"Dear Cenric! How fine it is to see you. I hope you haven't missed me too terribly."
Cenric is both surprised and not surprised at all to see Skit standing in the doorway to his inn room. The man is groomed as ever, wearing fine, rich coloured clothes and an air of utter vanity that could rival even an Ul'dahn noblewoman's.
He strides past Cenric and inside the room without waiting for a response or permission, looking around the room with a mild look of disdain. "This is where you're living, hm? The decor is certainly.. unique," the Seeker coughs delicately.
"But! A lecture on your tastes - or lack thereof - will have to wait. I'm afraid I bear bad news. "
Cenric, barely fully awake, closes the door and turns to face Skit, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised. "Oh? Must be bad if ye left yer comfy home t'come to Limsa, you bleedin' hate it here."
Skit nods slowly and sits at the table, posture straight, crossing one leg over the other. He sets a bottle of whiskey and two glasses on the table. Cenric hadn't even noticed the other man holding them. "It is. Come. Sit and share a drink with me. I fear you'll need it."
Cenric obeys, taking the seat opposite Skit and propping with chin up with a hand. He has no idea what to expect. With Skit, it's always hard to tell. The man's idea of bad news could vary from a dramatic change in the leading fashions to a big loss in profits, and anywhere in between. He always was dramatic. "Get to it, then," he says simply.
"As you wish. I shall cut right to the point. Abiga is about, my friend, and I hear she still has access to her old contacts. I'm unsure of exactly how long the woman has been back, I'm afraid." He fills the two glasses, taking a small sip of his before continuing. "This means, of course, that she will most certainly learn of your return to this city, if she hasn't already."
Skit's words take a few moments to fully register in his mind, but once they do, Cenric is almost certain his heart has stopped dead. Then it begins pounding. No. He drains his glass of whiskey in a single impressive gulp. It doesn't help. No no no no no. The beating in his chest is irregular, skipping a few beats and then compensating with a few too many. He feels dizzy. His hands shake. Sweat.
He refills his glass. Drains it.
Skit is uncharacteristically quiet while the panic settles in Cenric's mind. There's no aimless chatter to fill the silence, no embellished stories about his latest conquests, no complaining about that bloody merchant selling that beautiful doublet for far more money than it's worth.
Cenric feels sick, and a bit dazed. He wants to run. He won't. He has a client travelling to Limsa all the way from Thanalan, a client that presents possible opportunities. No, he will see this job finished, and then.. Well, he'll figure out what to do after.
"Okay," he nods. He can't think of anything else to say. "Try'n cover my tracks, will ye? Buy me some time. I've a job what needs doin'."
He just hopes it doesn't all blow up before then.
Skit's been gone a while, leaving Cenric to sit in furious, terrified thought. He's bathed and dressed now, smelling of the soft fragrance he always wears. He has just finished tightening the knot on his bandanna when his linkpearl sounds. He takes a deep breath before pressing his fingers to his left ear.
"Ah, Bart, isn't it? Can I call ye Bart? Wonderful," his voice is still slightly shaken. He wonders if it can be heard through the quietly hissing static. "Ain't sure where ye made land, so let's say... Hawkers' round? D'ya know where that is?"
Cenric is both surprised and not surprised at all to see Skit standing in the doorway to his inn room. The man is groomed as ever, wearing fine, rich coloured clothes and an air of utter vanity that could rival even an Ul'dahn noblewoman's.
He strides past Cenric and inside the room without waiting for a response or permission, looking around the room with a mild look of disdain. "This is where you're living, hm? The decor is certainly.. unique," the Seeker coughs delicately.
"But! A lecture on your tastes - or lack thereof - will have to wait. I'm afraid I bear bad news. "
Cenric, barely fully awake, closes the door and turns to face Skit, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised. "Oh? Must be bad if ye left yer comfy home t'come to Limsa, you bleedin' hate it here."
Skit nods slowly and sits at the table, posture straight, crossing one leg over the other. He sets a bottle of whiskey and two glasses on the table. Cenric hadn't even noticed the other man holding them. "It is. Come. Sit and share a drink with me. I fear you'll need it."
Cenric obeys, taking the seat opposite Skit and propping with chin up with a hand. He has no idea what to expect. With Skit, it's always hard to tell. The man's idea of bad news could vary from a dramatic change in the leading fashions to a big loss in profits, and anywhere in between. He always was dramatic. "Get to it, then," he says simply.
"As you wish. I shall cut right to the point. Abiga is about, my friend, and I hear she still has access to her old contacts. I'm unsure of exactly how long the woman has been back, I'm afraid." He fills the two glasses, taking a small sip of his before continuing. "This means, of course, that she will most certainly learn of your return to this city, if she hasn't already."
Skit's words take a few moments to fully register in his mind, but once they do, Cenric is almost certain his heart has stopped dead. Then it begins pounding. No. He drains his glass of whiskey in a single impressive gulp. It doesn't help. No no no no no. The beating in his chest is irregular, skipping a few beats and then compensating with a few too many. He feels dizzy. His hands shake. Sweat.
He refills his glass. Drains it.
Skit is uncharacteristically quiet while the panic settles in Cenric's mind. There's no aimless chatter to fill the silence, no embellished stories about his latest conquests, no complaining about that bloody merchant selling that beautiful doublet for far more money than it's worth.
Cenric feels sick, and a bit dazed. He wants to run. He won't. He has a client travelling to Limsa all the way from Thanalan, a client that presents possible opportunities. No, he will see this job finished, and then.. Well, he'll figure out what to do after.
"Okay," he nods. He can't think of anything else to say. "Try'n cover my tracks, will ye? Buy me some time. I've a job what needs doin'."
He just hopes it doesn't all blow up before then.
Skit's been gone a while, leaving Cenric to sit in furious, terrified thought. He's bathed and dressed now, smelling of the soft fragrance he always wears. He has just finished tightening the knot on his bandanna when his linkpearl sounds. He takes a deep breath before pressing his fingers to his left ear.
"Ah, Bart, isn't it? Can I call ye Bart? Wonderful," his voice is still slightly shaken. He wonders if it can be heard through the quietly hissing static. "Ain't sure where ye made land, so let's say... Hawkers' round? D'ya know where that is?"
