Thread Closed
They moved off, with Viko safe in the moment within the cocoon the cloak formed over her, though not immune entirely to the stares of others. For that she had Fejar before her, and that was what left her smug in her own knowledge of invisibility to most, if not all. He led her, and she coldly thought over the options she had.
No one really, truly liked mercenaries. They were a necessity to the machinations of war, a safeguard and a commodity like any other traded good. They were regarded with the edged caution given any wild beast collared and leashed, with the notion that at any moment a lunge and snap might take off fingers, or hand, or worse. Mercenaries were never trusted. Liars, cheats, thieves, badly mannered and vicious. That was the most of the sum, and Vijako had never denied any of the accusations levied at her. The only one she really ever did deny was the crime of rape; but then again she'd defaced and looted and all the rest without a thought for honor or justice.
Selling services paid. Any whore or drug dealer could tell you that, and without the gilt veneer of civility to soften the truth of the matter. Vijako had learned early on from the death of a sodden drunk that death beget money, and money beget a happier life. No one could tell her otherwise.
But sell that death to the right or wrong person, and you courted their enemies. And when you did that, the whole sum of the mess grew right complicated, until one day you face someone's boot from the wrong direction, descending to crush you unless you had enough left to move out of the way. And yet, for the promise of cheesy wealth, Vijako wouldn't move out of the way. It was the same as any lousy addiction, not that she'd admit to it even in her most private thoughts, to be roomed with the same thoughts about how much money she would wind up spending on drugs and booze and easy men.
It was jolting when the sign of the Drowning Wench creaked down at her, and she blinked at Fejar in sudden realization of him. She might have been accosted and likely she would not have seen it coming, the whole way to the tavern. She screwed up her mouth and spat near the doorjamb.
"Well lamb, I've business t'see." Her fingers fumbled over the place where her coin and last few snatches of maneflower had once rested. She instead settled her hand on her hip. She eyed him. "Could use a smart mind n' a shut mouth -- if you've th' will t' see me safe."
She cocked an arrogant smile at him. She could use a patsy, all right, and a right innocent fall boy to take her share of the hits when they came.
No one really, truly liked mercenaries. They were a necessity to the machinations of war, a safeguard and a commodity like any other traded good. They were regarded with the edged caution given any wild beast collared and leashed, with the notion that at any moment a lunge and snap might take off fingers, or hand, or worse. Mercenaries were never trusted. Liars, cheats, thieves, badly mannered and vicious. That was the most of the sum, and Vijako had never denied any of the accusations levied at her. The only one she really ever did deny was the crime of rape; but then again she'd defaced and looted and all the rest without a thought for honor or justice.
Selling services paid. Any whore or drug dealer could tell you that, and without the gilt veneer of civility to soften the truth of the matter. Vijako had learned early on from the death of a sodden drunk that death beget money, and money beget a happier life. No one could tell her otherwise.
But sell that death to the right or wrong person, and you courted their enemies. And when you did that, the whole sum of the mess grew right complicated, until one day you face someone's boot from the wrong direction, descending to crush you unless you had enough left to move out of the way. And yet, for the promise of cheesy wealth, Vijako wouldn't move out of the way. It was the same as any lousy addiction, not that she'd admit to it even in her most private thoughts, to be roomed with the same thoughts about how much money she would wind up spending on drugs and booze and easy men.
It was jolting when the sign of the Drowning Wench creaked down at her, and she blinked at Fejar in sudden realization of him. She might have been accosted and likely she would not have seen it coming, the whole way to the tavern. She screwed up her mouth and spat near the doorjamb.
"Well lamb, I've business t'see." Her fingers fumbled over the place where her coin and last few snatches of maneflower had once rested. She instead settled her hand on her hip. She eyed him. "Could use a smart mind n' a shut mouth -- if you've th' will t' see me safe."
She cocked an arrogant smile at him. She could use a patsy, all right, and a right innocent fall boy to take her share of the hits when they came.