Golden Beetle
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
11:53 AM

A small leather pouch, embossed with a dagger as a seal was tossed lightly to slide across the table. "Then start digging, " as if this had been her request all along she answered. Perhaps the jingle of gold would fire up the request, " I need it by the end of the hand." This seemed to weigh heavy on her. She was afterall in a bit of a pickle.
"Keep your coin," She looked at the pouch, it remained untouched. "If I am able to give you something in a hand. I will collect. I will not however create dirt for you. I am not of the Caste of Slavers." She rose then, the weight of cloak unfolding as she did, one of the last few cylinders of uncorrupt justice. "Is the intent her incarceration or enslavement?"
She spoke cooly, not so much to relay the gravity of the situation, but to instill its urgency, "Neither, nor is she to be harmed in anyway." That seemed solid fact. "Killer, do not let your loyalty to a friend (this word came over strangely) outweigh the Daggers request," she stood before her, aside the Eight. They were not menacing, nor did they mean ill will. Grave, yes, the situation was important. Perhaps that is what they convey. "You should take the coin, it is not from me. Half now, half when your task is completed. That is our way."
"Do not insult me, Oman Khan." Her voice held less warmth than it already had. For in truth she already had insulted her. "I have served my caste with no interruption for many years. I have lost more than you know, because of it. I will not be accused of putting anything, nevermind a woman, between it and I." The small sack of coin was taken and slipped into the inside pocket of her cloak. Assassins, were a proud sort. Savana was among them. "In a hand, I will bring you what I know. If anything."
"Until then, Savana Vinquient, Killer, " she said with a reflection of, was it, pride? Yes. The men nodded to the Crossroads, before she took to the door.
Proud enough to be unmoved by the female and the eight that flanked her. She swept her gaze over the wall of black, then turned and departed. Solitarily.
----
The name of Oman A'set Aga Khan is not an unfamiliar one to me. The erstwhile compatriot of my mentor, Na'Kaish. My pride was cut, that the First would send the Sea for me, rather than directly. Nevertheless, coin was exchanged as it always tends to be. The tension was so palatable in the room it clung the roof of my mouth and the flat of my tongue. I would be used to acquire information on a woman. The reasons for which, are still unknown to me.
The Serpent and the Sea
Are coming over me
And I cannot abide.
So weave a circle 'round you thrice
And close your eyes with holy dread*
For soon the street of Ar run red
When its men fall from Paradise.
*Appropriate nods to Coleridge's Kubla Khan
Labels: Golden Beetle