Zhavi moved. Every step was a dagger between her shoulderblades, every breath was a knife between her ribs. She felt eyes upon her, and couldn't trust the instinct; she walked the wide slab roads of Limsa, keeping away from places where someone might get a jump on her, keeping to the crowds or the rooftop runways that only those like her knew about or could travel. Sometimes there were advantages to such a light frame as hers.
The air was cool, a hint of warmth driven in from the ocean. She didn't like the wind for the scents it obscured. All of them were sampled: her self-discipline for not smoking paid off in spades.
Highness was busy, and what fruit it had to offer her was rotten and old. She waited a bell too long, getting drunk and nervous, catching sidelong looks for her troubles and no lack of careless sneers. The regulars, the ones who had exchanged coin with her before, knew when she was off her high, and could tell when she was sucking dry. All but a few left her alone, most recognizing her by build and twitchiness and the way her lips pulled to the side when she was off her game.
They wanted to dice with her. She gave them one game, and one loss: it was an expected tax. She might have given them the money without the need to play at a farce, but there was ritual that demanded certain expectations were met. In return, they wouldn't talk about her, would forget she'd been there before the end of the night was over.
Zhi left, a cold slimy spot in her gut urging her to go and hide until it was all over.
Wouldn't be over until she'd gotten rid of the book.
There was a desire to burn it. Brindle's voice haunted her then, asking her if she was craven. Right then she didn't care, because far as she knew she had two sides hunting for her head, and she caught between them without room to breathe.
The taverns blurred together as the night progressed, her drunkenness testament to her desires more than her casual addictions. There were tidbits of information that she took and pressed together, trying to make sense of what it all meant. She was sure that Galleon was still out of town, that he hadn't been in town for a long while, and that his flunkies were damn good at hiding. Brindle was in the wind, his whereabouts unnoticed and uncommented on. The certainty that he'd been taken, or that he'd fled, grew stronger until it caught up with her instinct, and her need to tell him how stupid he was was countered only by her own self-preservation.
She was screwed.
Arranging for a drop was all well and good, but she couldn't trust any proxies left to her and she couldn't very well show up; assassination might be frowned upon between Limsa's citizens, but that didn't mean it never happened. Where there were those specialized in killing killers, there were also those specialized in avoiding the killers of killers.
The words tangled in her head, and she paused to giggle, one hand pressed to rough stone and the other to her stomach. She'd too much to drink. When had that happened?
Another bar lay ahead of her, one that stayed open late. There were choices, and choices, and Zhavi Streetrunner stuck her fingers down her throat and pressed her head up against the wall, stomach clenching and clenching with her mouth wide open and her breath freshly fouled by acid and booze. She was shuddering when she was done, took a piss while she was there in the street, alone and miserable, still full of booze and her bad decisions.
Alternate buyer.
She had to. There was no other choice. She stuck her fingers down her throat again, conscious that she'd need to drink and buy drinks else she'd be crowded back out the door; there were some places you could go and buy but not drink, but these were the best shitholes Limsa had to offer. You had to be sloppy and entertaining when you weren't more than some lowly runner.
Zhi sniffed, hawked and spat, leaving behind a wretched mess and the dredges of her dignity.
She entered the bar with her head up and some feckless grin splitting her lips wide open.
The air was cool, a hint of warmth driven in from the ocean. She didn't like the wind for the scents it obscured. All of them were sampled: her self-discipline for not smoking paid off in spades.
Highness was busy, and what fruit it had to offer her was rotten and old. She waited a bell too long, getting drunk and nervous, catching sidelong looks for her troubles and no lack of careless sneers. The regulars, the ones who had exchanged coin with her before, knew when she was off her high, and could tell when she was sucking dry. All but a few left her alone, most recognizing her by build and twitchiness and the way her lips pulled to the side when she was off her game.
They wanted to dice with her. She gave them one game, and one loss: it was an expected tax. She might have given them the money without the need to play at a farce, but there was ritual that demanded certain expectations were met. In return, they wouldn't talk about her, would forget she'd been there before the end of the night was over.
Zhi left, a cold slimy spot in her gut urging her to go and hide until it was all over.
Wouldn't be over until she'd gotten rid of the book.
There was a desire to burn it. Brindle's voice haunted her then, asking her if she was craven. Right then she didn't care, because far as she knew she had two sides hunting for her head, and she caught between them without room to breathe.
The taverns blurred together as the night progressed, her drunkenness testament to her desires more than her casual addictions. There were tidbits of information that she took and pressed together, trying to make sense of what it all meant. She was sure that Galleon was still out of town, that he hadn't been in town for a long while, and that his flunkies were damn good at hiding. Brindle was in the wind, his whereabouts unnoticed and uncommented on. The certainty that he'd been taken, or that he'd fled, grew stronger until it caught up with her instinct, and her need to tell him how stupid he was was countered only by her own self-preservation.
She was screwed.
Arranging for a drop was all well and good, but she couldn't trust any proxies left to her and she couldn't very well show up; assassination might be frowned upon between Limsa's citizens, but that didn't mean it never happened. Where there were those specialized in killing killers, there were also those specialized in avoiding the killers of killers.
The words tangled in her head, and she paused to giggle, one hand pressed to rough stone and the other to her stomach. She'd too much to drink. When had that happened?
Another bar lay ahead of her, one that stayed open late. There were choices, and choices, and Zhavi Streetrunner stuck her fingers down her throat and pressed her head up against the wall, stomach clenching and clenching with her mouth wide open and her breath freshly fouled by acid and booze. She was shuddering when she was done, took a piss while she was there in the street, alone and miserable, still full of booze and her bad decisions.
Alternate buyer.
She had to. There was no other choice. She stuck her fingers down her throat again, conscious that she'd need to drink and buy drinks else she'd be crowded back out the door; there were some places you could go and buy but not drink, but these were the best shitholes Limsa had to offer. You had to be sloppy and entertaining when you weren't more than some lowly runner.
Zhi sniffed, hawked and spat, leaving behind a wretched mess and the dredges of her dignity.
She entered the bar with her head up and some feckless grin splitting her lips wide open.
