-- Kellyn knew that this right hand of the Hound understood will perfectly. What it could do. What it would do. And as such she was already deciding, perhaps, how Kellyn would fit into this group. Or how she wouldn't.
It was a dreading, cold sort of realization. The Scars. She remembered things, for a moment-- she remembered how she hadn't ever been a part of anything, before. How she had always been near people, but not with any sort of significant connection; not with her family (save for perhaps her brother, though that was still uncertain), not with any friends (she hadn't had friends), not with the myriad regulars of her family's grimy little pigpen bar.
She had thought, coming in, that one would learn to tolerate being with others. But that intelligent look in the eye of the girl --Bitzer-- still caused a shiver to run up her spine that had nothing to do with the cold. Could one learn? Or did one simply have to know, instinctively, how to belong?
They had found an alley, the shade of the buildings casting down over them like time stretching before, and past. The air grew more than a few degrees cooler. Fine for the girl and the wolf --Bitzer and the wolf-- both of them covered in heavy furs. Kellyn had on a knit sweater, stockings under a skirt, boots. She tugged her hat down over her ears, still feeling oddly shaken by that sudden, unexpected squeeze in the grip of the girl's hand, and crossed her arms, shoving her fingers into the crooks of her armpits where body heat was warmest. She felt... vulnerable. It was an entirely despicable feeling, and a haunting one, like the press of withered, ghostly arms around her waist. Something about the girl's --Bitzer's, she reminded again-- words had struck her. The Scars, her mind ran through. Then, while it was still fresh and cloying and able to be remembered word-for-word: They serve as reminders of the past, injuries, events, things that have gone and mistakes we have made.
Luckily, thankfully... the Right Hand began speaking, once more. Kellyn fastened her attention to that. The words were so low they were barely audible, even in the clear, crisp Winter air. Kellyn, however, did not step any closer, though proximity would be better to hear.
"Be it murder, killing Daggers and leaving them in specific ways, causing the spill of blood on the street... But I don't think you would be able to handle that. Such things can be rather difficult."
"I'd imagine so." In her mind, there was a struggle. Artist, petite, untrained, against a foe much larger and used to dealing in violence. She would attempt. Might even succeed if fortune was on her side (not a common occurrence, admittedly). Saw the little knife as it flashed and flickered wildly in her mind's eye, silver to the neck, and then sprays of dark arterial blood, jetting the air. A painting without paint, done all in red, with the surroundings as paper, and without any benefit of a brush. Without control, simply standing and watching it happen.
Of course, it would likely be her blood dripping dry on the walls and floor, or in the streets, or on the corner of a building, or wherever it happened... but that was a risk of joining such an organization. She wasn't really bothered by that. If they had her out on the streets, it was an inevitability: whether two weeks in the future, or two years. She had already accepted that. Death was just a part of life, after all.
But these people, or at least this representative --Bitzer, she thought-- were smart. They would apply her best assets in the manner that was most helpful. And there were probably plenty others to do the killing --and dying-- for them.
"And... you also said you had a proposition for the Hound. Are you going to share that at all? Whilst you do, well... I will think of something you may be capable of doing."
Kellyn's own voice was soft, a murmur. "It would make sense for us both for me to spit it out here, now. After all, if my plans turn out not to be of use to your group..." she shrugged. Mildly she wondered if this Bitzer would kill her, were that the case. Was simply knowing the girl's face and her name enough for that? Perhaps. Another flash of imaginative insight: the wolf coming in close again, but this time teeth flashing, jaws outstretched. A snarl, pain, then growing more cold, still more cold, and then nothing. Kellyn curled her fingers into tight fists, still tucked under her arms. Her mind was feeling especially creative, today. She didn't like it.
"People in Sunberth are stolen from constantly," she said, "It's rather like a business for some, and it leaves a lot of the population wronged and victimized but unable to take action because there's nobody to turn to. Nothing to be done except accept defeat. A lot of them end up rummaging in their pockets for handfuls of coins, and all for the simple privilege of buying back what's rightfully theirs for twice the price." She grimaced, lips feeling chill as they pulled back with the motion. Her voice dropped further, went lower. "If there's one thing I despise," she spoke matter-of-factly, lightly, but the words struggled with heat, "It's being taken from."
She took a deep breath, hesitated... but she had already decided that Bitzer was who she said she was. Kellyn went on. "I thought, since The Scars are about bringing change, opportunity, you all might find interest in this: putting an end to such practices.
"I'm an artist. I specialize in recreating what I see in charcoal, on paper. I can do this, with exceptional detail, skill, and accuracy, concerning practically anything that is placed within my sight. Animals. Jewelry. Dear possessions. Other valuables." She glanced at the mouth of the alley, hearing footsteps, pausing. A few ticks later and someone clattered by, swaying so as to hardly stay on their feet. They stumbled, almost fell, and then had passed, muttering in an accent so thick she had no idea what was said. Kellyn waited a while after they had gone, listening intently, but the man seemed to have truly left. "On my own, this skill would be useless for what I intend. But in collaboration with The Scars... I think what I can do might be very useful.
"If a person wanted to ensure that something they owned not be stolen, they would need proof of ownership to guard against thieves, and also a backing organization to provide recovery services should their item be taken from them. That person could approach the Scars, once the group's presence is known throughout Sunberth, and could pay a fine or percentage of an item's worth to have a sketch made specifically depicting that item, down to the smallest details and identifying characteristics. Other information might be added: a written description, say, the owner's credentials such as their name and where they originally purchased it, and also something to authenticate the sketch to prove it had come from The Scars, like a signature or a stamp bearing some sort of official insignia.
"In the case, then, that the item was stolen, the person would report the theft to the Scars, who would then send an individual, or a team of individuals, to investigate the incident, and, if necessary, pressure and take back the item by force should they be met with resistance. Once the item was returned to the rightful owner, the owner would be expected to pay another fee for services rendered."
Kellyn stopped, thinking through what she had already said. After a moment, she added, "If a person wanted to sell their item rightfully, the person buying could request the transfer be made 'legal' by The Scars. All the seller and buyer would have to do was bring in the sketch and have the ownership credentials altered, and another stamp added as proof of the selling. That way an owner of an item couldn't run any scams on the organization by selling to someone, then reporting the item stolen and using The Scars to unrightfully retrieve it from the person who had already paid for it. The new owner, of course, would have to pay his own fee to the group in order to make certain he would be eligible for services."
That was a lot to impart to someone, especially by spoken word, so Kellyn gave a few chimes for the other to mull it through. After a silence, though, she added, "There are multiple benefits I see to this." She ticked off on her fingers, one by one, "Firstly, thievery will be discouraged. Secondly, people who are willing to work with The Scars will be able to feel secure in their purchases, and ownership. Thirdly, it generates revenue, Mizas for the group. Fourthly, the population, if the idea operates smoothly and effectively, might come to appreciate the service, and so might end up backing The Scars."
Thoughtfully she added, teeth chattering now, "There's also the idea that local businesses might eventually buy in. If a good portion of the population ends up supporting the use of these receipts, then a business might further themselves by becoming bedfellows with The Scars, and providing a document of ownership to anyone who buys from their establishment. The money for The Scars' retrieving service would then likely be included in the original purchasing price, and the business would hand over the appropriate amount of funds. This helps the business themselves, because people would feel safer buying from them knowing that the purchase would be sound."
After speaking so much and in such a low voice, Kellyn's throat was definitely feeling raw now. She cupped a hand to it, fingers trembling from the cold (and from muted anticipation), and stood and waited for the other's --Bitzer's-- response.
