Dark ran her fingers through Stitches's hair. Although she enjoyed the sensation, she couldn't help but wonder why he had neither bound his hair himself nor allowed her to do so for him. She could touch his hair- that was greeted with purrs and pleasant gurgles- but she was absolutely not permitted to gather it up at all. Pushing that thought to a back corner in her mind, she continued working on the letter spread before her.
I commend you on the genius of having your ship so thoroughly torn down and rebuilt that even our shared contacts could only recognize it due to their familiarity with the crew. Further, it is greatly commendable that among sailors, who are all well used to being shunted from one ship to another like so many detestable sacks of living refuse, you have somehow managed not to lose a single man to wanderlust or dissatisfaction since command was wrest from Wernvuuld. Such loyalty may be expected from landlubbing soldiers, but is exceedingly high praise among seafarers. I look forward to the gossip that will herald your docking and casting off from here forward.
Now, as touches your latest offer
A bristly headed Human man stuck his face around the corner of Dark's study. He called Dark's attention simply by doing so, but since she pretended at not noticing him by keeping her head down, he knocked a knuckle on the bare stone of the doorway.
"Allo, Miss; are you for it?" he asked carefully.
Dark, hearing a strain of discomfort in his reedy tenor, threw off her pretense at once. "Of course, Fuzz; what have you got for me?"
Fuzz, who was still unused to his outside name, gave a half smirk as he pulled his full self into Dark's office. "A bit of writ, and here's from the Witchrun hit, what've snagged us a few snatchers."
"That goes to Dragon, although I appreciate what you mean by bringing it to me," Dark smiled genuinely as she accepted the letter that Fuzz handed her. "Think of me as more of an administrator. You owe me nothing but respect, hmm?"
Fuzz stood away from the desk and scrubbed at the back of his neck, where the light brown hair that was growing back in was irritating his pale skin. "Awright," he managed, when he realized the question hadn't been as rhetorical as he'd thought it to have been. "To boot, it's two big tubs come in. One of 'em's Cormite, and t'other's Hawke's. Crews're right cozy, like they've been a good spell together."
"Interesting- and she's home early," Dark mused. "Well, I thank you for your time and your work. How about finding a few locks to pick, to keep your fingers... sweet?"
"You're a practiced pox, Miss," Fuzz chuckled. "Let you be home, and yer shine'd turn blacker'n a devil's arsehole."
"Pen that up, will ye?" Dark smiled wickedly. "Being foreign sometimes has its... advantages."
"It's full idjit thinks yer foreign, innit? But it's salt twixt us," Fuzz shrugged, smiling in a vacant sort of way.
But Dark knew that his lack of intelligence was just as false as was her misunderstanding of the patter used in the Dark Quarter. Its origin, like hers, could be traced right back to the Pirate Isles- if anyone had the brilliant idea to attempt to research either of their murky histories.
Dark cut through her own thoughts with the remembrance that Fuzz's news meant that she had another item on her to-do list. "Well, yer one's salt o'th'locks; off to't."
With a sly wink, Fuzz made his way out of the office.
Dark reached her pale, slender fingers toward Stitches to get his attention, but looked down seconds before her fingers would have made contact with his head. Finding that he had closed his eyes and settled into a sitting position worthy of a religious statue, she got up with intention to blow out her candles.
Stitches hissed immediately- a loud, open mouthed reproach. Even in the dim candle light, the needle points of his teeth could be seen- and they were all clean.
"Oh!" Dark said, startled in spite of herself. "I thought you were- well, I suppose not. But I don't want to disturb your..."
Stitches opened his eyes and looked up at her, unflinchingly gazing into her bright green eyes as though there were nothing else important in the world. For a few moments, Dark lavished her attention on him just as graciously, then remembered and collected herself.
"Well, since you're sitting here doing nothing, go fetch Hammer for Mama," she commanded imperiously, turning back to her letter.
The faintest hint of a smirk tugged at Stitches's lips, looking more like one of his twitches than a voluntary expression. Without a sound, he unfolded his legs, furled himself onto all fours, and scrambled out of the room.
Ye gods, but that is difficult, Dark huffed to herself. Whoever heard of a subservient partner training the dominant one? I had to try, didn't I? Well, let's see, let's see... ah, yes, this part. '...if my mistress will pardon my weakness in the use of Common...' Now that is either an artless lie or an admirable display of subterfuge- the Jackal most certainly does not have any such weakness; his wordplay is magnificent. But the Westgate docks are certainly monitored, by College-trained divination mages no less...
Stitches returned first, but waited just inside the portal to Dark's office until the slow-moving Dwarven woman stumped inside. When she did, he returned to his place next to Dark's desk and resumed his meditation position. A gentle caress swept from the crown of his head to the nape of his neck, then disappeared, and he pulled his lips into a smile tortured with the little zaps and jumps as a response. He sat as quietly as his twitches would allow him, wading out into the middle distance of meditation with the most confidence he'd had since the-
He stopped himself from thinking about that time, deciding instead to merely observe that it had been a long time. Longer than he would have preferred. Just the effort it took to knock his thought off the route that the whole truth would have taken caused a full body tremor to rock him. How long would spoken Undercommon take to regain? Spoken Common? The houses would pay for every moment, every minute, every month. They would pay. They would pay. Stitches's body relaxed into the meditation of his vengeance. Delicious, well-deserved vengeance. For his body, that they weakened, to the point that it was physically painful to stand upright. For his mind, that they tore to unrecognizable shreds, which they knew would effectively destroy his ability to cast the mind-altering spells that they so feared. For his soul, which they had tried- unsuccessfully- to crush. The soul that had been sheltered, been strengthened, been loved by the one young Tiefling woman who had been considered harmless enough to suffer as another slave to the Drow mistresses. They, like so many others, mistook her for a Human, and treated her as miserably as they would have treated a Human woman. And he would avenge that bewildered Tiefling who honorably stumbled where they unworthily strode- yes, his precious thistle. Beautiful wildflower, who- when she had first come from the Isles- used her wiles mainly for self-defense. Only when she took close note of the matron's organization did she learn that her skill set was suited not only to survival, but to profit. In the darkness, without words, the two had strengthened each other, merged into one another- with her, he had sired the rebellion that split the coterie in half. Sweet thistle. Dear thistle. Drow blood would run for her. For his vengeance, and for hers. She had become a mistress who deserved to harness and direct his rage, even though it was older than she was. He would be her perfect monster, the disaster that rolled in like the fiercest of storms only when she commanded it. He would teach her how to command him, and together, they would annihilate the offending houses entirely. Not a babe of their twisted lineages would survive them. Ah, most beautiful and sweet revenge; revenge worthy of the glorious spider goddess, who could bless or curse as she saw fit. Even a curse would be in order; yes, even a curse from that wondrous goddess would be accepted with joy. Stitches could almost feel the cold of the Underdark breathing over his skin as he meditated.
Above Stitches, Dark looked up from her letter as soon as Hammer thumped into her presence. "Ah, wonderful; I was hoping you'd stop by."
"Bullshit," Hammer growled. "Working on a short sword. Talk before the coals go cold."
With a half-smirk, Dark nodded. "I wonder how confident you feel about working with jewelry?"
Hammer grunted in response.
"A Shadar-kai master ring specific to the Darkreach region of the Shadowfell- a piece that could belong to a master of the tiarnai daor."
And predictably, the Dwarf raised her eyebrows at the Tiefling.
"Masterwork," she finally spat. "Ain't cut out for it. Detail so specific as to blind a body. Would take ten days even if I had patience and all the makings of it. Which I don't."
Dark planted her elbows on the stone table before her, then laced her fingers together and rested her chin on them. "What if I told you I could have a sketching of the precise pattern I needed and at least half the materials to you in... three or four days? I'm sure I can get the non-precious metals to you nearly immediately."
"You want a set, then?"
The Tiefling could nearly feel the suspicion rising from the old Dwarf woman. "No," she replied evenly. "I only need a master ring. One that can be worn on the finger, or strung upon a chain, mind you, not one that requires a piercing."
Those words absolutely did not solve Hammer's suspicions. She stroked her braided beard slowly, obviously trying to think her way around what was being said. "Need to see the slave, then."
Dark smiled grimly, satisfied at having fully predicted where Hammer's principal concern would lie. "No, you don't- because I have no intention of getting the magic between the two synced. You see, your ring is going to enable us to play a bit of shuffle with a dunce who is in danger of selling the very real ring to someone who knows what to do with it. When we swap the goods, we'll free the slave."
Hammer's face cracked into a terrifying grin, putting what was left of her worn down, blackened teeth on display. "Can get behind that. Gimme those sketches quick. Need every angle. Masterwork."
Dark's freckled face visibly lightened at Hammer's tacit agreement to the plan. "Absolutely. Our dear idiot is sailed abroad, so some of our delaying work is done for us, but when he comes to port, whatever discreet artist is near at hand will be politely requested to give me the best rendering they can, done?"
"Done," Hammer nodded. "Back to work."
Dark simply nodded at the Dwarf, and watched her stump back out of the office much more quickly than she'd come. Deciding to delay her reply to the Jackal just a bit longer, she opened the wax seal of the note that Fuzzy had brought her.
Oh my, she thought as she scanned it. Nearly a third of all Semmite ships? They'll likely retract to their home ports, then build back stronger; the surge next icebreak-tide will be much worse. I'm sure the Blue Dragons thank every god that Hawke isn't a corsair, or whatever it is they're calling themselves these days- freemariners? Yes, freemariners, that's right. Since 'corsair' is synonymous with 'pirate' for the older captains. I wonder how long it'll take for 'freemariner' to go the same way, how many sunken galleons it'll take. Awww, Qualyn, look how peaceful you are just now. I suppose you'll have to go kill someone soon. Yes, Mama will give you some fresh meat... hmmm... I wonder if you can't get a good, tough Cormite to chew on? You've not had that yet, have you? Although... hmm... better tender Cormite or tough Cormite? Yikes, is this what the mistresses had to think of? How far are we? Tieflings from Drow? Drow from Orcs? Orcs from vampires? Vampires from any of us? How much distance, how much difference, between any of us is there? Or are we all creatures, just as Baba Kafil said? And if, for all our languages, our dreams, our inventions and intentions, we are all creatures, then....
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