Ul'dah stunk like dust, and dirt, and sweat. It coated the skin, the mouth, and the inside of Zhi's nose, so that she couldn't breathe for sneezing and frequently got nosebleeds.
"It ain't th' air what makes yer nose bleed."
Had she been muttering? Zhi bounced from foot to foot, glaring up at Brindle as he looked innocently away. "'S too hot," she groused, wiping at the sweat that was already starting to coat her forehead. Everywhere else too, but she wasn't about to go slapping at herself. Scratching, however...
"Gods, Zhi, really?"
"Go," Zhi snapped, flinging a hand in a careless direction as they funneled out of the receiving area for the airships and towards the elevator. "Go away. Be useful. Get me infermation, laddo, afore I take it out o' yer hide."
She'd never been so annoying. He tossed her some semblance of salute, grinning like he'd guessed her current train of thought, and they kept that silence all the way down. He dashed out once the lift reached its end, and Zhi stared after him. To any casual observer, he was just another Ul'dah streetkid, indistinguishable but for the occasional off word or gesture. She? The Limsan way of walking, all rolling steps and loose-armed ego, was imprinted in her to her bones. She'd thought herself a fair act, but her time away from Limsa had only served to show her just how shaped she'd been by the city she'd grown up in. Not that time couldn't scrub that away like it did everything else.
Brindle was affixed to places of crossing, so she knew he'd set to the markets -- which meant she was left to her very most favorite haunts: places that sold alcohol and other.
-
The smoke hanging hazy in the air smelled wonderful in the way it did to those who weren't quite ready to give it up. If only the same could be said for the rest of the room, which gave up sweat, booze, vomit, and ... various other bodily fluids. Perfect.
Zhavi took a seat next to the biggest cluster of scrags, sitting upright but slumped -- just another lowlife come to feed at the table. Which, really... Not the point. She had her order, took her time looking over the broken lamps and dimly lit walls, taking in the slightly fuzzy texture of every visible surface. Judging by the smell, cleaning was second to excess, and that was perfectly fine with her. She doubted they could even smell her; the room was its own coagulation of present and past odors.
Conversations and people came and went, far enough along that a few eyefuls of sinuous, long-past-retirement wenches eventually turned into a handful, which turned into ... gil exchanging hands. The right hands. The good thing about broken down dumps was that their standards were even lower than Zhi's -- and that weren't nothing to complain about. Still, she was nursing the right kind of headache when she finally heard gossip pertaining to her original intention, and she wasn't nowhere near hazed enough to let it go to waste. She let the conversation -- about the right jockey, ruttin' scrag -- play out and start to die before she caught up her thread.
The man she wanted to talk to was a cartwright, evidently working on the wagons of one of the merchants who visited the races to gouge prices on items otherwise not worth mentioning. Everyone had something to say about merchants. So, she contributed. She said, overloud: "Trust merchants t'always be there when summat happens, aye? Blimmin' scavengers, they is."
There was a nod, and a flicked glance towards her before she was dismissed: nothing particularly exciting about another washed up junkie, after all, and she'd not said anything worth getting worked up over.
But the cartwright nodded, evidently a blasted enough sod to enjoy any attention lain upon him. Sad bastard. "Aye, but lissen, they get it taken right out o' them, at the races. Silver Bazaar charges a fee, see? Outta hear them moneyed tots cry."
This time, there was a ripple of dark laughter, all of it muted and rinsed down with vapors and questionable liquids.
"They're payin' yer drinkin'n gamblin' money," Zhi pointed out with half a grin that lasted exactly four seconds.
She shooed off the wench still perched on her lap, and took a seat at the group's table. They all obviously worked hard, given their burly upper bodies...and played hard, given that their guts had no doubt seen an endless supply of cheap booze. She stood out by contrast, all skin and bones, marked by hard use. They sized her up, making their assumptions, and she let them -- giving a sneer that showed just what she thought of them. The table's ambience shifted, and settled.
"May be, but they ain't done me no great service. Just more merchants."
Easy. The next few quips got Zhi names of merchant company and merchants, folk who'd been at the event in question. Rumors, and gossip, and opinions on the living and deceased, coated in sarcasm and cynicism, and in language that could make even a sailor blush. A young one, anyways.
By the time she left, she was feeling a sight more relaxed. She took a sideline to sell a few questionable substances she'd...secreted on the trip over (part of the boon of being so reprehensibly unhygienic was that the customs officers invariably chose self comfort over valor, and left her and her cheap ass clothes well enough alone), the proceeds of which would cover her bill at the rather rundown boarding house they always stayed at.
Brindle was already there, catching sleep. He woke up when she opened the door to their room, and was bright-eyed in no time. They exchanged a report: names of expected merchants, possible nobodies, strangers, and one that caught Zhi's ears.
Johi Jade. Apothecary and supplier to some of the more exotic demands, including the refiner Zhi was supposed to have gotten the drop from. Before it was raided and stolen. Possibly a coincidence, but with the way things were shaping up, Zhi was going to be visiting the woman first. In the (cringe) morning.
For the millionth time, Zhi wished she'd been born as anything but a nocturnal Keeper.
She slept terribly.
"It ain't th' air what makes yer nose bleed."
Had she been muttering? Zhi bounced from foot to foot, glaring up at Brindle as he looked innocently away. "'S too hot," she groused, wiping at the sweat that was already starting to coat her forehead. Everywhere else too, but she wasn't about to go slapping at herself. Scratching, however...
"Gods, Zhi, really?"
"Go," Zhi snapped, flinging a hand in a careless direction as they funneled out of the receiving area for the airships and towards the elevator. "Go away. Be useful. Get me infermation, laddo, afore I take it out o' yer hide."
She'd never been so annoying. He tossed her some semblance of salute, grinning like he'd guessed her current train of thought, and they kept that silence all the way down. He dashed out once the lift reached its end, and Zhi stared after him. To any casual observer, he was just another Ul'dah streetkid, indistinguishable but for the occasional off word or gesture. She? The Limsan way of walking, all rolling steps and loose-armed ego, was imprinted in her to her bones. She'd thought herself a fair act, but her time away from Limsa had only served to show her just how shaped she'd been by the city she'd grown up in. Not that time couldn't scrub that away like it did everything else.
Brindle was affixed to places of crossing, so she knew he'd set to the markets -- which meant she was left to her very most favorite haunts: places that sold alcohol and other.
-
The smoke hanging hazy in the air smelled wonderful in the way it did to those who weren't quite ready to give it up. If only the same could be said for the rest of the room, which gave up sweat, booze, vomit, and ... various other bodily fluids. Perfect.
Zhavi took a seat next to the biggest cluster of scrags, sitting upright but slumped -- just another lowlife come to feed at the table. Which, really... Not the point. She had her order, took her time looking over the broken lamps and dimly lit walls, taking in the slightly fuzzy texture of every visible surface. Judging by the smell, cleaning was second to excess, and that was perfectly fine with her. She doubted they could even smell her; the room was its own coagulation of present and past odors.
Conversations and people came and went, far enough along that a few eyefuls of sinuous, long-past-retirement wenches eventually turned into a handful, which turned into ... gil exchanging hands. The right hands. The good thing about broken down dumps was that their standards were even lower than Zhi's -- and that weren't nothing to complain about. Still, she was nursing the right kind of headache when she finally heard gossip pertaining to her original intention, and she wasn't nowhere near hazed enough to let it go to waste. She let the conversation -- about the right jockey, ruttin' scrag -- play out and start to die before she caught up her thread.
The man she wanted to talk to was a cartwright, evidently working on the wagons of one of the merchants who visited the races to gouge prices on items otherwise not worth mentioning. Everyone had something to say about merchants. So, she contributed. She said, overloud: "Trust merchants t'always be there when summat happens, aye? Blimmin' scavengers, they is."
There was a nod, and a flicked glance towards her before she was dismissed: nothing particularly exciting about another washed up junkie, after all, and she'd not said anything worth getting worked up over.
But the cartwright nodded, evidently a blasted enough sod to enjoy any attention lain upon him. Sad bastard. "Aye, but lissen, they get it taken right out o' them, at the races. Silver Bazaar charges a fee, see? Outta hear them moneyed tots cry."
This time, there was a ripple of dark laughter, all of it muted and rinsed down with vapors and questionable liquids.
"They're payin' yer drinkin'n gamblin' money," Zhi pointed out with half a grin that lasted exactly four seconds.
She shooed off the wench still perched on her lap, and took a seat at the group's table. They all obviously worked hard, given their burly upper bodies...and played hard, given that their guts had no doubt seen an endless supply of cheap booze. She stood out by contrast, all skin and bones, marked by hard use. They sized her up, making their assumptions, and she let them -- giving a sneer that showed just what she thought of them. The table's ambience shifted, and settled.
"May be, but they ain't done me no great service. Just more merchants."
Easy. The next few quips got Zhi names of merchant company and merchants, folk who'd been at the event in question. Rumors, and gossip, and opinions on the living and deceased, coated in sarcasm and cynicism, and in language that could make even a sailor blush. A young one, anyways.
By the time she left, she was feeling a sight more relaxed. She took a sideline to sell a few questionable substances she'd...secreted on the trip over (part of the boon of being so reprehensibly unhygienic was that the customs officers invariably chose self comfort over valor, and left her and her cheap ass clothes well enough alone), the proceeds of which would cover her bill at the rather rundown boarding house they always stayed at.
Brindle was already there, catching sleep. He woke up when she opened the door to their room, and was bright-eyed in no time. They exchanged a report: names of expected merchants, possible nobodies, strangers, and one that caught Zhi's ears.
Johi Jade. Apothecary and supplier to some of the more exotic demands, including the refiner Zhi was supposed to have gotten the drop from. Before it was raided and stolen. Possibly a coincidence, but with the way things were shaping up, Zhi was going to be visiting the woman first. In the (cringe) morning.
For the millionth time, Zhi wished she'd been born as anything but a nocturnal Keeper.
She slept terribly.
