closed || nothing sacred, all things wild

[exsecutus]

WHO: Nikos, Caspar, Nell, Carla, Max, Kitty, Marisol, and the letters of Ilias Fabria
WHAT: the assassination of Grand Cleric Agathe of Cumberland
WHEN: mid Cloudreach
WHERE: Kirkwall, Antiva, and the long and lonely road to Val Royeaux
NOTES: part of the mod plot

Comments

[exsecutus]

He did ask. Sort of. But the list starts to grate on Nikos as it goes on. Useful, all of them, or at least those that mean something to him seem to be. But like his initial objections, how does he know anything about her? It's word alone. The word of a braggart, or the word of someone truly skilled, and it would only be by contracting her that he would find out which, probably.

He lets himself take a generous sip of wine and stares down into the cup. Gives it a swirl, half discontent and half thoughtful.

"This--" The letters; he lets the swirl of the cup indicate them-- "will not involve fake ink, or anything but the forging. But there may be more. What we do will change the outcome of this election, if we are successful. And much will change with that. We will have the opportunity to do more, and contract workers could benefit. And help the cause."

More important is the second part. Nikos' mouth twists a little as he admits it. Ardent speech still doesn't agree with him, unless he's in an argument. Then it comes almost naturally.

"If you don't work for anyone, what do you work for. Money," and while that's a guess, most bounty hunters work for bounties, so it can't be too far off. "Chaos. Does anything else make the list?"

[wont_be_me]

Her lip curls, irritated by this question. She has been working for nothing more than survival for a long time and she taste it in her mouth. Being stuck in that cramped shuttle scavenging forgotten cargo and ship parts out of graveyards when there weren't any bounties to drag down. Even before the ship, she had been clawing at the labyrinthine politics of the space stations looking for opportunities and footholds where she might find the comfort and agency she'd had on Oscyria.

She had tried to remake a life that was dead in an ecosystem that played by different rules. She worries the very tip of her tongue against the point of one sharp tooth. She's changed since then, in subtle ways, the damage of escaping her homeworld's destruction has blossomed in her over time and experience. Her indolence now wears a shade of rage.

"Does it matter?" she finally decides, quirking one of her full eyebrows.