[ P ] black sea.

She's done this a million times. She's made sure to cover herself in the scent of dirt. She doesn't really remember when this first started. Maybe it was when she was searching for the last of her mothers' trail or maybe it had been after her sister's death. She'd been even younger then. As long as you had what they wanted, money or services, the tavern was open; doors wide. Little mongrels, whether children of the thieves and ruffians ran amongst the outside of the tavern, she could slip in. Soon, she'll be old enough for them not to do a double-take at her. She stays quiet, slipping into the underground tunnels and making sure to walk along the walls that stink of fermented berries the most, that way she smells more like it all. The main room is a bar, that she slid into, keeping herself tucked near the wall until she slid into a place in the corner, where shadows make up most of her face. The circles of gray around her eyes make her look older than she truly is. She doesn't know what she's here for, but after a few run ins with the Army and the weight of Samhain on her shoulders, she feels she needs a moment away. She needs a moment from the emotions that do plunder even when bad spirits are being pushed away. She needs a minute to breathe, and to get to a place where she feels at home. In the Thieves' Guild, there's a certain feeling. She'd never fully join it - not that she believes so, she works in the commonwealth and has no real intent in harm for others. Only those who ruined a hunt or disturbed her in her morning rituals of bathing and letting the air of the forest sink in to her fur before she went out. For now, she sat in the broken down hole in the wall. There was a little commotion but not much more than normal, she leaned against the back wall, waiting for an opportune moment to slip to the bar and order a drink. For now, she just took in the scene, laughter between some and cold stares between others. Lifetimes happening within mere seconds of each other, betrayals, promises, it's all so interesting. A life that never happened on the outside, the market. It was different here. It felt like a whole other world. And somedays, it was. When bar fights broke out and there were drunken parts of different Guilds tossing themselves at each other - and getting caught in the wake of an angry drunken wolf in the mood for a fight. There are no Army soldiers to run into and she's used to protecting herself. Whether it be the prey she hunts or rowdy crowds of hungry masses, she's pretty equip to handle herself.

ART+CODE ➤ amphi

@Cillian

Cillian emerged from a small doorway beyond the bar, where further stock for the bar was typically stored. His whipcord figure loomed out of its shadow, yellow eyes slightly lazy but pupils at a pinpoint as he took a strong sniff that wrinkled his twitching snout.
"Pleasure doing business with you." He muttered, barely turning his head to look over his shoulder at the wolf that emerged behind him, pupils similarly tight, but eyes more manic as they seemed to look around the room fervently.
" When will you be through again?" Cillian grinned as he took a seat at the bar, as his company moved behind the bar and fetched him a drink he must have either already ordered, or was just well known for preferring.
"What i gave you should last until then." He gave such a non-committal, uncertain answer, but the bar-wolf seemed to trust it enough as they continued on with their business serving the other patrons, their snout twitching and demeanour on a buzzing edge.

Cillian's buzz, however, was low and slow. He was more experienced; more familiar with the process and the product. He knew how to take just enough to feel good, without feeling either numb or like a hummingbird.
Slowly lapping at his beverage, Cillian paid attention to the room. The Drunken Seagull was the closest thing to a 'happy place' the dark-hearted wolf had. Good drinks, loyal patrons to both it and his services, others of his guild for company (even if he often only preferred his own), and always the thrum of boisterous activity... and the threat of a fight. Whether he partook or simply observed, it warmed his cold heart in the worst of ways.

But as he cast his gaze about the room, something else warmed him when his sickly eyes came to rest upon it. With a low, slow growl he lifted his maw from his drink and leaned from his sat position toward the young thing, a leering grin curling his dark lips.
"Hello young thing..." His lazy, pin-prick eyes were fixed to Haricott, and his voice rolled from his throat in a drawling rattle of a breath.

No one really scared her. That was one of the good things about growing up in the market place. It taught her about the real world. Instead of chasing leaves through the forest, she was sat in front of the stones were her mothers used to do business. As sweet as her mothers were to her, they had a dark side that came out at the market - if someone got shitty with them. Hari knew the instant it would happen, some angry customer got vexed about haggling worked with her mothers. First, her mother who was more the muscles of the two; she would clench her nails into the ground, skin stretched tightly over her knuckles. And then, her mother who knew every plant's names, her eyes would go dark, angered - by then, if the customer wasn't shaking in their boots, she would bark out 'final offer.' She'd never seen it go beyond that point. But she knows, what would have happened if she wasn't there. When she was 'sent ahead' of her mothers. Something draws her attention from the sweet memories that bliss past her mind, moments of her mothers, her siblings. Her eyes were darker underneath the dim light of the Tavern, no lime seemed to simmer within the pools. It was a seasoned man, one that was definitely older than she was. He slithered over like a snake about to snap onto it's prey. She knew the look. It was lust, whether for the kill or the hunt, she knew it well, as a hunter herself. 'Hello young thing...' His breath is hot and riddled with the scent of fermented berries. Her eyes set on him, through the dark circles of her eyes, she peers. She wasn't stupid, she wasn't raised to be taken advantage of. She was a woman of her own making, her mothers preached about it constantly, being smart, being aware, and not getting yourself killed. 'But it's easier when you have a partner by your side.' She recalled her mothers' voice echoing, and then falling into a kiss with her other mom. A smile almost twitched, almost. "Hey there, bairn." Her voice drawls, lush and slow. In her mind, her brain whirled; she knew what she was doing. In the art of it all, she too, took on prey. Even if they weren't other wolves, she perceives it all; how to read the language. If the shadows didn't protect some of her face, he might be able to see the tension along her mouth, forced into a sly smile. It's a mask for the gritting teeth and heat that runs up the spine of her back. It prickled up, making her shoulders hot and tingly. To think that he might get one over on her, as if she's new in this place. To some new, young thing, they might have been naïve enough. She'd even scoff as they would walk off, but maybe today, he'll get a taste of his own medicine. Like a magician, she shows nothing, but has a trick up her sleeve.

ART+CODE ➤ amphi

@Cillian

He growled low and slow at her surprisingly favourable reaction to his leering. In some ways, that pleased him... in others, it disappointed him that it seemed so easy. But he was no fool.

Cillian is not a trusting wolf. Even in his slightly inebriated state, he is sharp. It was not only the drink affecting his senses, currently. He simply handled other substances with far more experience that his bar-wolf client did, and his sensibilities were keen for their influence.
He's had to be sharp, and careful, his whole life; he learned very young that the only wolf you can truly rely upon is yourself. And sometimes, not even that. This young wolf, in this place, reacting to him like that... she was either a working she-wolf, or had her own game to play. Even the former had its risks. He must be careful with this one... but... he was intrigued. By her confidence? By the challenge? By how much sweeter it might be when he destroyed both, if he should decide to do so? There had been many a young thing he had led astray over the years, and though he wasn't cruel to them all, he was rarely what one would consider kind. For all he knew, he'd sired more than a few unwelcome litters across the country.

"A highlander..." He knew the tongue, though he was not especially gifted in its use, having no parents to teach him his heritage. "A long way from home for such a bonnie lass." His own grin pulled his rough lips into a jagged line, baring some teeth. He sensed a game was afoot... and he would play. For now. "You must do well for yourself. How much for a night?" It was a calculated jab, testing her 'armour', and how she would react to such an improper suggestion of her morals. But it was not an entirely unsafe assumption, for such a wolf in such a place as this.

The hot stench around the Tavern is fermented berries and vomit. Humid and the taste of sand in everyone's mouth if they went without a tree for too long. Black sand dusted on the ground from the outside as the rain leaks in from the roofs of the tunnels - some being older and more broken down than others. It feels home in the way the forest felt. Shaped by time and events that they'll never really think about too much, just that they were there when blood smeared across the walls and the keepers had to scrub it with sea-water. It made the whole place stink with fish piss for a few days, but after that, they're back to the smell of rotting fruit and bile. Booze fills in stray conch shells, filling to the brim with alcohol and the scent of other wolves' mouths. Rarely ever washed and scrubbed down with sea water. She wasn't even a drink in when she was preyed upon, the balance of predator in both their paws; in different ways that play both into them. He doesn't move an inch and neither does she, locked in the smell of beer and the sound of laughter around them. No one cared about what was happening in their little corner, mind your own business. It was one of the main rules here, no one ever really interfered, unless the booze was getting spilt. That's when the bar-keepers would step in and order everyone who had blood on them to get the fuck out and come back when they were sober - to spend more time and money in a place that slowly drained the life out of the lot of them. Though some, those bred for evil, they thrived in it all. Survived off the misery that can come off the Mainland in waves. After all, almost all Mainlanders are jaded assholes. She'd heard the stories of each and everyone of them, royalists, loyal to the crown - and those Imperial jackasses. She held back the spit and rage that she felt within herself for all of the rules that were coming into place for a false king. She knows who the true ruler is, and even if she has to wait, for the dust to blow over from the last rebellion, it will rise again. Jacob will take his throne, and whether that means her life as a thief, it will be over. She's here for the risk, for the right members that might be able to get a job that she can't done. She lingers in the shadows, to somewhat be known as a commoner among the Tavern. That meant the ruffians could trust she wasn't a tattler. Tactics she'd put into place almost every weekend, and now one is right in front of her, her smile pushes a bit crooked on her lips - left side quirked up farther than the right. 'A highlander...' He inquired, her accent easy to detect around these parts. She could put a fake voice on, force her roots to be turned off for the sake of keeping herself in one completely separate mask then the one she normally carries. He caters to her, bonny, he murmurs like he knows where it comes from. But he's no Highlander, he's from the Lowlands, it's almost easy to tell. Almost all thieves come from the Lowlands, those too smart for the College who knew the truth, there was rebellion sparking in the underground and brains is no match for strength, not when it really comes down to it. His crooked teeth make her look to his eyes, barely a redeeming quality about him. They're older, colder than she could ever imagine seeing on anyone's face, not even in the market-place. The further South she went, the closer to Hell she got, where the demons were stored and the Fae never went. She doesn't react to his pampering. A long way from home, that she is, but she's strong enough to make the travel. "You think so?" She taunts, "How do you know I'm not living in the slums?" She purrs, voice soft. 'Like the rest of you?' She holds her tongue, cutting her voice off before she can give away the perfect composure of a perfect, naïve little lady. If there's anything she knows how to do, it's how to play her part. A knife in above her ribs, he tries to jab, right where her armor is stacked highest, her underbelly is always protected. Though it does make her want to jump onto him and show him what she can do, she is more composed than she is willing to admit. She could look death in the face and smile, sinister within it all, she comes from the dark. "More than a little drug money can buy." She's not stupid, she's seen the little man he came out of the backroom with at the bar, still shaking with wide eyes, searching for soldiers that would never set foot in here. She grins still, smile never leaving, shifting into a more comfortable spot, before she signals for a drink.

ART+CODE ➤ amphi

@Cillian

Cillian listens, and observes. She's clever... he can see how clever she is in the way he can't see anything. She gives nothing away, but to someone like Cillian, that in itself speaks tomes.
Perhaps it's only paranoia, and in fact he recognises nothing, but he believes it's there none the less... perhaps that's just experience, and wisdom, that has come with age.
"You don't live in the slums." He speaks quietly, flatly, his eyes scanning her obviously, but it is no longer a leer. It's analytical. "And you're no working girl either." He says it with a tone of concession, admitting his mistake with no shame or self-derision. A prostitute would not baulk at 'a little drug money's... in fact, most would offer service in exchange for the drugs themselves, foregoing the money entirely.

His sickly yellow eyes stopped scanning her, only to fall sharply on her own, holding eye contact (if she allowed), and his grin dropped to a flat line. A formal expression, to match his latest suspicions. Again, he could not be certain, not really... but he tended to trust his instincts after so long.
"You have work?" She was either a member of the Guild he'd not yet had the pleasure to meet, or she'd come in search of the Guild with a job to offer... either way, he had some time to spare for the right amount of coin.

The clatter of conch shells, half full of booze and others; spit. Laughter erupts behind the two of them. Haricott's eyes never lose sight of the crook that's in front of her. Locked in a game of chess; two thieves on guard. Strangers practically never, especially those of the Thieves Guild; let those shields down. She can hear the scuffling of someone seeing her request for a drink. Her slice through the depths of him as his first mask is taken off. She chuckled, sharp and sarcastic. 'You don't live in the slums.' He says. That's for sure. She didn't. She'd worked hard to make sure that wouldn't happen. The show's over, what had built up tension between her and he. A heat that builds between a "working girl" and her client. Hari had never been a working girl - so he'd gotten that right. She knew a different heat, one between prey and predator. She mimicked it for their starting conversation. He, the predator, and she the prey; until one of them slips up. And so does she, her shoulders slump a little. She'd came here to get away, not put another show on. "For a thief, you're quite dulled." Every one of them in here, is as sharp as a knife. And maybe he is too, but she smirked; sly and oddly wide for her narrow face. Now, she can stab him in the ribs too, even if it is only with the words. Her heat dissipates with the slip of words, letting it into the air. Within the change of their tones, his face flattens and hers stays splayed as if she is still on show. She had to maintain some sort of professionalism. Some sort of mask. Sometimes, she doesn't even know who the real Haricott had become. As soon as the thought burned a spot into the back of her mind, the bar-keep shuffled over, sliding down a conch shell with their muzzle and then trotting off to the scuffle that was starting on the other end of the bar. Haricott chuffed at it, before leaning down, eyes finally leaving him to look at the fight beyond them. Before neon green peers back at him, taking a sip of her drink. 'You have work?' She straightened her back and answered with a shake of her head. "Not for you, surely." Drugs weren't her thing. She relied on her senses and couldn't be caught in a daze on the job - she wouldn't survive without her natural self in all its form. She needed it. She needed to stay vigilant. "I came here for a drink before you mistook me as a common whore." For a teenager, her mouth is sharp.

ART+CODE ➤ amphi

@Cillian

"Well. I have had a few." He indicates toward his drink, but the pin-prick of his eyes and the slight sniff he makes as he turns to take a few laps of it give away a little more of what exactly those 'few' comprised of.
As she did, Cillian also turned toward the sounds of a fight. On some level, it thrilled him to see the violence unfold. On another level, it frustrated him that it wasn't more violent. But on the surface, he appeared apathetic. Cillian's mind is a rat's nest within a cobra pit swarming with venomous pests and wrapped in barbed vines; constant danger and never ending chaos... but over the years, he'd learned to tame the noise. Disguise it. Use it.
He turned away from the fight, a voice screaming for him to join in and escalate clawing at the back of his eyeballs, but he remained outwardly still and calm. He returned to his drink, but noted that the she-wolf too had looked toward the flight before she answered him.
"Suit yourself." Cillian snorted. "A simple mistake, easily made."

Even though he wasn't looking in its direction, Cillian kept other sense trained on the fight. Not out of concern, or wariness, but because it entertained him. He wanted to smell that first spill of blood, hear that first breaking of the skin or maybe even a bone. But alas, it seemed not to be as the bar-wolf moved to intervene.
Such a shame.