The upper decks in Limsa Lominsa wasn't the sort of place that tended to welcome people like Zhavi Streetrunner. That went double for its fancy-pants restaurant, the Bismarck. It was fair enough to say that she'd never eaten there, and certainly hadn't ever met someone to talk business there. Yet her contact, Clove, had insisted that it had to be at the Bismarck, that no other place Zhi tended to use would be good enough.
"She still pissed at ye fer that?" Zhi had asked.
Clove had glowered at her. Quite scathing, that glower. Zhi had snickered to herself, and dropped the line of inquiry. Clove was a whore. Not only was he a whore, he was one of Limsa Lominsa's marked, a man who belonged to one of the city's premiere rings that could boast both quality of goods and legality of operation. Not every prostitution ring (or House, as some of them liked to call themselves, propping themselves up on some sort of stately glamor) could stake a claim to legality; only so many writs of trade were drawn up every year for the operation of brothels. And that was why Zhi had been stuffed into borrowed clothing and doused with a flea treatment: Thatcher's ring was having some trouble. Zhi didn't know the details, hadn't been able to sniff them all out, but the rumors she'd heard had been confirmed when Clove had sought her. There was bad blood between Thatcher and one of her rivals, and it had spilled over into action.
Trouble was brewing. Zhi's favorite. She could already feel the weight of gil in her palms, and the promise of dangerous, illegal activities. She could help Thatcher, she was sure of it. All that remained were the details to be ironed out and pinned down.
Clove escorted her to the restaurant, had them seated, and fussed at her like a fishwife the whole time. It was patently obvious that he was still smarting from being found out on his last venture with Zhi (even if his part had been played as a smokescreen for Zhi, he'd done it without telling Thatcher), and that he felt she owed him for whatever issue it'd caused between him and his master. She barely listened to his prattling, choosing instead to scope out the restaurant. It was fancy, and snooty, and so pretentious she couldn't help but feel nervous. Her back was to the rail, but even so she couldn't quite shake the feeling that she was being watched. She didn't like having a meeting in such an open environment, but Clove had insisted. He was still sucking up to Thatcher; the whole thing was being done on his dime. He was good at what he did, after all.
Zhi settled in and watched for Thatcher, tuning Clove out as best she could.
"She still pissed at ye fer that?" Zhi had asked.
Clove had glowered at her. Quite scathing, that glower. Zhi had snickered to herself, and dropped the line of inquiry. Clove was a whore. Not only was he a whore, he was one of Limsa Lominsa's marked, a man who belonged to one of the city's premiere rings that could boast both quality of goods and legality of operation. Not every prostitution ring (or House, as some of them liked to call themselves, propping themselves up on some sort of stately glamor) could stake a claim to legality; only so many writs of trade were drawn up every year for the operation of brothels. And that was why Zhi had been stuffed into borrowed clothing and doused with a flea treatment: Thatcher's ring was having some trouble. Zhi didn't know the details, hadn't been able to sniff them all out, but the rumors she'd heard had been confirmed when Clove had sought her. There was bad blood between Thatcher and one of her rivals, and it had spilled over into action.
Trouble was brewing. Zhi's favorite. She could already feel the weight of gil in her palms, and the promise of dangerous, illegal activities. She could help Thatcher, she was sure of it. All that remained were the details to be ironed out and pinned down.
Clove escorted her to the restaurant, had them seated, and fussed at her like a fishwife the whole time. It was patently obvious that he was still smarting from being found out on his last venture with Zhi (even if his part had been played as a smokescreen for Zhi, he'd done it without telling Thatcher), and that he felt she owed him for whatever issue it'd caused between him and his master. She barely listened to his prattling, choosing instead to scope out the restaurant. It was fancy, and snooty, and so pretentious she couldn't help but feel nervous. Her back was to the rail, but even so she couldn't quite shake the feeling that she was being watched. She didn't like having a meeting in such an open environment, but Clove had insisted. He was still sucking up to Thatcher; the whole thing was being done on his dime. He was good at what he did, after all.
Zhi settled in and watched for Thatcher, tuning Clove out as best she could.
