Up. She'd gone up. Of course; why hadn't he thought of that?
'Cause I was Problemsolver. Wasn't ever any kinda Streetrunner.
He quit bangin' his fool noggin against the marble, rested it there instead, and opened his eyes to smile up at Kink. Her mad rictus didn't worry him none; 'twas the shite-eating grin of a professional, and a professional was what he needed right now.
"Aight. Standard rates, and an extra three hundred for y'troubles." He frowned. "I'm ever in town again and ye're needin' more, don't be piss yellow 'bout touchin' me. I'd owe you for this."
He dropped his head back down to stare at the opposite wall: worn, battered, wet, covered in Llymlaen's own moss.
"Papers're like as not locked up tight at their headquarters on the Aftcastle. Maelstrom Command. North Tower oughta be Records Administration. That's a floor up, at least, behind locked doors and guarded hallways."
He looked back up, sober and straight-faced, to impress on her how serious this was.
"That's why I'm willin' t'pay Nald's own fortune for this job. Gods-damned difficult. You'll need to hire out to even get in... so. Expenses. Anything you need, anyone you hire, let me know. I'll front the cost. Can't pay you more," he smirked. "but that doesn't mean I can't pay others."
He pushed himself to his feet, gathered up his belongings, took one last look at Dax, her not seven years past bein' the up-and-coming star runner o' the streets, and got out his purse and a spare bag. In went half her fee - three hundred and sixty, if m'numbers are right and m'head's not muddled, seventy 'cause I'm new, two hundred fifty for a job done, a hundred for danger, three hundred extra for drowning her, cut that in half, it's three hundred and sixty - and up went the bag in an underhanded toss.
"I'll be at the Mizzenmast. Room twenty-three. We square?"
'Cause I was Problemsolver. Wasn't ever any kinda Streetrunner.
He quit bangin' his fool noggin against the marble, rested it there instead, and opened his eyes to smile up at Kink. Her mad rictus didn't worry him none; 'twas the shite-eating grin of a professional, and a professional was what he needed right now.
"Aight. Standard rates, and an extra three hundred for y'troubles." He frowned. "I'm ever in town again and ye're needin' more, don't be piss yellow 'bout touchin' me. I'd owe you for this."
He dropped his head back down to stare at the opposite wall: worn, battered, wet, covered in Llymlaen's own moss.
"Papers're like as not locked up tight at their headquarters on the Aftcastle. Maelstrom Command. North Tower oughta be Records Administration. That's a floor up, at least, behind locked doors and guarded hallways."
He looked back up, sober and straight-faced, to impress on her how serious this was.
"That's why I'm willin' t'pay Nald's own fortune for this job. Gods-damned difficult. You'll need to hire out to even get in... so. Expenses. Anything you need, anyone you hire, let me know. I'll front the cost. Can't pay you more," he smirked. "but that doesn't mean I can't pay others."
He pushed himself to his feet, gathered up his belongings, took one last look at Dax, her not seven years past bein' the up-and-coming star runner o' the streets, and got out his purse and a spare bag. In went half her fee - three hundred and sixty, if m'numbers are right and m'head's not muddled, seventy 'cause I'm new, two hundred fifty for a job done, a hundred for danger, three hundred extra for drowning her, cut that in half, it's three hundred and sixty - and up went the bag in an underhanded toss.
"I'll be at the Mizzenmast. Room twenty-three. We square?"
![[Image: 1qVSsTp.png]](http://i.imgur.com/1qVSsTp.png)
