PM to join A few Foxes and the Hound

[Noven]

Before The King of Silver Tongues could open his ever scheming mouth, someone entered the Foot. Not a cause for alarm, to be sure. It was, after all, a tavern. And despite being a Sunberthian one, at that, a steady stream of dubious looking characters went in and out all day without causing so much as a fuss. Hell, brawls were probably even rarer than one might assume.

Sort of.

But, men like Noven--men who had a tendency to use their fists more than their words, and who had n unquenchable thirst for Daggerhand blood--preferred to keep one eye glued to the main doors at all times. It was basic protocol for solitary, misanthropic Sunberth natives.

Doors were tricky things. You never knew what you were going to get until it was too late. What could be waiting for you on the other side? A long legged mistress of Happy Endings with an allure so magnetic you forget your own name? Or a Daggerhand Boss bent on becoming intimate with the contents of your stomach?

Nov didn't like surprises. So, when the newcomer entered, shaking the snow from his very broad, very rimmed hat before placing it back on his shaggy head, the cook's expression went from grim to murderous in about half a tick.

"Seng, he's here."

The legs of his chair scraped against the floor as he stood up, eying the man with nothing short of absolute suspicion. Most of the other tavern goers had already lost interest, going back to their drunken, goonish yammering as the newcomer ordered two mugs of ale, placed one before an empty seat across from him, and leaned back as though this was nothing more than an afternoon lunch break. No effort to hide the fact he was expecting someone, no back up, and not a shred of worry to be seen on his placid face. What stranger to Sunberth could look so relaxed and untroubled in a room full of thieves, thugs, and killers?

For a moment, Nov's heart lurched a beat faster.

Could this plain, unimposing man be the Hound?

Well, only one way to find out. The cook slowly made his way toward the stranger's table, winding through a few others with his hands in his coat pockets before he reached the empty seat. With a quiet, casual gesture, he pulled back the chair, sat down on the creaky wood, and resisted looking at the foaming mug.

"Didn't think I'd be seeing you so soon," he said in way of greeting. A vague grin curved on his face, but his eyes remained somber and shrewd.

"How's Bitzer?"

[Wrenmae]

He didn't need to look.

The sound of the scraping chair, the harsh footsteps too purposeful to be meandering, the settling of weight on the creaking legs, the unidentified sound of hands on tabletop, and the voice.

Bitzer.

Had to be Fallon. Why she had chosen the name, he couldn't possibly imagine...he hadn't asked and she was the sort to make him guess. She'd mentioned seeing a possible recruit earlier, Noven, and had dropped the hint to look for the man in the broad rimmed hat.

Easy enough.

Wren never tipped his hat up to engage his visitor, only reached out one hand to indicate the mug. "You'll be wanting a drink, I expect," He said to him quietly, "Seeing as I set the stage, it would be poor form not to make a show of it."

Reaching up, he flicked the end of the wide brimmed hat, bouncing it up over his cold, curious eyes to settle on his tangle of unruly hair. The man...or boy, sitting across from his was young, but his body showed the ripple of a hard life, and one that had its fair share of blows. Survivor, like most of the rabble in Sunberth...but predator or prey?

Given his demeanor, he certainly considered himself predator...but then, sheep dreamed about being wolves too...didn't make their teeth any sharper.

"The girl is well," he said calmly, "She sends her regards...but in a city like this, I can't imagine you will go long without seeing her again." Leaning up in his chair, he took the hat from his head and placed it neatly on the tabletop beside his mug.

"You must be Nov. A pleasure to meet you, I'm Wren." he reached a hand across the table towards him, languidly, "I represent the interests of the Hound."

Not a lie. He did indeed represent his own interests.

"I'm told you have a problem with the Daggerhand running the show. Well, what if I were to tell you the Hound was looking for some enterprising volunteers to devour Daggerhand territory and burn Robern's legacy to the ground?" A small smile, a certain flashing in his eyes, "Would that interest you?"

[Senghor Vilhjalmr]

"I never knew that being suicidal could be so 'interesting'..." the voice the dark skinned mercenary slipped into the ears of the two men, it was twisted with a dark tone of humour and seriousness boarding each word. It hadn't taken so long for Senghor to snake his way into the conversion and take a 'borrowed' seat, he turned towards the two ivory fleshed men and folded his arms momentarily whilst he spoke. "But, when isn't anything suicidal in our lovely Sunny city?..." Seng asked as he turned towards the man who wore the broad rimmed hat, he never liked hats yet for a man who sought to be cryptic it suited him well. 'Whether this is the Hound or not, I must say that he's set a chain reaction that will only end in blood and more dead bodies to pick from... Even though the bodies would truly... Lighten the atmosphere...' Senghor though whilst his golden brown eyes surveyed the area, the desert skinned man turned to Noven and than the man who he'd heard say his name was Wren. There was something about man that made Seng more intrigued than he was when he first saw him enter the Pig's Foot, their battering for information with Kingston wasn't getting them anywhere yet this, this man before him had a scent about him that the Vilhjalmr found would truly set things right, set the true ball rolling towards their goals... "Volunteer work... Not much pay, unless this 'Hound' is rewarding the slaughter of a legacy with something more than a couple of Miza's?" Seng questioned with a sly smirk graciously tugging the corners of his lips...

[Noven]

Nov dropped a skeptical look at the mug of ale, then returned his focus on the stranger. "Thanks, but maybe later."

He wasn't one to turn down a free drink, but he didn't know this man, and therefore didn't trust him. Well, he didn't trust anyone except Seng, really, but that degree of distrust varied. And for this unsettlingly calm fellow, that degree fell somewhere on the deep end of paranoia.

When the man flicked up his hat, revealing his sharp eyes, the two exchanged wordless evaluations of one another. Nov, who usually despised falling under any kind of scrutiny, let the stranger size him up as he returned the gesture.

Tangled hair, brown eyes, nose slightly crooked, a shadow of a beard and scars in abundance. Dusty clothes and more than a few weapons tucked safely in their sheaths. A survivor, a fighter, and a traveler. Hound or no, he was not someone Nov wanted to fight, not with quiet, guarded confidence like that. The cook knew he didn't stand much of a chance against someone who knew what to do with a weapon, other than charging at people with it.

Even if the man's hand was held out before him in traditional greeting, not a trace of alarm, body at utter ease. One touch, one broken finger, with Krysus's power flooding through his veins...

Noven's head pulsed violently the moment he returned Wren's handshake with a firm grip of his own. He almost flinched, but held back the reaction in the nick of time.

Petching hell.

He barely registered as Wren introduced himself as a representative of the Hound's interests, so consumed was he in the sudden, inexplicable arrival of his telltale headache. "I am," Nov managed as a response, though his thoughts coalesced around one fact and one fact only.

He'd just reset the pain last night...how could his symptoms be acting again up so soon?

Before he could get some proper deductions, however, one of the empty chairs became suddenly occupied by the dark, towering presence of his friend. Seng countered Wren's offer with a question, giving his partner some time for a much needed recovery.

Devour the Daggerhands. Burn Robern's legacy to the ground. Take back all that those fleabags owed them and more. His blood rushed and his head gave another nasty throb.

Nov took one look at the mug of ale, then downed half its contents in one go. It was shyke for taste, but he was short on options.

There was something strange about this man who called himself Wren. On top of everything else he had showcased so far, he also had a bandaged neck with no obvious wound, as well as an unnatural sort of...glow about him. A vitality, a thrum of life. It stood out like a clean face in Sunberth if anyone cared to stick around long enough to stare past his shaggy appearance and unimposing form.

Who was this man?

"Burn, yes," Nov said hoarsely as the ale swam down his throat. He hoped it would help with the incoming pain, but knew it probably wouldn't. He was going to have to vex someone again, and soon. "That interests me. But, like my friend Senghor here says, there is the small matter of what we might be getting out of this."

He leaned back against his chair, ignoring the throbbing in his head as best he could. There could be spies, or poison in the ale, or a thousand other things to be worried about. But he had neither the patience nor the will to care about them now.

"I want to make them suffer every last tick of their worthless lives," he seethed quietly. "But, this is big business, and one that'll take time. We need to know we can at least make it to the end to see the river of their blood flow through the streets."

He tilted his head a little, more for the pain than anything else. "Resources, information, manpower. Got any of those?"

[Wrenmae]

Looking from one to the other, the hypnotist tabulated the stock. Young, strong, thuggish, and probably friends. The way the other easily fit into the conversation without asking permission, how he held himself, the meaning in the look between the two. Comrades, yes. Gang, no.

Well then.

Wren splayed both hands out and shrugged, "Hound has only just begun. Resources? We take them. This is Sunberth. Manpower? You're the manpower. Information? As much as we can gather. What we have is the element of surprise and anonymity. We'll hit the Daggerhands where they're most vulnerable, cripple their operations, and then pick off the ones that don't jump ship out of fear or necessity."

Smiling, he crooked a finger, calling them closer before continuing, "We have the backing of the Nighteyes...a small retainer fee and they'll feed us the information we need to attack the Daggerhands on a moral and physical front. Robern is dead, and not long in the grave...so the Daggerhand are still reeling from the loss of his heavy-handed leadership. That's the trouble with building a gang around one man...his loss creates an intriguing chink in armor, no matter how large the force. First was the example...none of the Daggerhands are untouchable, even their best. Hound proved that. How does one kill a god, after all?" He let the answer sit between them a moment or two before laughing.

"Well, I wouldn't know that...but we believe the best way to topple a power is to prove it possible. Topple an operation, undermine a job, kill their operatives...not enough to start a street war, but not so few they learn to be bold. Make them afraid, make them fear the streets they've learned to know. Our advantage is that we will hit them fast, hard, and take them for everything they have. They don't know us, they don't know you...so they can't see us coming."

The hypnotist chuckled, shaking his head, "That's the beauty of it...they know someone is coming after them, but they don't know who or how many...how does one fight an opponent on those grounds? They won't. Now they turn their attention to the whisperers and secret-sellers in Sunberth...and that's where we hit them first."

He drained the rest of his mug and set it down, staring into the empty cup for a moment before returning his attention to the two other men. "Short recruitment time. Gentlemen, if there was ever a time to be involved, it would be now. No joining fee, no tattoo, nothing. In fact, don't make a decision yet, wait. I'll call you for a job. If we pull it off, really pull it off, you can settle in with the rest of us...if not, you can turn me in to the Daggerhands for reward...a compatriot of the Hound will be just as good as the real thing."

[Senghor Vilhjalmr]

A dark macabre chuckle seemed to leave the lips of Seng as he looked down at the tabled and looked at the man, he wasn't serious was he?, it didn't take long for his deep voice to follow the very essence of his chuckle when his golden eyes narrowed and he looked at Wren in the eyes. Noven might have a need to fear the man, but for Seng it was just another figure of home who just had grown a pair and acted out on them. "You're fuckin' kidding me aren't you?..." he asked darkly, all nonsense aside the Vilhjalmr was now acting out as anyone in his bloodline would have as his predecessors would have, if Cagn The Berserker, Ennis The Warmonger, Akir The Merciless were in his place would they easily conform to the ideals of this Hound without pay, without prize?... "Let us now think of this, we're the manpower, against nothing less than an army of killers, murderers, rapists. Information, what'd we have to rely on, people like mister Kingston over there..." he said as he pointed towards the King of Tongues, Adam. "An the Nighteyes you say, in the end just another gang that'll ultimately stab us in the back if this little project succeeds?..." Senghor leaned into the table and looked at the man darkly before letting a darker grin play at the corners of his lips, he reclined back in his head and listened whilst it let a resounding creak, he sat back and chuckled along sound the deafening sound whilst raising his palm. "But... I like what you've to say, fast and hard. It's almost like making love to one of the girls at the brothel..." he said with a relaxed tone now conjured from the confines of his voice. 'Expect it's less classy and much more bloodier' he thought whilst turning his head towards one of the bar maids before slowly turning back to Wren. "Besides, Sunberth's a little depressing in Winter, little to no excitement in our lives." he said, obviously lying yet when narrowed his eyes towards the man again, "If you, or Hound is wasting our time... Know that I won't hesitate to collect, I'll gladly even play executioner for the Daggerhands if I'm they're generous enough" A silent seemed to engulf them before he smirked darkly and looked at Noven, "Now... This job we'll be doing, care to tell us what we're dying for?"

[Noven]

Through the familiar, thin haze of pain, Noven listened to all that Wren had to say. The man's words left no room for doubt, or even turning back for that matter. It was good, almost too good. Even Seng was keeping his guard up, questioning this representative of The Hound with every ounce of caution and shrewdness that was entitled to him. Hell, they'd have to be bat shyke crazy to readily agree to something as risky as this.

As his friend spoke of brothels and depressing Winters, the cook grinned a little in agreement. Then Seng met his gaze and cut straight to the chase.

"Now... This job we'll be doing, care to tell us what we're dying for?"

Nov downed the rest of his mug and set it quietly back on the table, unwilling to worsen his headache with jarring sounds. Hard enough as it was to pay attention in the middle of a rowdy tavern with a throbbing head.

"I'm in."

He blinked, then added, "By the way. Just thought to let you know. Before I...may or may not have to take care of something."

He scratched the side of his head with a finger, alerting Seng to the fact that he was speaking of his curse, should his friend not have already pieced that together. "Now, I won't say it's not possible, but I would rather not die," he continued. "Not to loud, filthy idiots who call themselves a gang anyway. I won't rest until I've shed every last drop of Daggerhand blood, but I got a thing for being alive. There's a fine pair of chops, you see, waiting for me somewhere out there to marinate and simmer juuuust right."

He was babbling now, fighting to get his mind off the pain, and of Nona's unmistakable voice in his head wishing seven different kinds of hell upon him if he ever threw his life away--a life she had worked so hard to salvage--for the sake of exterminating nothing more than Daggerhand rats.

"That being said, I too would like to know. Any idea what our jobs would look like just yet?"

Nov rested his arms on top of the table, his head weighing twice as much as it head a few chimes ago. "We like to be prepared," he explained, "preferably with a warm up of bashing in a few heads."

[Wrenmae]

It was hard not to notice the way Noven struggled with some internal pain, his eyes a feverish desperate...his body shaking in anticipation. Wren chose not to bite at the bait Senghor had left him, focusing instead on his friend. Thugs had remarkably little vision beyond their immediate needs. Eat this, petch that, stab this, survive...there were no visionaries among them. Simple animals with simpler lives, but most just needed a push in the right direction, to BELIEVE they had the power to make some sort of difference.

Wren was that power.

"Gentlemen," He leaned in again, placing both palms flat on the table, "What I need to know you two are committed to change is two bodies." He held up two fingers, "Two. Daggerhands...murdered, and displayed in a certain way. Right now we need to sow dissension into their ranks. Before, that meant killing the top dog on their leash, which the Hound saw to. Now we just need to remind them that it wasn't a personal kill. That we mean business. Two daggerhand deaths, daggers through their hands...poetic in a way, don't you agree? Daggers in the hands of the Daggerhands. Word travels fast here, so when you make your kills, I'll hear about them. Two apiece and you're in. I'll let you know the details of the next job."

He sat back, steepling his fingers, "Granted, you might decide it's better to hide beneath the stones...or even turn sides for a quick profit. To that I think words would fail me, but..." He trailed off for only an instant, drawing out his long dagger snake-quick and extending it across the table, quivering just an inch from Seng's throat, "We don't petch around, and this isn't like a simple merc job. We need people who see a future for themselves in Sunberth past grubbing in the shyke and eating the scraps of the larger gangs. If you can't see past that, you're not worth our time." He drew the dagger back, sheathing it just as quick.

"And if you are worth it, I'll be hearing about your handiwork really petching soon, won't I?"

He stood up, tossed four silver mizas on the table, "For your troubles. Drink up." Turning away from the table he drew his cloak tighter around his slight body and grinned, "Don't bother looking for me, I'll find you when the jobs are done. Good luck gentlemen."

[Adam King]

Sometimes you had to be like fire, consuming your way to your next objective, unbowed and unrelenting. But every now and then, you had to be like water, Adam thought. Well, pisswater, considering this was Sunberth. But still: pisswater would always find the best gutter for itself. He had met the wolf-girl Noven spoke of. He had made very special note of her. She was the kind of person to send someone like Noven looking for someone like the frayed hatman. Fray-hat, Hound connection. "Seng, he's here.", Noven had said. Sunberth culture demanded of Adam to go advance with his packmates. But Noven took a step, Seng' after him within moments. No - there was no need to come along. Let the brawlers get their task, read your opponent, like in any good card game. Allies are those opponents you should defeat last. Adam had to hope it was like a card game, because if this wasn't a card game, and it was more like arm-wrestling, then King would not do well anyhow. So he might as well act upon the hypothesis that allowed him to hope for some success. From afar, he scanned the interaction. Noven's brawlyness often had very pragmatic layers to it, while Seng would verge on the bloody-poetic. He looked for the Fray-hat's eyes most, as well as any traces of fear. He was worried that he couldn't track any, at least subtle ones. Noven and Seng' were Adam's packmates, and a part of him was scared shykeless whenever they were around just the same. But not the Fray-hat. There was a nuance in it, one Adam recongised from market negotiations. He was sizing up stock. Livestock. This person was so backed by the Hound that he apparently needen't fear killers like the two, but even see what he could sick them upon. The mix of enthusiasm and distrust on the two's faces as the conversation advanced confirmed this for Adam. This was their bloody-business face. So they were being sent to bloody business. Huh. Adam merely sipped from his glass, close to emptying it, observing on. He'd give his comrades looks of confirmation, but wait to approach the likely Hound agent after they'd clear the man's table. Why was the shoulder that'd received a crossbow bolt last weekhave to start acting up with pain right now, though? As the two warriors took off, Adam and them exchanged meaningful looks. They nodded that the frayed hat was of the Hound, he nodded that they should go on. The fence recognised the straightened slightly proud stride of the two. It was their "time to get to work, hands on work" stride. He wanted them going ahead to wherever this Hound-speaker would send their type. Picking up his glass and walking over to the now single-patroned table, Adam made sure to ignore the numb pain in his shoulder and just sat, staring at the man in inspection for a few seconds. King's eyes remained narrow as he took a sip. He thought he recognised a glimmer of intelligence, but then again that could be easily faked. He nodded briefly, content with his findings. Afterwards, a smile extended and the salesman flourish flowed off it with the intonation. "Adam King. At your service, I do believe indeed."

[Wrenmae]

38 Winter 513

When the other two had left, Wren was left with a little time to reflect on the meeting he'd just had. Straight away, Noven had been a good choice. Digging a fingernail under a sliver of wood, he worked it absently, shifting his thumb from one direction to the other, prying it from the fraying table. Noven was young, but that was no critique on expectation. There was something wild about him, an urgency in the way he flexed his muscles or swallowed half the drink. It could have been that he was sick, and certainly Wren had felt there was an illness there...something that suffused through his blood, but chose not to aggravate it any more than it should have been in his presence.

Senghor, however, was another matter entirely. Brash, arrogant, and uninvited he had treated much of the meet with with the air of one terrified. Of course, why shouldn't he be? The Daggerhands were still a dangerous force to reckon with. Their power of force alone would be enough to kill them all ten times over, so every action against them must be taken carefully. He'd have to mention to Fallon to watch Senghor at another time, if he so chose to use the two of them.

At first, Wren didn't notice the other man detach from the crowd to settle in a chair across from him. Not till he put the mug on the table, a shake that finally gave Wren the angle he needed to pry up the splinter, did the hypnotist turn his gaze on the bard.

Quietly they observed each other, neither speaking for the eternity of a tick or two. When Adam finally did speak, it drew a thin smile from Wren who twisted the splinter against his fingers and settled back into the chair.

"Mr. King," he answered, weighing him carefully before continuing, "An associate of Noven and his friend, I take it?"

Common
Thought
"Speech"
Zan