Two candles were all that lit the innards of the tiny old tailoring shop, casting dim, forgiving light. They were set in the back room, leaving the shop darkened to all but the sharpest of eyes. The sun was setting, though it was hard to tell beneath the covering of clouds; the sky was all of a single shade. It'd been promising rain for the past week, but for a few fitful spurts of drizzle here and there, there'd been nothing. Sailors and Limsa's denizens alike were getting nervous and antsy. Not a few tempers had worn thin as they waited for the storm to burst.
The air smelled of electricity, emptied bowels and blood.
Zhi looked out of the doorway of the backroom, squinting out into the half-light. The windows had steamed from the surplus of hot water some no-name girl-child belonging to the shop owner had hauled in, and she couldn't see out from her position. Her hands stilled in their task, and she waited, listening, only her ears moving as she searched for some errant sound. Nothing.
She spat down into the mess at her knees, a tangled effluvia of death and soap tainting the air. There were worse smells in the city, she reminded herself as she dipped her scrubbing-brush into one of the buckets. There were worse tasks. Unthinking, she lifted her hand to the ear-clasp that pierced her inner ear, perched fat and bloody like some old tick. She picked at it. The silence stretched but for the dim hissing of bubbles popping in one of the buckets. The girl-child had returned twice, setting fresh buckets in the lee of the rear alley-exit. There had been a lot of blood. The bodies, rolled up in old canvas and stacked neatly on a bit of ruined carpet, were a good reminder of why it was necessary that this task be properly finished. She'd been beholden to bond-holders before.
With a sigh and a few rolls of her shoulders, she bent back to the task, finding a rhythm in both movement and sound of the hard-bristled brush against the wood and soapy water. After this would come the sweet rushes and incense. It would not do for a lawful tailor shop to smell of such unpleasantness. Just like it wouldn't do for her to bear the weight of unpleasantness that would fall upon her for doing poorly at such a menial job. Zhavi Streetrunner was not especially known for being thorough, but when set to a task with the stick-carrot of pain and coin, she could fulfill and exceed expectations.
Time passed in that quiet susurrus of sound and smell.
Her guard relaxed.
The air smelled of electricity, emptied bowels and blood.
Zhi looked out of the doorway of the backroom, squinting out into the half-light. The windows had steamed from the surplus of hot water some no-name girl-child belonging to the shop owner had hauled in, and she couldn't see out from her position. Her hands stilled in their task, and she waited, listening, only her ears moving as she searched for some errant sound. Nothing.
She spat down into the mess at her knees, a tangled effluvia of death and soap tainting the air. There were worse smells in the city, she reminded herself as she dipped her scrubbing-brush into one of the buckets. There were worse tasks. Unthinking, she lifted her hand to the ear-clasp that pierced her inner ear, perched fat and bloody like some old tick. She picked at it. The silence stretched but for the dim hissing of bubbles popping in one of the buckets. The girl-child had returned twice, setting fresh buckets in the lee of the rear alley-exit. There had been a lot of blood. The bodies, rolled up in old canvas and stacked neatly on a bit of ruined carpet, were a good reminder of why it was necessary that this task be properly finished. She'd been beholden to bond-holders before.
With a sigh and a few rolls of her shoulders, she bent back to the task, finding a rhythm in both movement and sound of the hard-bristled brush against the wood and soapy water. After this would come the sweet rushes and incense. It would not do for a lawful tailor shop to smell of such unpleasantness. Just like it wouldn't do for her to bear the weight of unpleasantness that would fall upon her for doing poorly at such a menial job. Zhavi Streetrunner was not especially known for being thorough, but when set to a task with the stick-carrot of pain and coin, she could fulfill and exceed expectations.
Time passed in that quiet susurrus of sound and smell.
Her guard relaxed.
