Spy Versus Spy [Emrik]

[Aurin]

The High Hopes Tavern
28 Ash 121

It was a measure of his growing success that Aurin was spending more time at the High Hopes than other watering holes. He didn't know how to feel about that, though. Kalzasi had always been a place to live for now, and he was still of the mindset that he should be ready to up and move at the first sign of his past coming back to haunt him, and yet he had a business that was suddenly thriving, and prestigious employment at a social and artistic enterprise that made him someone to know. Of course, the latter had been a means to an end—one of his people wanted to work there, and so he had worked his magic on a lead and turned it into an impresario gig.

He was co-equal with Lord Yserloo fucking Choi in a triumvirate quite a bit older than he was. Wild.

One of his people wanted to be a runeforger, too. He had considered finagling him into finishing his apprenticeship or taking an advanced apprenticeship at the Skyforge. The side benefit for Aurin would be eyes and ears on the crown prince of the city-state, but that hadn't panned out. Torin had his own forge up and running and that was more than enough on that score.

All the same, here he was drinking at the bar owned by that crown prince's brother. His own business had been conducted earlier, and now he was relaxing, mulling things over. He wasn't maudlin, but he hadn't sought out conversation, either. He taught his people to watch, to listen, and sift through what they saw and heard for the diamonds in the rough, the leads that led to new employment or an advantageous business deal.

A critical glance about the place revealed more Avialae than he was used to. It made sense given who owned the place, and he had no grudge against them. They were still exotic to him, though, considering how few of them flocked to the river city of his youth.

[Emrik]

He'd slept soundly the night before. The day before had been hard -- laborious, to say the least. The kill had been messy; old woman fleeing Zaichaer, a skilled Summoner. Semblance mage, too; she detected him before he had been ready to present himself, and took the precautions necessary. Paranoia was an undesirable attribute in a fleeing mage, and she had been rife with it. There was no steadiness or silence to the kill; he had to butcher her, the woman flinging about her aether to the last, resisting him at very opportunity. It was a maddening affair.

The sleep had been good, though. Very good. After cleaning off all of the blood in a nearby basin, he'd found the woman's hovel; soft beds, nice books to read until his stamina waned, eyes drooping. Was it demented to sleep in the bed of the woman you just killed? Perhaps, to most. For an Imperial Kathar, it was efficiency. One always needed to seek out opportunity; moral panic at one's own deeds was something winnowed far earlier than such feelings could present themselves in full.

After waking, he'd returned to his own home, flying towards the city. Emrik dressed as well as he could; and that was to say, poorly. The man had but what felt like pennies to his name, and most of his nice clothes were... somewhere. He believed he'd left them at his contact's home; outside of the city. Trunk somewhere. It didn't matter, though; he had something better than nice clothes. He had a moderately charming smile, a handsome face and a statuesque form. Those were his most valued accessories.

He didn't have the gold for more. Eight hundred gold... ish. What could that even buy him? A shovel to bury the dead with. Maybe a weapon or two. Emrik didn't need those. He liked to let the dead rot in the sun, or in a river. Added a bit of intrigue, and took less time to clean up. Less time where in which he could be caught.

After getting dressed, he made his way to 'High Hopes', a tavern he'd been recommended if he had any 'political aspirations', or so the fishwife told him. He certainly had those. Endeavoring through the cobbled streets of the city, the man eventually came upon the establishment, curling his lips and tucking his wings in close before entering. From the clientele he had already seen scattered about by the entrance, he felt terribly under-dressed, after all. And some of them even had all of the other accessories too; the handsome face, the charming smile. In style, he had been outmatched.

"Shit," he cursed beneath his breath. Whatever the case, he had steeled himself. Stepping through the doors, the Kathar peered around him towards the patronage, before taking a seat to his lonesome at the edge of the bar-lounge. He twiddled with his thumbs for a moment, trying not to make obvious that he was information gathering; staking the place out. Calming himself and flattening his expression, the man merely observed.

[Aurin]

There were now two men there with calm, flat expressions, just observing. So Aurin saw the Avialae come in, saw the momentary dissonance between him and his surroundings, and saw him cover it up and take a seat. Good on him, Aurin thought. From what he understood of this place, it was unlikely he would be treated poorly. It might have been owned by a prince, but it wasn't a white napkins and tablecloth sort of place. There was a ring for prize fighting, after all. But many people did come dressed up, hoping to make connections rubbing elbows with well-connected Avialae.

It hadn't been a haunt of Aurin's until recently, but he wasn't wearing his best clothes trying to impress. So far, nobody had glanced askance at him.

The man didn't seem in any hurry to place an order, so when the bartender stopped near Aurin to check on him, he ordered a drink and said to put the new fellow's first drink on his tab.

"Do you want me to tell him?" she asked, used to this sort of request for any number of reasons and not caring to ask his.

"Nah, I'm the only one at the bar at the moment. He'll figure it out if he cares to. Just didn't want him to be thirsty if he couldn't afford it."

"All right," she said, her smile halfway surprised as she went to see to the other man sitting by himself. And that was that. Aurin began to scan the crowd again, his mind always looking for patterns—especially those he could exploit. There was no real ulterior motive behind his gesture. He had been quite low before and he remembered every tiny kindness done to him. Aurin was certainly no saint, but he could afford a few random acts of kindness. And because his mind couldn't refrain from thinking about repercussions, at least one bartender at his new haunt had a better impression of him now than she had before.

The good graces of servers were not a thing to be scoffed at in his experience.

"Thanks," he said offhand as she brought him his.

[Emrik]

Not long into his lingering wait did he notice that he was being eyed. It was casual, even inconsistent, but the man had a knack for knowing when he was being watched. It started as a boyish, innocent awareness; his eyes mischievously peering around him to ensure no superior would come flailing at him with a whip. His adventurous musings necessitated watchfulness as a component of his survival. Now, that same instinct made him acutely aware of a handsome man's prolonged stare; even if only briefly. Even if he did not turn to meet it directly.

A drink arrived not long after, the same woman the red-haired man had spoken to delivering it to his table; cabernet, a simple goblet filled to the top, to the point where he feared it might overflow. "Thanks," he muttered, glancing back towards that man, before turning his gaze towards the waitress, who stood about as tall as he sat. "Did that man get this for me?" he asked. The woman seemed to relent in answering for a moment, before quietly nodding.

He hummed in thought. Bringing the goblet to his lips, Emrik's lips engulfed the edges for a small sip, before he carefully set the silver cup back down. "Get him one as well; you don't need to tell him it's from me." They were playing a game now, perhaps, though it was one he was resolved to quickly end. "And invite him to my table." Digging into his pouch, he dropped a few coins onto the wooden surface of the table, nodding towards the woman. She politely bowed in return, sliding the coins into a pouch she carried along her waist. As she pulled away, Emrik's gaze lingered on her for a moment of time, before flitting towards the man's. He was alone at the bar; yet still, Emrik preferred the solitude of his table, slumped against the corner-wall. It was always his instinct to remain obscure.

[Aurin]

Their eyes never seemed to connect. The Avialae was a watcher too, it seemed. Aurin noted where he moved, finding an out-of-the-way table. That was normally his own go-to. There were times when one wanted to be seen and there were times when one wanted to see. At the bar, he was juggling both. Then, the bartender set a silver goblet of wine in front of him. She waited there, arms crossed, shit-eating grin. He looked from the wine up to her.

"Yeah, yeah," he said with a smirk. He gulped his previous drink down. "I suppose I'm switching to wine for the evening."

"Tall, dark, and handsome invited you to his table over there. The one in the dark corner where people do dark deeds."

"Uh-huh," he replied, playing unimpressed. An impromptu date hadn't been his intention, and he didn't know what walking over there would mean, but he had bought in and been dealt a hand. He was going to have to play it. He paid out just in case, tipping her generously, and thanking her. Then he picked up his goblet and walked over to the table.

As he approached the table, he took a sip from the nearly spilling goblet and offered a rueful smile.

"I apologize if I offended," he said with all sincerity. "For a moment, you looked worried, like perhaps you had gotten in over your head. Hopefully, I'll learn not to make assumptions." He paused, indicating the seat opposite the man. "May I?"

For all his investigating and observing, he still got things wrong. Old Aurin wouldn't have cared if he had slighted a stranger. New Aurin was chagrined at having implied that someone was too poor to be anywhere. He had been too poor to be in many places in his life, and he knew the shame of that.

[Emrik]

He tensed as the other began to approach, feeling his chest sink into his stomach. Despite being a trained, Imperial butcher, he had no concept of casual socialization in a place like this. His ability to spy had always been more withdrawn than direct. Communicating with contacts behind the scenes, observing from the large branches of a tree. Speaking to a man of reasonable dignity in an establishment too tasteful for a man like him... it brought him no shortage of unease.

"You did not offend," he returned quietly, glancing off as if to look at something, though his eyes merely landed on the pillars between segments of the bar, drifting briefly towards the foyer. "The truth is," Emrik's eyes returned to him, "...I believe I might be in over my head after all."

Confidence, or the display of it, was not necessary in his profession. At times, being a bumbling fool, rife with social inadequacies made one trustworthy. Why worry of the man without a name, without a stake, without reputation or the skills to acquire it? The man seemingly too daft to charm, or entice knowledge. The stoic, harmless giant was often the role he played in these interactions. Often it was sustained by a hint of genuine inability. He was far from charming, or suave... though he tried to be, at times.

"...You may," he replied, though suffering a delay. Gesturing the seat opposite his own, the Kathar cleared his throat, sitting more upright as his palms lowered to smooth across the surface of the table.

"I am pleased that you would join me," said the man, only to swiftly chastise himself, his expression mildly contorting into a half-formed wince. Too stiff. He was not a dainty Lady of any given estate, deeming herself to curtsy. This was a more informal setting.

"Excuse me," he cleared his throat again. A second attempt. "I am Emrik. To be frank, I would like to uncover your motivation for purchasing me a drink. Dissatisfactory answers will be met with swift retribution." A tease; his lips curled into a faint, but evident grin. He was no Imperial Justicar here. Only a man. One among many. "If it is a part of some courting ritual, I refuse. You are too tall for me." His lips split into an awkward grin, seemingly unnatural to his features. "Erm... ahem. I am joking."

[Aurin]

Aurin didn't know if that was entirely true, but he half-smiled and nodded. The man had an air of competence about him, though such a thing was never all-encompassing in his experience. He himself was more of a fake-it-until-you-make-it sort of type of man, though he was somewhat capable in some spheres despite all the bullshit.

"Thank you," he said, turning the chair so its back was to the wall—an old habit, and old habits died hard—and then sat so he could easily have a conversation with the man and still glance away and take in the rest of the room.

Laughing at the proactive denial of courting, Aurin raised his goblet.

"Heard, Emrik. Glad we got that out of the way. I'm Aurin. If you're in the market for a dwarven courtesan, I know where to send you, though. Just in case you want to be courted by someone short enough for you." He smirked and took a sip of his wine. The man was strange; one moment out of his element, the next deftly cracking jokes. Perhaps he was just a little strange; perhaps he was more than he appeared. Most people were in some way or another, whether or not it was an interesting way, or a way that was worth silver and gold.

"The last Avialae I met here only talked to me long enough to drag me down to the fighting ring. I hope you didn't come with a mind to destroy something beautiful." He gave his jawline a bit of a rub. In the end, he had bested Aurelio in the ring, but his jaw had ached for days. All it told him was that he wasn't practicing enough, which was going to be the death of him, probably. Kalzasi was making him soft.

[Emrik]

Emrik's eyes followed the other as he turned the back of his chair, as he raised his goblet, as he chuckled and reflexively reacted to each word. He noted early on that Aurin was an expressive man, contrary to his own self. The one area through which the Kathar most avidly expressed was through his eyes. His gaze was always discerning, observant. Indeed -- as Aurin moved about, the man's eyes were affixed to him, as if they were physically bound. Each movement was concluded with some form of observation as to what sort of man he was. Apparently, a charismatic, well-humored one... contrary to his own self, he endeavored to believe.

"Dwarven..." he paused, raising the goblet again to his lips and taking a larger sip, pausing to let the strong taste settle down his throat. "I'm afraid not. That is not within my optimal height range. Only between one hundred thirty and one hundred thirty one millimeters." He was obviously bullshitting him. If it wasn't clear from his words, then certainly from the playful glint in his eyes, a rare sight upon his mostly drooping and brooding features. In truth, he was mildly enjoying their exchange, despite the earliness of it. "Do not worry: I would settle for you. Reluctantly."

Another sip. This time, with a faint smirk pulling at the corner of his lip, despite obvious resistance.

Fighting ring. He did not know that the establishment had one, but that was an interesting factoid. He would remember that. If anything, it was possible that potential marks of his could engage in the ring; that would provide him insight on them. Their weaknesses, vulnerabilities, strengths, the way in which they typically operated in a combative format. That meant, of course, avoiding the ring himself; he did not wish for others to garner that sort of information on his own activities. Emrik was a man who kept secrets well... particularly his own.

"To be frank," he began, leaning forward in his seat, "...you do not appear to be much of a fighter. Arrogant though it may sound, I only seek challenges in the ring, dear gentleman. You... I'm assuming you're more of a wordsmith, a verbalist. That is not my forte, but to each his own path. What do you do for money in this fine city... Aurin?"

He remembered his name. A rarity. It was difficult not to, he supposed; reminiscent of gold. Memorable. He would need to write it down.

[Aurin]

Aurin certainly hoped the man's height requirement didn't mean he was a pedophile.

"Is that optimal height for fellatio?" he asked, hazarding a guess. He chuckled. "You're too kind, too kind. But I would have to decide whether I'd settle on you." Their smirks matched.

An auburn brow rose at the observation, but he chuckled.

"I am not of a warrior race," he admitted. "I learned to fight on the streets. Small blades, my hands, whatever I find in my environment. But no, I'm probably not as deadly a weapon as you are. I've managed to survive this long, though. Use a blade when a blade is necessary, but otherwise, wits and words. I did get dragged into the ring recently and I won, but it was more of that scrappy refusal to submit energy than true skill, I'll admit."

He took a sip of wine and a deep breath before diving into his work spiel.

"Last season, I moved from managing the Velvet Cabaret to becoming managing director of the Golden Peacock Theater next door. A step up, but I'm still just making sure all the egos get along and the books are in the black. I have a side hustle that's making more money, as well. Just trying to carve out a little kingdom for myself. Sorry, I'm not one of the patriotic folks who worship you flyboys. I appreciate them standing between me and the Warrens, but..." He shrugged. There was something wrong with a city-state ruled by a winged elite. He didn't want to be Shokaze or anything, but every place he had seen had been rife with corruption; one just had to know where to look.

"And you?"

Emrik seemed like the silent time, the tall, dark, and handsome type, the possibly dangerous type. That was interesting. But Aurin liked to keep his secrets as well, and all his work was a cleverly crafted façade to keep himself safe, though he knew safety was an illusion. He was curious about Emrik, but didn't try to suss out his deep, dark secrets. They seemed to be doing just fine on the surface.

[Emrik]

The tall man's brow curved as the other mentioned the word... 'fellatio'. Being the clueless and virginal man that he was, Emrik did not in fact know its meaning, but considering how smoothly he'd been sailing through their conversation, he did not want to endure the embarrassment of admitting that. He was... doing so well. That would, he hoped, continue. And so, his answer - or non-answer - was laid within that smirk, half-grinning mutually despite the fact that he knew nothing of what he was even talking about.

"I would recommend against settling on me," he returned, proceeding to take his final sip, the goblet emptied out to the bottom. Emrik looked about, seeking the eyes of that waitress again; he wanted more. The drink was stilling his nerves, making words flow more freely. The right kinds of words, too. "If you value your mobility." Or perhaps the more crude ones.

Warrior race... Aurin's point was salient. For a man like him -- of human origin -- competing in a setting filled with aerially trained behemoths was a difficult one. His ability to brawl, then, made sense; the man's method of engaging in conflict was survivalist, likely relegated to closed doors or closed areas, and only in the case of desperate need. He was a last-resort sort of 'warrior', rather than one who sought out the blade. Equally commendable, to him. Every man had their role to fulfill in society. Some of them needed wits, and words. In that area, Aurin certainly displayed a talent that he lacked.

"Velvet Cabaret, hm. Just a few days prior, I met a man who recommended that place to me. Aurelio, was his name," Emrik said, tipping his head in a nod. "As for 'worshiping' my kind, there is no need. We are little more than large humans with wings. I find the veneration of Avialae in this city rather... disturbing, though I benefit from it."

Not very much, considering his status as a Kathar, and his disengagement with Kalzasern society as a whole... but in some, small, tangible ways. He had seen the softened stares of his Synnekar 'brethren' remarking on him, and the coy manner with which many outside of his race appeared to regard him. Perhaps Bonding with one of his kin meant status; he could only imagine so. "Whatever the case, your credentials are unique. A theater... I have never experienced such a thing, though I know there are great, massive ones in my home." A slip, perhaps, that he still considered the Imperium home. It was not one he particularly worried about. Many Kathar, even those who had fled willingly as refugees, still kept that sense of familiarity, even fealty.

"As for me... well." He wasn't certain that muttering about his profession was a good idea. Contract killer? That would invite suspicion, even interrogation. Contract killer for the Imperium? Likely execution. He had to be careful, and he knew that. Tragically, being careful meant being dishonest. "I'm a hunter. I hunt dangerous threats to the city," he nodded. It was the most truthful he could get -- he was a Magehunter, hunting dangerous threats to... Gelgrandal. It was a city, after all. "Unfortunately, the road does not instill a man with skill in conversation, in speaking with handsome men. Forgive me. Perhaps another goblet..."