Zhavi

Zhi winked at him, then looked down quick. She bit her lip. Licked her lips. "So," she said, voice artificially bright, "How's me learnin' gonna go, then?" She held the book as if it was some strange, foreign artifact.

Bad idea. The whole mess of it had been a staggeringly awful idea. Zhi's arms and legs didn't want to function, couldn't function with the scatterbuzzed signals she was sending them. Which way was up? She was dizzy, unfocused. Enough to vomit. There was enough blood gone down into her stomach to vomit back up. It didn't, thank Nald'thal. She gagged instead, felt the rough prick of the ground under her palms; it was as grainy as the ringing in her ears. It was fuzzed. All of it fuzzed, and she was nothing more than a liquid smear on the ground. His hand was firm on her. He took some of her weight. Even on her hands and knees, she listed like she was bad drunk, blackout drunk, and she had her share of grim memories with which she could compare the moment. They spread out in her mind like a fresh hand of cards. Zhavi blinked. "Smokes," she said, her voice little more than a harsh breath of noise. She shifted her weight to one hand, her other starting to come up before she thought better of it and kept her weight as evenly spread as she could. Blood was dripping onto the ground from her nose.

Could just have him go totally super undercover with Jaded where he doesn't want to communicate with anyone from his normal life in order not to trip up... or something. If it's not like more than a few months, that should work just fine.

Zhi was standing up. Until she wasn't. Blink, up. Blink, down. Blink, gone. Snatches of time didn't even register, but the buzzing constant was the dazedness, and the pain. But, right then, even though it hurt she knew it wasn't the worst. The second, sometimes third day? Those were the worst. Right now, the shock of it, the adrenaline, that kept it bearable enough for her to absorb most of the blows without crying uncle. Though, she did cry out. It came out of her in grunts and short, sharp yells. No helping that. He was talking, but she didn't quite catch all of it. Not really, but she got the gist. "Kick me," she got out, though breathing was an effort and a half and she sure didn't feel like talking. She folded over, curled into a ball. She hoped he didn't get her in the kidney. Pissing blood ruttin' hurt. She was swallowing blood without meaning to; it had clogged up in her nose, and now it was sliding down her throat. Warm, thick, slick. She choked on it, coughed and spat. Unpleasant feeling. She focused on it.

Her grin was surprised and full of delight. She accepted the book, and opened it. The letters looked. . .pretty. She looked up at Styrm, eyebrow raised. "From Master Lolotaru, aye? Tch, this ain't yer present t'go gaffin' on about!" She lifted the book and waggled it at him.

Thing with taking punches to the head was that each hit almost blanked her. Her vision would go white, and she got dazed fast. Good brawlers, she knew, could usually take a few before it took them out, but she'd never been a good brawler. She went down to her knees, shook her head. Shaking her head didn't help clear it; it made her vision go blurry. She'd bitten her tongue. Twelve shit on her, too. Oh, there was the pain. She blinked several times and stood up. "Roughed, guv. A beatin'. Not jes a few . . . " she spat blood. Definitely pain. She put up her arms, but it wasn't aggressive: it was a block. Joz wouldn't be able to effectively fight back, but she would at least try to defend herself. "C'mon," and there was a growl to her voice. She sounded angry, really angry, not just the exasperated caricature of annoyance she usually pulled on him.

I'm having a freakin' blast with rp. Can't answer the other questions, but for that one it's definitely doing well for me!

The opportunity to fence words openly with the big roegadyn was one Zhi dearly wanted to take. But she wouldn't be able to, and the disappointment from that knowledge was more than she would've expected. Joz ducked her head and took a seat opposite him. "Ye always jes enter peoples' places what ain't in?"

"It's obvious you can't be trusted to think for yourself, but I'm willin' to hire you until the next moon." Zhi turned back around, slow, as the rest of the establishment went back to minding their own business. Curiosity had been piqued, however, and it was a given there'd definitely be folk listening in. "My name is Eidinahtynwyn. You'll call me Oath Judge. I manage the strongarms hired on with the Heavy Handers. I will put you on guard detail. How familiar are you with the docks?"

Oath was used to reading the messages any fighter's body gave. She'd seen him tense, had watched the way his shoulders and upper body shifted, the way his head moved. She'd known he was going to come at her a split second before he moved, enough time to pull her own knife and get it pointed at him. Enough time for a draw. He was fast, she'd grant him that. Fast enough to get half a jump on her. But she didn't move. She remained as she'd been, arms folded, looking for all the world as if he'd just laid a bad hand of cards down on the table and claimed victory. Killing in the Highness was forbidden. It would have been a quick, easy way to rid herself of him if he'd taken the bait. You kill someone, you die. Didn't matter who you were or who you killed: those were the house rules. Everyone enforced them. Still, he could have just started a fight. Those happened in every tavern, neutral ground or not. So long as no one died, it was tolerated. Otherwise. . .things got messy. Very messy. His single action spoke volumes about his state of mind. But. . .his speed was good. Good enough for at least a temp post to feel him out. "Are you finished? Sit down." Oath put every ounce of boredom she could muster into her voice. She wanted to put him in his place. Hands were on weapons. Most of those present in the bar were staring. Even Zhi had swung around; her eyes had gone a little wide. If he looked over Oath's head, he'd be able to see her. He'd surprised her.

She had him. For now. Zhi put her hands to the stone and shucked her shoes, then started up the stone wall rather than ducking back through the tunnel. Halfway up, she found the platform she was looking for (another remnant of construction) and disappeared from sight. Then she was running, using street, wall and rooftop where necessary. She avoided hotspots and jack patrols. By then, the sun was mostly sunk on the horizon. Shadows were multiplying. The moon was out, if faint, waiting to take control of the sky away from Azeyma's grasping claws. Good riddance. Her breathing was heavy when she dropped down in front of Keto'to of the Gutter. He'd taken to calling himself Guttersnipe for a long while, though Zhi never used it. He was old, older than any other miqo'te man she'd ever seen, and that (along with other things) had earned him her respect. Of all the ragpickers and fences in the city, he was one of the select few who operated solely at night. He was the only person Zhi knew who hated the sun more than she did. They'd formed some sort of bond over insulting Azeyma, though it was as tenuous a connection as any of her other relationships. "Zhio," he said, not at all surprised at her sudden appearance. For such an old man, his senses were razor sharp. "On a job," she said, baring her teeth at him. He grunted. "Ain't open yet." "I'll pay double. I'm in a hurry, an' I ain't got th' patience t'deal with th'Swine." He sighed, long and loud, one hand retreating to his lower back to press against it. He stooped a little, reproach in his eyes. She rolled hers. "Elezen male, taller'n me by 'round a fulm. Shoulders, waist, hips, feet. Aye, an' a hat." She held her hands approximate distances apart for each measurement. Keto'to watched her, sighed again, and started picking through the clothing. So they dealt, back and forth, but when she left with a worn satchel at her hip only five or so minutes had passed. He could be stodgy, but he rarely turned away the promise of extra coin. Few of them streetside did. She returned to Targaryen in a little more than half a bell's time. There was an air of wariness about her, no matter the bright smile she showed to him. It was hard to swallow down the snarky comment she wanted to say to him, but she did. "Still wi' me, hey?" It was dark by then. She wondered if he could see her. She held out the satchel to him. "Here. Change." Inside were worn, though serviceable, shirt and pants, sandals with a hole in one, and a rather nice cap. The shirt would be too big, the pants just a hair too short on his legs, but the sandals would fit, as would the cap. Zhi stared at him expectantly.

"I asked you to impress me." Oath's tone had gone a half-step lower. Zhi remained silent. She waited, forgetting her drink in her sudden tension.

"Said I'd deliver, not woo ye," was her muttered reply. She didn't look up at him, but one of her ears twitched in some dark amusement. Her hands slid down to his hips -- and she'd sneak in a pinch before she released him and crouched, inspecting his feet. She laid her palm flat against the ground next to the left foot, then sideways. She grunted, stood, and rolled her shoulders. "Stay here while I fetch ye better clothes." She was smiling still, but something ephemeral had left it. The hyper-focus she'd had on him had vanished, her thoughts turned elsewhere. There was a sudden energy to her, coiled tight but present in the way she moved. She took a step sideways, then two. "Won't take me long."

Zhi's hearing was sharp, but she'd also been taking hits since the night before, and into early morning. Her ears flickered as the sounds were heard, but distinct words did not resolve. She dismissed it. She was focusing on Doendragasyn though, saw every nuance his face had to offer. Her eyes were bright. She snorted. "Ain't had sleep in two suns, an' he's askin' if I'm 'sure'. Aye, Cap'n. Sourced an' confirmed. But there's. . .somethin' under th'table." She tossed her head to clear hair from her eyes. "Ye said ye ain't known real personal dockside. So I've an in t'get ye real personal wi' one o' th' Hander's handlers t'talk. . .goods. An' I'll be yer strongarm." She tapped the dagger at her hip. Zhi thought herself to be very clever, if her grin was any indication.

"Wrong part o' town," Zhi said. "Can't have one o' Tabart's boys seein' ye meet up wi' Thatcher, nohow." She studied him, the flirtation and leering abruptly cut off. She stepped closer, but this time she was all business. She reached up, measuring his height against hers. She stepped back, looked at his shoulders hard, and then without warning she'd attempt to put her hands at his waist.

Zhi coughed as Oath continued to stare at Flit. She was faking it, but she made sure it would be loud enough to get his attention. Oath was wordless. It was a test. A test he had to pass. She could only hope he'd remembered what she'd told him about Her Highness. She hoped she'd said the right things, but she couldn't remember. Fear sliced through her. Gods above, but she prayed.

Zhi released his forearm and stepped back. Her grin was lopsided. "I'll take ye t'see Thatcher so she knows what's what. After that, I'd have ye make real nice wi' one o'Jaded's clerks. I need more information on a man what's workin' wi' Tabart, Luther. Doxies an' those what work wi' 'em are used t'charm, but I'm thinkin' mebbe ye'll find a way." She looked him up and down, offered up another leer. The anger was still there. "First though, yer too . . ." she gestured at him, her expression going positively lascivious. "We'll need t'see ye better dressed, first." Impatience. Curiosity.

Whatever, huh? Oath inclined her head. "Impress me." She wasn't just staring at him, she was staring through him. Then, she turned her head and looked out into the not so crowded room. She smiled. It was a very deliberate, calculated expression.

That close, even the most dead-nosed hyur would have been able to smell her. While she'd taken to bathing recently in order to not piss off the Captain, in-between their jobs together she didn't bother. And Zhi? She wasn't the type to sit pretty in a tavern or an inn. She dug into the city, tread the nastiest paths it had to offer. Offal, rotten things, fish -- it was all there, not as strong as it might normally be, but an unmistakeably bad odor. Zhi did not think for a moment that the man in front of her wanted to bed her out of some misplaced desire. It wasn't about sensuality. It was about control. Zhi knew about control. She knew about expectations. Galine had seen to that. And that sort, that which overcame the senses and the mind, that was the kind that no one would ever hold over Zhavi Streetrunner again. Ever. As those thoughts flickered lightning quick through her mind, some of that rebelliousness leaked through. Her lips tightened, one ear flicked back, her nostrils flared. Maybe those signals could be confused with desire, but the heat in her eyes wasn't sensual. It was angry. Adrenaline had started leaking into her system, and her pulse quickened. It fluttered at her throat. She looked down at his hand, and back up to his face. "O'course ye will," she said, and her voice was soft, lilting with invitation. "An' t'help Thatcher an' get yer treat, are ye willin' t'do what it takes?" She clasped his forearm, gave it a little squeeze.

Oath did not consider it necessary to tell the runt that nothing in life was certain. Who was he to think that his mere presence would ensure him a place amongst the Heavy Handers? His words went some way towards soothing her, but she could not help the urge to grind him under her bootheel. Still, she'd sworn herself to the Handers, and part of that had been ensuring that they could handle anything thrown their way. If there was something to the scrag sitting before her, she owed it to them to recruit him in. Given what her name meant to her, she took her oaths seriously. "What is your experience?"

"I am considerin' you for employment." Oath's expression was almost serene, her tone dry and level. But there was something about her that suggested scorn. She did not like it when runts did not pay her proper respect.

Her smile was real, accompanied by a predatory edge. "O'course ye don't care," she said. The rasp was back in her voice. She matched his two steps, clasped her hands behind her back. She had no cleverly sheathed weapons to hold. Her movements had gone sinuous, though her baggy clothing hid much of it from sight. But Zhi knew men and women, had watched her mam earn gil through body language and speech when Zhi was a tot. Sometimes it was not the showing of skin that was alluring, but the hiding of it. Not that Zhavi Streetrunner had ever been called alluring in her life (outside of doxy patter, anyways), but she'd played the game. It was her job. It was fun. Renewed interest showed in the way she looked at him, though the slight hitch to her hips, the set of her shoulders was more aggressive than their exchange of words warranted. She was mischievous. She was, in her own way, attempting to toy with him. Faint, but there. A fulm remained between them, so long as he did not step back. "But if ye don't help Thatcher, y'don't get yer. . .treat." To his last words, she had nothing for him but a small smirk. It held all the confidence in the world.

"Do you always leave before you've been dismissed?" Oath's eyes were glued to the runt's back.

Zhi rolled her eyes frequently. But here, now, she didn't think it would be a good idea. Bards were masters at performance, and even in the twilight she didn't trust him to be blind enough to hide the various little tells that would inevitably show. She held in the desire to give him exasperation, and instead showed him her intrigue. There were still tics that a bard or someone trained in body language could pick up. The tip of her tail flicked once before she could hold it back. The skin around her eyes tightened. Her ears stood stiff, relaxing by degrees only when she remembered. Her mouth was firmer than her teasing tone warranted, though not by much. Little things. Subtle things. But they were there, and they showed her annoyance and just a breath of fear to those trained to pick up on them. She couldn't help that. She wasn't a professional. Most of the time, she wasn't even aware of her micro-expressions. Few were. "I'm a runner," Zhi allowed. She held up a hand, fingers fluttering to emphasize her point. "I bring messages. I ain't in th'business o'protectin'." Forty-two times? Ass. No more than twenty. Zhi might not be a trained fighter or even have the know-how or power to be a thug, but she wasn't slow, and she wasn't stupid. One eye narrowed by a hair's breadth. He'd gotten to her, but would he be able to see it? She was smiling. "Heaven's Gate is under . . . hmm. Their rivals are gettin' meaner. Tabart o' Jaded is lookin' t'put th'hurt on those what've had business wi' Grace's doxies. Ye can. . .take care o' yerself, aye, but ye ain't th'only man in town what knows that. What's more, Tabart's got some friends what could be used t'takin' care o' those what know their way 'round weapons. Ye agree t'help Thatcher, we'll be watchin' yer back. An' then ye'll get yer chance at," she looked him up and down, "mischief." She leaned forward just enough to imply her next words carried some extra need for secrecy. "An' mebbe ye didn't notice, but I ain't one o' Thatcher's doxies." She straightened, and there was that challenge again, that dare.

"I don't hire troublemakers," Oath said. He was a mess. She leaned back and folded her arms, staring at him. The hand was ignored.