FicWad

The brow of the sun neared the mountain's horizons, casting a prismatic vibrancy of oranges, reds, and purples into the adjoining sky. The winds must have developed a sense of loneliness, as they chased the sun into the horizon and left the aesthetic but obscuring clouds behind to filter the rising moonlight. At the abandonment of the sun, the clouds had just begun to cry, shedding tears lightly in what was a prelude to a deluge. Despite this, the stars still managed to locate breaches in the hull of the oncoming storm, and cast what little brilliance they could unto the planet below.
The city of Lacrimund and her active nightlife were no exception, although the stars seemed to shine brighter on one locale in particular. While this one pub was popular, it did not have a remarkable reputation of its own, nor any outstanding features. What did set it out from its brethren, however, was the favor it received from a particular handful of individuals. Tavern patrons who did not know these rogues would later tells stories of how they once drank under the same roof, and barkeeps would boast of how they filled their glasses. Surely, these individuals were ignorant of their roles in the shaping of the world to come.
To enter such an establishment meant to exchange the chill cover of darkness for the alternative: a moist, poorly-lit atmosphere of cacophony often accompanied by the unpleasant odor that was an unholy union of beer, sweat, and vomit. The commons of the tavern was alive with revelry, dispute, and an overall discord fueled by testosterone, scantily clad employment, and cheap alcohol, although primarily the latter. For such an environment to be absent from the pub's nightlife would be questionable. While one who wished to drink in quiet and solitude would be hard pressed to find such a place, the bar of the shady establishment did claim a handful of less active sorts. Those who chose the stools over the chairs, and often, over the floor, tended to drink independently, yet also united in a collective solitude. Those who did speak, spoke as if in a delirious mourning directed towards no one in particular, but also anyone at all. Despite this lack of targeting, the incessantly mellow bartender would still nod and shake his head in mild console accordingly. This was the way of things.
It was not uncommon for a particular brute to find his way into the bar night after night, and occasionally, morning after morning. In fact, uncommon seemed to be a very appropriate word for his description. He stood easily two heads higher than an average man. His shoulder width was twice that of a conventionally strong man's, and half that from his chest to his back. His arms, the size of a common man's waist, stuck out from his body as if in conflict with it, while his jaw looked to be the strife of a mountain climber. He wore full but mismatching armor from his waist to his feet and on a single arm, while he left his torso and opposite arm completely bare. When he spoke, the floor and walls seemed to reverberate the bass and anyone nearby felt obligated to listen if only for the fear of the repercussions of not listening. When he walked, the very ground seemed to groan under the strain.
Because he kept his history and heritage, as well as the vast majority of personal information, a mystery, there was a great debate concerning his origins. Some say he was the offspring of a demon and a beast, most often a bull or lion. Others claimed he sprang forth from the very planet itself, taking tree trunks as limbs and boulders for his body. Despite the chosen argument of the hour, he was rarely thought of as having human parents.
Regardless, he still enjoyed the tavern's ambience, for reasons not openly shared.
So, night after night, he would enter the bar at a similar time with a practiced routine. While the world would be powerless to stop him no matter where he chose to go, he seemed to be a man of expected habit and little ambition.
Upon sight, the handful of silent and mumbling drunks at the bar would scurry into the crowds, and a hush encompassed the entire tavern as the noisy patrons focused on the brute despite unanimously averting their eyes for fear of attracting his attention. The perpetual scowl adorning his rock jaw did little to ease their trepidation. The brute then casually lumbered to the bar, reclaimed the center seat as his own, and in doing so, inadvertently occupy the two neighboring seats. This dormancy relaxed the tension in the room to his anterior and the regular chaos resumed. He extended his elbows on the countertop and let his back hunch, his massive frame appearing to strain in holding itself up. The bar groaned as it remembered the brute's weight. This was the way of things.
Without beckoning, the bartender placed several large and full mugs in front of the brute. He, in turn, wasted no time in waiting for his companions' arrival before picking up where he left off earlier that morning.
This was the normal method of the tavern's evenings. It would be any matter of time before either of his companions joined him, if at all. On that night, however, it was not long before his solitude was breached.
She appeared without sound or warning. One moment, the stool next to the brute was empty, and within the next moment it had become occupied. The girl's lithe and slender nature was only accentuated in her natural dexterity of movement. In fact, she never seemed to stop moving. Even when sitting she gracefully fidgeted or absently toyed with the two knee-reaching braids that was her auburn hair. She wore a revealing but freeing halter on her torso and loose-fitting pants that tied off at the knees, while her wrists and forearms were covered in cloth wraps. What stood out from her physical persona the most, however, was her cherubic face. Round, and portraying a sense of sweetness and innocence, it was often the subject of both aspiring and established artists. In a more practical sense, the graceful and childlike innocence of her nature played no small role her fast-talking her way out of the authority's apprehensions, on the rare occasions they were blessed with the sheer luck of both catching and detaining her.
The thin girl wrapped her thin arms around the brute's forearm and began talking about nothing and everything, as she seemed to love to do. When she spoke, her voice was the chosen music of the angels, despite the nature of the content. Even when she chose not to speak, her company was inexplicably but equally soothing.
"Oh, Duran, skill or no skill, I so tire of this profession. I may be attuned to the shadows, but I cannot help but feel bound by them."
The brute, Duran, responded with grumble that was questionably an agreement.
It was not long before their monopoly on the bar was joined by their third and final companion.
Whereas the younger girl appeared to simply materialize from the shadows, this female conducted an intentionally entrancing entrance, as was expected. The doors swung open with a dramatic flamboyance, and she paused after stepping into the establishment. As with the brute, a hush enthralled the mass of the patrons. However, where their eyes averted at his presence, they now seemed magnetically attracted to hers.
Her figure was curvaceous, voluptuous but lissome. She had long legs that were just as much of a show to watch when she was poised or in motion. She wore a thin slip of clothing, a simple, red dress that did little to challenge the imagination. Her shoulders, neck, and cleavage were exposed in its revelation, as well as the majority of one of her legs due to the garment's asymmetric cut. Despite baring a body that would be the deity of insidious pleasure's first choice had it need of a physical avatar, her face was that of a devil men wished they had nightmares about. Her violet-inked eyelids were kept low, giving an air of disinterest and selfishness. She had rich, blossoming lips and long, scarlet hair that seemed to casually but constantly fall before the left portion of her face, concealing it in a mysterious mask that only magnified her desire.
Her poise was of nonchalance and display, presenting herself without actually presenting herself. She continued walking only once she felt she had the attention of the pub safely within her possession. The woman had a walk that turned kings from their queens. She seemed to know it, too.
The woman approached the bar and its only two occupants, taking her usual seat next to the brute, opposite the girl. Without beckoning, the bartender placed an elaborate glass with an expensive alcohol before the woman, both the drink and she seeming out of place in the commonplace bar.
The three of them sat in silence for a moment before the siren spoke. Hers was a deep and liquid voice of lulls and lures.
"Well, sweetest Fayette," she began musically with a hint of mockery, which came as no new tone to either of her audience, "Have we a mark for any upcoming nights, or has your dear father taken a turn for the saintly?"
The response came promptly and edge despite its sweet vocals. "He is not my father." The girl, Fayette, waited a moment to let the comment sink in, although tender nature of the subject was no news. "He will have a job, for all of us, within a handful of nights. Apparently he has been arranging something for some months now. He has advised us to keep our agendas clean and our presence local, because he apparently expects us to be ready for the completion of his plans at the notice of a moment."
"How efficient of him." The red-head quipped. "Fortunately for him my own job earlier today ended... prematurely. I was planning on it lasting well into the night."
The brute between the ladies, Duran, interrupted with a gruff snort, followed by a deep mumble.
"Planning, or hoping?"
"Well..." She gave a slight but helpless shrug and rolled her eyes. "Anyways, what kind of job has he been so diligently arranging?"
Fayette responded without looking at the woman, content with just hanging onto the brute.
"He has shared no information. Apparently, he is keeping his entire plan under shadow until it has been finalized."
"And you haven't done a little sneaking on your own commission?"
"He has been in meetings with foreign emissaries and leaders all day, and he has not earned the title of 'Crimelord' for leaving incriminating evidence around to be documented."
The red-headed siren gave a slight purr and continued to sip her drink as if uninterested. After taking her time, she responded again. "Oh, he has been seeking you."
"When is he not?"
"Right, well he was on his way here. He should be here within the minute."
The girl sighed. "I will address him on my own time." She put her hands on the stool between her legs and hopped off of it in reverse. The next moment, she disappeared into the shadows, seemingly never existing at all.
As if on queue, the doors to the tavern burst open, and a rotund, extravagantly dressed man flared into the room, directly towards the bar and its now two occupants. His fine robes clung to his overhanging stomach and swayed with his uneven movements. His high collars only partially masked his chubby and greasy face. The man was obviously rich, but he bore enough of a reputation that entering a seedy bar unarmed and unescorted become no task worthy of hesitation.
He stopped closer than an average man would have dared to the brute, but close enough that the same average man would violently envy his proximity to the siren.
"Ah," he began. His voice was low and coarse, but where the brute's commanded authority, this man's voice heralded only a sense of filth. "If it is not my two very most favorites, Duran the Bastard Barbarian and the loveliest Opera Bouffe. Were you two only legitimate children of my own, I would feel only righter." The two sat at the bar with their posteriors facing him; they listened without acknowledgment while drinking their drinks. The new man continued unphased, "Ah, but tonight is most certainly a night of joys and desires. Have you seen my sweetest Fayette about? I bare joyous news and desire her presence achingly."
He received a dry and unanimous duet of 'no's, but, before he could push the point further, the doors to the tavern burst open again.
Another man entered, this one seemingly average in all aspects. However, his face was beat red, and he stormed to the bar in a clear fit of rage.
"You!" He shouted, interrupting the rotund man and turning Duran the Brute and Opera the Siren away from their drinks. He pointed at Opera as he raged, paying no attention to either of the men present. "Bitch! Harpy! Lecherous bitch!"
Both Duran and Opera looked at him with lowered eyelids in disinterest, and it was the rotund man who spoke next.
"Good sir, I implore you to halt yourself. Do you not know of me?"
The angry man opened his mouth to yell, but his eyes fell over the rotund man's person for a moment of study and recognition. He promptly shut his mouth. His eyes widened slightly, and his shouting turned to stuttering.
"O- Oh, C- Crimelord Janus. I- I mean, Lord Baron Janus, please forgive my disrespect."
The Crimelord smiled. "Ah, because I am aghast with good news I shall pardon you temporarily. Now, explain yourself."
"I- You see, she has taken all my things! All of them! I thought to lay with her would be a gift of the Gods, if only for an hour. But I awoke to find her absence as well as the absence of all of my belongings! She has a high price to pay! Err... She is not one of your daughters, is she?"
Janus the Crimelord contemplated the situation for a moment before erupting into an obnoxious guffaw. He pursed his lips before speaking. "Well, as the Crimelord of Lacrimund, this certainly falls into my realm of dispute. However, without proof of her guilt, I cannot admit that any crime has occurred at all. Therefore, an extension of my authority over criminal territory in this situation would be unwarranted."
"B- But! She did it! She ruined me. I know it was her!"
The Crimelord remained calm in his defense. "I am afraid a thief only gathers my attention when they operate unlicensed in my territory. And I am afraid a man, or in this case, a woman, is only a thief if they have stolen. Without proof, your allegations, are merely allegations."
Opera seized the moment, barely turning around to casually chime in.
"No, it was me. Once he fell asleep I robbed him blind. I confess." She gave a thin smile at foiling her boss' mock defense of her. Opera's refusal to play along with his formalities for the mere enjoyment of watching the ensuing chaos was not unexpected. Janus the Crimelord merely shrugged and rolled his eyes.
The man's rage was returning. "No!"
Sensing tension, the rest of the bar quieted, their gazes consumed by the scene of the lowly victim aggressing the Crimelord and his two most infamous lieutenants. To be granted a temporary pardon from such a figure was an unexpected stroke of dumb luck in itself, but to press the issue further was to abandon such luck for suicide. "She has ruined me! You cannot let this go. I cannot!"
Getting irritated, the Crimelord changed his pace. "Well, since she admitted to a crime occurring within my territory, then I am within my jurisdiction to dispense punishment. Unfortunately, since she is an agent serving under me, you are advised to leave with your life and -"
"No! Lecherous bitch! I will go to the authorities!"
The events that followed were commonplace in the bar. It was often that Duran the Brute's temper would flare, especially when and after drinking. The unlucky recipient of his rage would become the sport of an untitled game enjoyed by all of the regular tavern patrons. The game consisted of Duran punching a man, and the patrons measuring the distance the sport flew before hitting the ground or nearest table or patron. While it was a personal accomplishment for Duran to create a new record concerning distance, but the conditions of victory for the unlucky man consisted of being able to leave the bar of his own accord after being hit once. The condition for losing was having to be dragged out, while it was an unmentioned rule that dying after the first punch constituted as a loss. There seemed to be no shortage of sport, however, since there was no shortage of persistently angry or desiring men hounding after Opera. This game probably attracted as much population as it did deter, while it may also have strengthened the establishment's security, due to the fact that tavern brawls became nonexistent in Duran's presence for fear of instant death.
Regardless, Duran spun from his seat at the bar to begin a new round.
His arm wound back for a moment, and in the following, the brute's hand, approximately sized at half of the man's head, lodged into the his teeth and nose. In the next moment, the man became painfully airborne, and in turn, painfully earthbound.
For a period of time that felt longer than it was, the tavern halted altogether. Tavern patrons stared with their mouths agape. Janus the Crimelord's gaze shifted between the tavern patrons and the motionless body of the angry man. Opera merely watched with her back to the game and head turned only slightly, baring a grin.
Then in unison, the tavern patrons resumed their revelry and the Crimelord turned back to his agents at the bar. Opera returned to her drink while Duran began to pick the teeth out of his knuckles. The man's life would not be reassured until the drunks who could not hold their liquor were swept off of the floor during the following morning. It seemed strangely normal to find an occasional dead body among the unconscious drunks upon occasion.
The Crimelord remembered his priorities. "Ah, but back to the matter at hand. You have not seen my daughter nigh? I do desperately desire her presence and counsel."
"Haven't seen her."
"No."
"Bah! Well, should you happen upon her by chance, send her my way immediately. Regardless, I shall meet with all of you tomorrow's noon to discuss our next job. This is not something you shall desire to, or are permitted to, ignore." When he sensed he was not going to receive any response of interest, he concluded. "Well, please enjoy yourselves until then. This shall be the end of your leave for a time."
He turned and departed without a second glance.
Duran the Brute had just finished picking the teeth out of his hand before wiping off the remaining blood and returning to his drink, before a figure reappeared out of the nearby shadows, silently and gracefully resuming her position on her seat.
"You could have let him go." The brute snorted and chugged a quart of beer as the rematerialized Fayette rewrapped her arms around his. He wiped his hand across his muzzle to clear the remainder, but succeeded in only smearing it around.
It was Opera who responded. "He chose to deny your father's offer of mercy." She continued with a flare of exaggeration, "Although that is rich... a burglar-turned-assassin arguing in defense of the life of a man who has been stolen from?"
"Chances were in your favor that he would have lain with you even if you had told him beforehand that the price of your body was all that he possessed." Fayette rebutted.
"I guess you can ask him that when... if he wakes up, but thank you for the compliment regardless." Opera quipped. Fayette gave a sigh in display of withdrawal from the argument. Duran continued with his drinking.
Sensing her fleeting attention, the siren verbalized what was really on her mind concerning the matter.
"No one can blame me."
"You only robbed him," Duran exhaled between gulps.
"And literally provoked him to death," Offered Fayette without looking up.
Opera continued unphased. "They should be grateful; I don't understand why thieves and criminals are warranted such blind hatred. I don't force anyone to be a victim. People choose to be victims."
The brute gave a mumble that was questionably an agreement while Fayette rested her head on him as she contended, slightly irritated.
"When Janus gives you a mark, is it their choice to be robbed? When he assigns you a hit, do they know they are going to die after you seduce them?"
The siren continued.
"People choose to be victims, because they want to complain. People would rather be weak than muster the effort it takes to attempt a change in the world."
"People are not weak," Fayette attempted.
"How many heroes emerged during the Decades War? A handful at best. Out of masses numbering how many? So much that the publicans tax without counting their true numbers. And what happens when taxes raise too high, or a war breaks out?"
She left little room for response, but her audience seemed lacking nonetheless.
"They complain." She elaborated, "Peopl complain, because they want to be ruled. They desire to be controlled, and oppressed, so they may relinquish all obligation for improvement and change to their overseers. "
"Nobody desires to be controlled, Opera. People just... do not always know what or how to better the world."
She gave a mild scoff. "You are still young in the world, Fayette." The siren's logic came with a hint of disdain. "People know what should be done, but they choose to complain instead. They scream 'injustice' from the comfort of their own homes, while they wait for some hero, or savior, to bring them their change instead of fighting for it themselves. This is their weakness."
"Does this not make you just as weak? You sit here and complain about complaining."
The red-head gave a short laugh. She spoke with a slight smile, her eyebrows partially raised. "Well, none of us are weak, of course. We are strong, because we know that to take advantage of others is our duty, if we have any hope for survival at all."
"That is not true."
Opera laughed again. "Please. You are a thief; tell me you do not survive by exploiting the weakness of others."
"That is not true! Duran, tell her."
The brute gave a grumble.
"Do not feel bad, Little Sylph," The siren consoled. "Like I said, they should be grateful to us. People want to be victims, and we are merely prospering in the process. Truly, they should be grateful."
The three of them sat quietly for a matter of minutes, none of them facing another. The sylph pondered in distress at the words of the siren, and the siren sat with the corners of her lips raised only slightly, content with her seamless combination of self defense and provocation. The brute merely continued with his drinking.
It was the sylph who broke their shared silence. She spoke in a hushed tone, moreso than was the usual sweetness voice.
"We should leave this place."
Opera responded with sass. "And go where? At least here the drunks know well enough to leave us alone." She paused, recounting. "Well, more often than not."
"No, not the tavern." Fayette corrected. "The city. We could travel the country, as my mother and father used to. Before Janus came and took her as his own. We could be free of the city and its politics, free from the turmoil of the war. Free from Janus and his never-ending jobs."
Duran gave a bass mutter while waiting for the bartender to restock his supply.
Opera scoffed again. "You can't be serious. Where would we go?" She asked, as if leaving was a ludicrous notion. The sylph's response was exceptionally calm. Her head still resting on the brute's shoulder, she spoke with blank eyes, envisioning a scene that was not the wall behind the bar before her.
"I do not know. Ever since Janus nested in this city, I have desired freedom. It was his will that I be trained in the shadow. I never wanted any of this." She blinked. Her focus returned, and her eyes betrayed a hint of disappointment at the remembrance of her surroundings. "Please, Duran, let us escape. I care not if we roam the lands like savages, but let us be free."
The brute gave a grumble in mid-chug, and rebounded with an audibly fulfilling exhalation as he conquered another mug.
Opera rolled her eyes. "Ever the nomad, I see." The remark stole Fayette's attention, and with it, a defensive glare. "What? You think nobody knows? There are better ways to learn secrets than by stealing paperwork."
Fayette said nothing, her angelic face contorted in something that was between anger and hatred. At this, and after finishing his current gulp, Duran turned his head to his side to look at the beautiful red-head. He merely raised his eyebrows, giving the usual look that was his perpetual fatigue for Opera's games. With his attention, she elaborated.
"What? You did not know, brother? Sweetest Fayette, here, is a descendant of the Curane. You have been sleeping with a heretic."
Duran snorted and gave a weak grin. "For a thief and a murderer, I don't think that changes anything."
The sylph held herself closer onto the brute's arm as he continued drinking. "We could leave. After this job Janus has been planning, we could tell him of our resignation."
Opera laughed again at this, but louder. "And you expect him to just let us go? Janus will not just surrender his most prized agents."
It was the brute who spoke next. "Yeah. Maybe after this job then." It took a moment for the sylph to form a meek smile, resting deeper into the brute's arm.
"You can't be serious!" The siren's calm, sensuous demeanor was immediately replaced with a passionate desperation.
Fayette hopped off of her stool and returned her hands to the brute's arm. "Come, Duran, let us not spend our last hours before this job sulking in a tavern. Let us return to the manor." It took the brute more moments to stand from the bar than it did to finish his last drink.
Opera's voice raised, "We've only just returned from the war, which is over in case you hadn't heard, and you want to pick up and leave again? We still have nowhere to go. We will be vagrants again. We finally have a place to call our home, and you want to leave?"
The brute said nothing in reply to her rants, focusing all of his efforts in standing upright. The sylph merely did her best to support him, although it became a miracle that he did not topple and squash the dainty girl. Opera continued, her lack of attention only heightening the distress in her voice.
"How many years have we spent wandering before Janus found us and took us in? How many years have we spent in his employ? And you want to just abandon him? Even if we did leave, you think he is going to just let us go?"
The brute, finally upright, gave a reply saturated with bad breath and laced with burps.
"Eh... we already know who he has to send after us. I can take 'em."
"He will send agent after agent after us until he has nothing. We would be hunted for the rest of our days. You can't be serious."
There was a moment of awkward silence. Duran turned to look at his sister, swaying even with an arm propped on Fayette. Fayette, diminutive in comparison, strained under the weight as if she were trying to carry a horse.
Opera's visible eyebrow and eye raised and widened respectively in a display of panic and confusion. His eyes, baggy and red, met with her, inked and beautiful, even in her fear.
"You don't have to come with if you don't want to."
Her mouth opened slowly and her brow lowered, although her eyes remained just as wide.
Duran stumbled but caught himself, and Fayette ushered him, more verbally than physically, towards the door. The brute and the sylph left the tavern for a more private ambience, leaving the siren to sit only with her half-empty glass at the bar.
A blank glaze came over Opera's eyes as she seemed to lose track of her surroundings. Despite this, the revelry and shouting behind her seemed to drown out what little conscious thought she could manage as the brute's words sank deeper and deeper into her. She shut her mouth and lowered her eyes in an attempt to regain her composure, although what little progress she made was external only.
It was some time before she stood to leave. The siren left the bar with less intentional and calm allure than she had entered with.