A prim, short elven woman sized up the tall, broad figure who took up space in the near-empty warehouse, looking as if he’d been dipped in dusk and starlight. It was… difficult for her to gauge human ages- and while she was not entirely sure that the man she had hired for this particular task was entirely human, given his canine appendages- he surely aged like one. He could not have been much older, perhaps only by a year or two, though from a quick glance it was apparent that they came from entirely different walks of life.

His imposing figure, a foot and a half taller than her own, and his muscular frame, were exactly why she had hired him for the task. While he may have seemed… flippant and not entirely focused on the task during their initial meeting, his skill seemed to speak for itself. And on such short notice, he would have to do.

Tonight needed to go perfectly.

Everything- her family’s reputation, her grandparents’ faith in her as the new heiress, was riding on this deal going smoothly. While her family’s patriarch would normally handle trips to the Crescent Isles, she had convinced him that she would be fit for the task in his stead, that she could meet with their business partner and ensure that this shipment of wine made it to the right hands. She was young, yes, but she had a sharp mind for business and was confident that she could handle things.

She had to, if she did not want to end up like-

Well.

Those particular memories were old and faded, and she did not need to drag them up on a night like tonight. Winter’s Crown was meant to be a holiday about family, and she should focus on the family she currently had, and so desperately did not want to disappoint, and not the family that she still secretly wished would come whisk her away from this miserable life.

Those wishes did not matter, because they would not come to fruition.

She snapped out of her thoughts, shaking the way the ghosts of her past, curls bouncing as she did so. With a businesswoman’s rigid posture and clinical efficiency, she addressed the man directly. “I have received word that the Red Rogue is expected to strike this warehouse tonight. You are aware of the legend, yes?”

She did not wait for a response before continuing on. “This warehouse currently belongs to my business partner- Madam Seriko. She will not be here until the morning, but the Red Rogue has set his sights on this shipment, and he intends to make off with it in the night. Your task is to ensure that he does not steal a single bottle of wine, is that understood?”

This time, she did wait for an affirmative nod before speaking once more. “Good. You will, of course, be compensated handsomely for your services. My family does not take kindly to rogues who give charity to beggars while costing tradesmen like us thousands of Solars.” Her grandfather’s words, not hers, ones that had been drilled into her since youth. And perhaps she could bring herself to believe them, with time, but there was still a small doubtful part of her that lingered, a voice that sounded suspiciously like a kindly man who once taught her that money and fame was not everything.

But she was getting distracted again. She glanced out the window at the setting sun, which was painting the sky a pleasant shade of orange, before turning back to Seiya, extending a hand. Marlow Fenestra would do everything short of making a deal with the devil- or perhaps, as the locals called them- a yokai, to ensure that this deal would go smoothly. And perhaps, unbeknownst to her, she had, in a roundabout sort of way. But she had to trust that Seiya would watch her wares, and take care of any thieves. She herself would not be present, tucked away in a hotel where she was far enough from the action but close enough to return at the first sign of danger. This mission would all be on Seiya’s broad shoulders.

“The Fenestra family thanks you for your service, Seiya.” She said with the ghost of a smile that may have once been described as friendly.

---

The new moon was currently an inky-black void in the sky that seemed to follow Cyran as he watched his target from a distance. The lack of light did not bother the assassin, who seemed to blend in with the shadows as naturally as if he had been born in them. It would have been a surprise to anyone that observed him that this was not the case. Rather, he had been plunged into them, abruptly and suddenly, left with no choice to make them his home.

Currently, the darkness seemed to huddle around him like a protective cloak as Cyran kept a wary eye on the empty warehouse, belonging to one Madam Seriko, a wealthy landowner who managed a chain of inns on the Crescent Isles. According to his client, she had an impressive shipment of wine expected to arrive today, one that would cost her a pretty penny if it was stolen. His client wanted the wine so that it could be distributed back to local, common merchants and ensure that they could make their money.

Thievery was not his traditional kind of work, but Cyran could not afford to be picky right now. He needed whatever money he could get if he was going to support the orphanage. The Specter kept this in mind as he assessed the situation, surprised to see that despite the presence of guards earlier, the warehouse currently seemed to be… empty. Dark, calculating eyes narrowed under the hood- were there more guards on the inside?

No matter. He could take care of anyone on the inside easily, and slip out just as fast, barely a shadow in the recesses of their minds, with the wine in tow. No one needed to be killed, and if they were, then… that was just another tally.

He hopped down from the squat rooftop with catlike grace, pulling out Cold Steel with one hand as he approached the back wall.^[1] The cold wind whipped at him as he calmly walked up to the wooden wall, staying away from doors and windows. He did not need such things to operate. The Specter raised his finger, tracing a few thin lines on the walls, the wall dissolving into darkness, allowing him to step through the shadows and into the warehouse entirely.^[2]

The inside seemed to be just as empty as the outside, which… confused Cyran, but he would not look a gift horse in the mouth. Madam Seriko was fool enough to neglect hiring guards for such precious stock, then it was all the easier to relieve her of said stock. Besides, he was sure Iryla would be amused by such a tale, once he was back home at the Rookery after this was said and done.

He readjusted his hood, venturing further in to find where the wine shipment was held.

---

1. Cat's Grace
2. Create Door

Gods above, this sorta thing really wasn't his scene.

Familiarity, for him, was found in the form of a too-small cottage sequestered away from other villages, against aging wooden floorboards that Mama painstakingly tried to keep trim and clean all the same, stavin' off the wintry cold with whatever the two of 'em had-- not that they really had much. It was easier for him, with a demon's blood in his veins, with anger woven tightly enough within him that it could keep him warm at night, but for a mortal woman like his mom, the chill crept easier beneath her skin, stitching its way into her bones in a way she couldn't fight off on her own. And even so, she'd still drape the extra blanket over him at night like he couldn't see her shiver when a stray wind wrestled through that window that didn't close properly, like she'd fall asleep all fine and easy tryin' not to freeze beneath a threadbare sheet.

It's that thought that keeps him silent as the woman before him speaks, her voice all prim and proper, with all the emphasis and enunciation he'd never been all that good at, her back stiff as a bamboo stem and her steps careful and practiced. She's the vision of propriety, of nobility, and even if some of her words don't sit quite right with Seiya, even if he doesn't like the way she doesn't give him a chance to speak here and there, he knows better than to say a word. You don't mess with people with power when you can't afford to.

That, Seiya thinks with only the faintest touch of bitterness, is somethin' you've gotta work your way up to.

Keen violet eyes follow Marlow Fenestra's every move as she glances away, the ghost of the dying sun settling strangely on her expression, gold and orange and pale pink tucked into the letters of some kind of language Seiya didn't know a word of, but he hardly gets a chance to comprehend it before her gaze snaps back to him, extending her hand for what he assumes to be a request for a shake. His fingers dwarf hers in size, in capacity for what they can do, but there's power in her grasp, and he won't soon forget who holds the true strength between them.

"Uh, happy to be of service, ma'am."

---

The truth is, he's hardly attached to this work in the slightest.

Seiya might feel a bit guilty for that, if it was for anyone else, but hey, he ain't turnin' down a noble's money; not when Winter's Crown was rollin' around and he had two important people in his heart and on his mind. He'd practically assembled a whole laundry list of things he'd wanted to get for Mama-- proper fabric to make some nicer blankets so she could finally stop goin' cold, one of those pretty robes she pretended she hadn't sighed over when last they'd wandered a city together, some minor things for the house... maybe if he nabbed enough Solars from this to get her all the things she'd denied herself, he'd get the gift of seeing her smile.

And then, for Moondust... heh, well, he'd figure out somethin' for Moondust.

He chases off the idle thoughts, for now-- he needs keen senses for something like this, needs to keep his eyes sharp and ears alert so he'll know when the air changes, know when the Red Rogue has made his appearance. He's opted to stay right by the shipment to keep as close of an eye on it as possible; hard to miss someone tryin' to steal somethin' when you're sittin' right next to it, after all. He ain't the sharpest sword in the rack, but even he knows that.

Gods above, he hopes this Rogue shows up soon, though. He'd like to get this done, take his pay, and haul ass to the nearest store as soon as possible. He's almost startin' to get antsy, waiting like this-- he can't help but tap his foot tensely against the warehouse floor, a quiet sound echoing from the movement. It's not ideal, but it's something to settle his nerves.

He really hopes this is worth it.

The inside of the warehouse was a complicated series of twisting halls and empty chambers, void of any life aside from himself. The only movement came from the dust lazily floating in the air that had yet to settle, and the occasional bird flying by a window. Cyran rifled through a few boxes quietly, completely silent and untraceable as he stood in the shadows cast from dim oil lamps hanging from the rafters. The boxes in this particular room were full of robes one might find at an inn traditional of Starlight City, all bearing Madam Seriko’s logo emblazoned on the breast. He set these boxes aside, brushing off his jacket as he straightened, suspicion growing the longer that he went without seeing anyone else.

Had Madam Seriko hired anyone to guard her wares? According to his employer, there was a chance she would be expecting him, and that he should prepare to face any manner of armed militia or guards that she might have hired. Those, he could contend with. Cyran was barely a wisp of a person, and he would have no trouble making it in and out without any of the guards so much as knowing he’d ever been there. But the longer he went without any movement- the idle chatter and scuffle of feet, the shadows cast by their movement through the halls- the more suspicious he grew that he had wandered into some sort of trap.

But if that was the case, who had he been played by? Madam Seriko? She was a hotel owner, and a greedy one at that, but with a paranoid streak a mile long. Cyran was a professional. He’d done his homework, investigated Madam Seriko’s habits and mannerisms, painting a comprehensive picture of his mark. She liked to smoke tobacco and eat sour cherries after dinner, and preferred to stroll in her private gardens in the evenings. Most importantly, she handled problems with force, content that if she threw enough men at the problem, things would get fixed soon enough.

She did not possess the kind of subtlety required for a setup like this.

Then that left the possibility he had been been sent to a lion’s den by his employer…

Well, Cyran hoped that was not the case. Whatever the case, he was sure he could handle himself in the event of an ambush. Cyran was not an overly confident man, but he was faithful enough in his skills to account for such a contingency.

He rested his hand protectively on Spell Slicer as he wafted through the halls, a spirit forced to wander until he found what he was looking for. Eventually, he came upon an unlocked door, and figured that was as good a place to start as any. He was about to open the door when something gave him pause. It was slight- barely the tip-tapping of something against wood- but the first sign of activity that made him stop all the same.

Someone was inside this room.

Cyran tilted his head, carefully considering his next options. If there were guards in wait, they would no doubt be watching the door, waiting for any fool of a thief to waltz right through. This would require a more delicate touch. Cyran kept his back close to the wall, shadows keeping him out of sight from anyone on the room inside as he slowly opened the door.^[1] A quick snap of his fingers conjured a noise down the hall, the sound of a soft, murmuring voice and unquiet footsteps.^[2] With any luck, it would draw out whoever was inside, and he could get a better look at what he was dealing with.

He hid, and he waited.

---

1. Pass Without a Trace
2. Minor Trickery

For all the stress Marlow Fenestra had placed on this job, it sure is pretty damn quiet.

Seiya supposes that ain't the strangest thing in the world, though; nobles are awful paranoid when it comes to their belongings, especially when rumors start flyin' that something might happen to 'em. That gets the panic whirlin', causes 'em to get their asses in gear, roping together as many precautions as necessary to ensure all their materials stay in place, no matter what the cost may be. He finds it kind of silly, really, but again, it's not his place to question any of it. As long as the Fenestras are tossin' money in his hands at the end of the day, he'll smile and nod and be the polite, stupid strongman they probably want him to be.

Still, even despite the quiet hope for an easy in and out kind of job, somethin' where he could land easy money and get to work on his Winter's Crown projects, there's that fiery spirit burnin' bright as ever somewhere deep within his ribs, an inferno blazin' to life within him like a bonfire, his heart the tinder keepin' it going. Seiya's never been the kind of man who likes sittin' pretty and watching paint dry, and for a mission that's supposed to be all wild and dangerous, it's been awfully quiet. He ain't overly familiar with legends of the Red Rogue, at least not beyond the bare basics, but he can't help but hope that they'd be better at more than just stealin' whatever strikes their fancy; hell, maybe they'd be capable of puttin' up a good fight.

Ah, not that he's seekin' out violence just to seek out violence; Seiya's not aimin' for a kill or nothing, not the kind of thing he does when he grapples with monsters out in the woods. No, all he really wants from this is a nice sparrin' match, something to add a little splash of adventure to an otherwise dull night.

It starts to look like he may get that wish when he hears the sound of a voice comin' from down the hall.

He cracks his knuckles, one of his ears twitching as he rises to his feet.

Ain't exactly subtle of 'em, but hey, he can't say he blames whoever this is; he's the only man in the place, and it probably looks to this person like there's nobody around. It's an oversight on their part, but hey, they'll learn. Seiya smiles a bit to himself, careful to keep his steps as quiet as a man of his impressive stature can as he walks down the hall, ready to corner whoever is there--

...only for... no one to be around.

"...Huh," he mumbles, brow furrowing, glancing around in a manner not unlike a lost puppy. "Well. That ain't what I expected."

It didn’t take long for someone to come out from the door, far less time than Cyran had expected, in fact. A more cautious bodyguard would have been hesitant to investigate a random sound- Cyran had been banking on not attracting anyone out of the room at all. But only a few seconds after he conjured the noise from the darkness, pounding footsteps grew steadily louder as whoever had been tapping around impatiently on the inside came out, and he caught sight of his adversary for the first time.

…

He was wickedly tall, that was the first thing Cyran noticed about him. Cyran himself had significant height, possessing the tall, lithe stature common of elven folk, but this man towered over even him. The long, white hair stood out against the black backdrop, the sheer light of it reminding him of Iryla. His stature, however, couldn’t be more different from his kid’s. This man’s shoulder span could easily have been double Cyran’s, and no doubt had the strength to match.

Cyran suppressed a shiver. He certainly didn’t want to end up on the opposite end of that man’s fists. He’d have to be careful about this.

It was only about half a second that Cyran observed the bodyguard, analytical mind working quickly as he took in anything he could about the bodyguard’s features- much like his daughter had in this very warehouse had only hours ago, unbeknownst to him. The stranger’s canine features were interesting, though Cyran was more interested in his fighting prowess. He looked like your typical strongman native to the Crescent Isles, though there was something… more about him, power that seemed to ripple from his core, something that made the dark magic corrupting Cyran's blood sing with joy.

A powerful enemy indeed.

Once his threat assessment was done, Cyran didn’t waste any time slipping from the shadows through the door that the bodyguard had left open while the strange man puzzled over what he’d heard.

The door shut with a soft click behind him.

Cyran quickly locked the door, none too willing to see what might happen if he provoked the man that Madam Seriko hired. He would have to work quickly if he wanted to get out of here with the goods before that strongman realized he’d been tricked and tried to get his way back in. He turned his attention to the crates of wine around him, stacked in neat rows by meticulous hands. They may as well have been gift wrapped for him.

He grabbed the nearest one, wrapping his hands carefully around the side. It was heavier than he expected, bottles clinking with the movement, but his footsteps were still graceful even as he made his way towards the nearest wall. He lifted his finger, tracing another door into the wall just large enough for him to fit himself and the crate through. The chilly air outside was like a balm, serving to wake Cyran up while he set the crate down in the grass. He would transport these goods to a safe location once he’d gotten enough on the outside- admittedly, the logistics of a single-man job meant there would be a lot of heavy lifting on his end, but Cyran came into this job expecting a bit of heavy lifting.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t complain about it, though.

“I am getting far too old for this…” He muttered to himself as he rubbed at his back after straightening, feeling the familiar ache and burn of raised scars that had never quite healed right.

One down, several more to go.

He stepped back in through the shadowy door, into the darkened warehouse, moving to pick up another box.

There's a lotta things Seiya knows, and a lot of things he doesn't.

One of the big things he does know is that it's important to be aware of where you fall short in life; it does you no good to delude yourself over what you can and can't do, to go 'round pretendin' you're better at somethin' than you really are. You ain't gonna get any better at somethin' by wavin' around a false title, claimin' you're the champ of something before you've even stepped into the ring. It ain't an easy thing to learn-- it's one of those things you pick up early or life beats it into you with its own calloused, unforgiving fists, but it's one of those lessons he knows well, one of those things he holds close to his heart and never loses sight of, even through the thick of his pride.

And if there is anything Seiya falls short with, it is absolutely logic-- common sense, wisdom, you name it, he ain't got it, and he knows that better than he knows anything. He still remembers runnin' home with his ears pressed flat to his skull with shame when he was a kid, because he'd fallen for some dumb trick in a human village again, lambasted for his gullibility until he'd turned tail and left. It ain't like he can help it, though; if someone tells him there's somethin' on the ceiling, don't it just make sense to check for himself?

Those memories hang as bitter as the rest-- with the biting words like "half-demon," "feral beast," all that good stuff that sat so heavy on his shoulders that he just had to learn to become strong enough to carry it properly. But that doesn't matter now-- what matters now is that he's been played.

Seiya's ears twitch at the very distant sound of a lock clicking back down the hall-- it ain't easy to hear, especially from here, and he probably wouldn't've caught it if he wasn't keepin' his mouth shut tryin' to listen for those footsteps again. He immediately perks up and swivels around, headin' back down the hall to go back to his post, ready to figure out exactly what the hell is going on.

As he expects, the door's locked, the knob useless in his hand no matter how many times he tries to twist at it.

Well. Marlow didn't say nothin' about the warehouse stayin' intact.

With a shrug and a decision that he'll just blame this on whoever's on the other side of the door, Seiya delivers a swift kick to the door's center, watching it immediately fly off the hinges, yielding all too easily to the one gift his father's lineage ever gave him. [1]

He's not exactly sure what he expects when the door hits the floor, but it sure ain't what he gets: some elven guy-- how old, he ain't exactly sure, it's always hard to tell with 'em-- with sharp features, tall but not taller than Seiya. He'd probably come across as intimidating to any other guy, but it's hard for much of anyone to intimidate a guy as tall and built as Seiya. Even so, he ain't gonna underestimate him-- he looks the part of a fun opponent, with his fancy feathery clothing and sneaky lookin' build.

The only disappointment here is that he ain't wearin' any red. Some Red Rogue he is.

"Well," Seiya says, lifting his arms up, hand locked in hand, knuckles cracking as a grin breaks out across his face. "So, uh. What do ya think you're doin' there, pal?"

Whatever his adversary of the night may have been about to answer with, Seiya doesn't exactly give him a chance-- that fire is burning strong in his blood, an inferno that threatens to consume, and the opportunity for a fight isn't somethin' he'll ever turn down. Besides, this guy's clearly here to steal, so it's all just part of Miss Fenestra's fancy little fine-print-laden contract.

That's all the justification he needs to launch a simple, but ferocious punch right for this stranger's abdomen, a fierce grin lighting up his face all the while.

---

[1] Bull's Strength Tattoo Babey

Cyran was about to pick up another crate and make his way to the door of shadow he’d created when he heard the cracking of distant cracking of wood, small at first, but growing louder with the subsequent thud- this was the only warning he received before the door he’d locked broke apart, and he was greeted with that tall, canine man he’d distracted with the ruse.

Cyran carefully stilled- his eyes did not flit towards the door that he’d created against the back wall lest he give away his escape route to this imposing man. He was not that much taller than Cyran, upon closer inspection, but he still cut a far more imposing figure, accentuated even more by the cracking of his knuckles in the dead silence of the warehouse.

Cyran was not given the chance to answer his question.

Pain blossomed in his gut as the fist connected with his abdomen before he could so much as pull out one of his daggers in defense. As the air was knocked out of him all at once, and he was sent hurtling towards the nearest wall with the force of a large projectile, he realized exactly why Madam Seriko had hired such a person.

He closed his eyes and braced for the impact-

Behind him, the dim light flickered and coalesced into a pale form, an elegant woman with long, curly hair who greatly resembled the young lady that had stood in this warehouse not long ago. An empty, mirthful smile flit across Rowan Pavyre’s face as she stared down at Cyran, who had curled in on himself to protect himself from further damage.

Poor Cyran.

He’d always been a bit weak.

Soft.

She supposed she could help him just this once.

-But now blow came.^[1]

Ghostly, incorporeal hands wrapped around his shoulders and slowed him just before he hit the wall. Cyran flipped in the air, gracefully maneuvering himself so he would simply land on his feet with barely so much as a sound.^[2] He didn’t have time to wonder why he hadn’t been injured from the hit, not when he was preoccupied with the titan of a man in front of him, who wore an almost feral grin on his face while he wound up for another punch.

This time, Cyran was prepared.

There was a hardened look in the Specter’s dark eyes as he raised his arms, Spell Slicer and Cold Steel gripped in each hand. He did not say anything. There was no need to talk or try to defend himself when he’d been caught red-handed, after all. He blinked, eyes suddenly turning pure black as the shadows came to his aid, coating the area around him in an impenetrable darkness before the bodyguard could reach him.^[3,4] It did not quite reach the canine bodyguard, but if he tried to charge in, there would be no way for him to see what was happening.

Cyran curiously watched him, waiting to see what he would do. Would he blindly charge in without a thought, depending on his strength to carry him? Or would he wait and find another opportunity to smoke Cyran out? He could try all he wanted, but in darkness, Cyran was nothing more than a wisp of a person, barely as visible as the ghost still hovering behind him. That bodyguard would not be able to find Cyran in these shadows.

Still, if he was going to give it his best shot, Cyran would set up a little trap for him. If a door wouldn’t hold him while Cyran finished his job… perhaps a wall would.

He traced another door in the wall, creating an opening right in front of where the bodyguard currently stood.^[5] If he was going to charge in… then all he would find was the cold outdoors to greet him. And Cyran would close the shadow-door up, leaving the bodyguard on the outside so he could continue his business. That was a much preferable alternative to an outright fight.

---

1. Guardian Spirit (1/2)
2. Cat’s Grace
3. Ebon Eyes
4. Zone of Shadows- enhanced by Spirit Shroud
5. Create Door

Barely a minute in, and Seiya's already pretty damned impressed.

For a guy who looks kinda fragile, this rogue-- thankfully!-- sure doesn't fit the bill; his reflexes are keen as a well-kept knife, his reaction timin' better than anything he's ever really seen. It's not like Seiya goes 'round pickin' fights with just anyone he runs into, because he was raised better than that and he knows he's gotta be careful with his kinda strength, but he does know that most tend to crumple against his hands with the kind of force he can put behind 'em, so it's a nice change of pace to see the way this stranger doesn't even make it to the wall. He even manages to pull off some acrobatics, graceful as a dancer, as a cat jumpin' from roof to roof.

Gods above, it's so cool; he can't help the smile that lights up his entire face as he watches the way this man moves, the practiced movements of his whole body, the way he shakes off a hit like that like he'd just bumped into a rail or somethin'. Oh, Seiya is so goin' to have to ask this guy for some tips later when he's chased him out of the warehouse-- he's really hopin' he ain't gonna have to drag the guy into jail or anythin' like that, because he ain't here to rain down justice or the law, he's just here to guard some wine and get paid. They don't pay him to be some royal guard, so he ain't gonna pretend to be one.

Still, that's beside the point, and his idle thoughts of askin' this guy 'bout his tactics is gonna have to wait; Seiya's itchin' for a fight, and his job demands what his job demands.

He's already ready to dive in for another hit when liquid shadow seems to spring to life around the guy, cloaking him in it like a misty shield-- seein' him in the midst of it all just ain't possible, and Seiya's quick to stop in his tracks, not keen on the idea of vaultin' himself into a mass of unholy darkness with some guy who clearly knows it well. Uh, especially not with some guy armed with two sharp weapons-- that sounds like a bad idea. Seiya can usually count on his fists and claws and fangs when it comes down to it, but he ain't stupid enough to think he can do all of that blind against a guy with two sharp little instruments.

So he stops for a moment, just waitin' to see what happens-- and he immediately perks up as soon as an opening forms before him, a door springing to life before him. Oh! So this guy must be puttin' his magic to use to try and clean this place out, and this right here is his method; he must be slinkin' out real fast to avoid gettin' into a fight. Wise choice, but it ain't like Seiya can just let him run off-- not when he's gotta keep a real good eye on this shipment and make sure it's all accounted for.

With that in mind, he sprints through the door-- and... pauses as he finds nothing but the empty, starlit outdoors, and hears the wall settle back into place behind him.

Oh, Gods damn it.

He's been played. Again.

Well, if this guy thinks his strange little magic tricks are gonna keep winnin' against Seiya, he's right. Unfortunately for him, Seiya also happens to be stubborn and reckless and impossibly devoted to the tasks he's given, and so for all the humiliation setting his face ablaze, it ain't enough to stop him.

He swivels on his feet, gives the wall one good, hard look, and delivers a few more harsh blows to it before breaking it down and leaping through. [1]

"...listen, pal," Seiya says, dusting rubble off of himself as he gives this stranger a rather disapproving look. There's still some traces of shame on his face, pink dusting his cheeks over having fallen for such a trick, but it pales in comparison to the disappointment in those blazing violet eyes. "I ain't here to kill ya, I'm just here to do my job, and y' ain't makin' it easy on me. 'Fraid fancy tricks won't stop me, though. There's one thing standin' between me and my Mama havin' a nice Winter's Crown, and unfortunately, that thing happens to be you."

His eyes burn pink, the streaks of pastel color in his hair suddenly fiery as ink warps his fingertips, spinning his normal claws into longer, sharper masses of shadow [2]-- for once, he is every bit the image of the half-demon he is, wild-eyed and shadowy and ready for a fight. He's quick to lunge forward, immediately swiping for Cyran once again, a low growl leaving him as those ominous claws delve forth.

---

[1] Bull's Strength Tattoo (ohhhhhhhh yeah)

[2] Death Swipe

As he suspected, once he hid and dropped the shadows, the bodyguard immediately charged for the door, believing him to have escaped. For a brief second, Cyran hid an amused smile behind his hand as the door disappeared right behind the tall man, leaving him outside. The humor quickly faded as he resumed his mask of professionalism, straightening from where he’d hidden behind a crate and brushing dirt off his jacket. That should hold off that bodyguard long enough to let Cyran take care of a couple more boxes of wine…

He sheathed his daggers once more and immediately bent down to pick up another box when the wall he’d sent that bodyguard through suddenly caved inwards, and Cyran was left gaping as the bodyguard nonchalantly dusted wood chips and rubble off of him as if this was an everyday occurrence, before boldly proclaiming that Cyran was the only thing standing between him and his…

What?

“Your… mother?” Cyran blinked, not quite sure what he was talking about but slowly putting the pieces together. The young man spoke with a dialect that was reminiscent of local commonfolk in the Crescent Isles, the kind of speech plain and straightforward, with the contractions slightly slurred. Had Madam Seriko simply plucked some young man off the streets to do her dirty work for her, simply because it might have been cheaper? His distaste for the businesswoman grew- this young man was no doubt a talented fighter, but he had no part in this back and forth between the wealthy and the thieves that tried to divest the rich of their coin. He was just an unfortunate bystander.

All of a sudden, Cyran wasn’t sure which of them was meant to be the pawn in this scenario.

The bodyguard’s eyes blazed magenta, claws elongating as they were imbued with a demon’s power, the very same magic that thrummed in Cyran’s veins. Well, two could play that game. Cyran’s own darkened nails elongated into claws, the shadows crawling all the way up past his elbow- longer than the last time he’d summoned the darkness to his aid, unbeknownst to him- and slashed his arm upwards at the same time the bodyguard slashed down, both delivering horrible, jagged scratches on one another that crackled with dark magic.^[1]

Cyran gasped as his chest flared up in pain where the bodyguard managed to land a blow on him, only comforted by the fact that his own wounds were mirrored on the bodyguard’s own chest. He immediately leapt away, putting distance between them before he could be on the receiving end of another devastating blow. This could not turn into an outright battle between them. The bodyguard claimed he had no intention of killing Cyran, but the sheer raw strength and willpower he carried himself with said otherwise. And likewise, Cyran could not bring himself to harm this young man.

Cyran raised a hand, snapping his fingers. In a small circle around them, the lights in the lanterns hanging from the low roof snuffed out, bathing them all in a more natural darkness.^[2] Cyran took a step backwards into the comforting, cold embrace of the shadows, hidden from sight.^[3] As the bodyguard frantically looked around for him, Cyran perched himself on top of one of the crates of wine before reappearing once more. For the first time that evening, he addressed the bodyguard, voice calm and perhaps more compassionate than one would ever expect from the assassin currently robbing this place blind.

“I don’t wish to hurt you, either. If it’s coin you’re looking for, I would be more than happy to supply what you need so that you and your mother can have a peaceful Winter’s Crown.” He promised. “I’m not sure how much your employer is paying you to watch these crates, but I am sure it is much less than she truly owes you.”

If his suspicions were correct, then this poor man was being taken advantage of.

“This is not your fight, young man. You can go back home to your mother, have a merry Winter’s Crown, and forget all about what you saw today.” That shouldn’t be too difficult. Unlike most assassins, Cyran could get away with not showing his face, because his appearance tended to slip from people’s minds in the first place.

He sincerely hoped the young man would be smart and take Cyran up on his offer. By morning, he could return home to his mother, and this incident- especially Cyran’s involvement in it- would fade away into obscurity. He would be safe, happy, and most importantly, free from being used as the middle man in the meddling schemes of nobles.

---

1. Death Swipe, enhanced by Spirit Shroud
2. Remove Light
3. Pass Without a Trace

There are two thoughts that immediately spring into Seiya's mind as soon as the Astonishingly-Not-At-All-Red Rogue mirrors his same spell, vast, sharp, shadowy claws raking up against his bared chest in the exact same moment Seiya's own tear down into his:

Holy shit, that's so fuckin' cool--

and

OW.

A heavy hiss slips from between Seiya's teeth as he leaps back, the fresh sting of jagged gashes trailing down his chest, some kind of strange, shadowy mist trailin' off of 'em for a brief second before it disappears into the air like fog goin' away with sunlight. It reminds him of the woods at night, the ones with blue lanterns and promises that if you go too far in, you ain't leavin' the same way; the ones that teem with ghosts and demons and all kinds of creatures that ain't gonna let you go once they dig their claws into you. If the blood of one of those demons didn't flow through Seiya's veins, somethin' about this guy might actually even give him the creeps.

But fear ain't somethin' Seiya's ever had the sense to have much of, and it's the last thing on his mind as he watches the rogue snap his fingers, all the light leavin' the room as quickly and thoughtlessly as Seiya had just a minute before. All that's left is the trails of starlight pourin' in from outside through the gaping hole in the wall, but that sure as hell ain't enough to tell him where this guy's gone. With him all dressed up in black that way, quiet as a pebble flyin' over a still pond, trackin' him sure ain't an easy feat.

Gods above, he's so cool. He's so cool-- Seiya's always been the kind to just charge in and take a fight instantaneously, knowin' stealth ain't gonna do much for a six foot five half-demon decked out in pastels, but it doesn't stop him from envying those who can get away with it. This guy makes it look effortless, like he's some shadow come to life, and even though Seiya should really be focused on stoppin' him like his job demands, on the burning pain still blooming in his chest from those strangely powerful claw marks, he can't stop thinkin' about how damned neat the skills this guy has thrown forth are. Dammit, it ain't like Kamui ever gave Seiya much anyway, but it's times like this when he wonders about how cool it would've been to be a half-tengu or a bakeneko or somethin' instead, the son of somethin' other than some deadbeat dog prince.

Ugh. Ain't much time for dwellin' on that, now.

Just as soon as he's about to go charging around lookin' for the rogue, that clear voice rings through the room, and Seiya whirls around to find the stranger perched on a crate, strangely... not poised to fight, like he'd anticipated. He ain't brandishin' those fancy weapons, ain't rushin' in for an attempt on his life, he's just... standin' there, a bit menacing, maybe, but his voice is even and almost kind, carrying years and years of knowledge behind the words.

And for once, it's enough to make Seiya pause.

"...you think they're under-payin' me?" he says, body still adopting a defensive stance, though he makes no move to advance just yet, no magic buzzing in his veins. His eyes still blaze that vibrant magenta, like oleander, but no poison flows from them. "That's a hasty assumption, there. She's offered a hell of a lot."

At least, he thinks it's a hell of a lot. It ain't like he knows. It's not like the two of 'em have ever had much to their names.

Even so, no matter the doubt in his expression, he does not move to attack, simply eyeing the stranger with skepticism, with wariness-- like he expects more deception, another door in the wall, another sound down the hall. He's been fooled twice, shame on him both times, but those had been simple, tangible things; he at least hopes he knows better than to fall for the pretty words of a stranger. He ain't the brightest star in the sky, but oh, even the dim stars still earned their place up there all the same.

"...Listen," Seiya says, voice a little tighter. "I don't think they'd take all too kindly to me just ditchin' out of nowhere. I ain't fond of the idea of gettin' into trouble with a bunch of powerful people just because you say I should. What's your angle, here?"

Cyran sighed- a soft, weary sound. He hadn’t expected the young man to believe his word right away. Even this concession of words, and the fact he had yet to chase Cyran up the crates he was perched on was a small victory. His tone was distrustful, but there was a spark in his eyes that said he didn’t wholly trust Madam Seriko, either. Cyran closed his eyes for the briefest second, looking every bit as tired as he felt for all his three centuries of life.

“The promises of nobles are never as much as their honeyed words may make you think.” He murmured. When he opened his eyes again, the sharpness had dulled like an old, overused dagger. He still wore the Specter’s coldness, but there was genuine care and concern when he spoke next. “How did she find you, son? How much did she offer for this job? I’m assuming she saw you on the street and told you that you’d be the perfect fit for the job?” No doubt his stature and the questionable nature of his origins, a bloodline that Cyran still could not yet place but still set him off all the same, had been a factor. “She would have promised you riches you’d never seen before in your life, no?” And that much would be the truth. “But she knows that she can get away with hiring you for less. Trained mercs- they cost a pretty penny, and that’s a cost some aren’t willing to pay.”

The warehouse fell silent as he allowed the young man to consider his words. Eventually, the young man spoke up again, voice tight with suspicion, but still unmoving.

“No angle.” Cyran insisted. “Much like you, I don’t wish to kill you. This wine is not worth your life, and I will complete my mission one way or the other. And if you’re only protecting these goods to have a little extra spending money for Winter’s Crown, then I think there’s a peaceful way to resolve all this.”

He watched and waited, curious to see what the young man would do. How much did he truly care about a shipment of wine, anyways? It was not overconfidence to say that if things did come to a fight, Cyran would be the one to walk away. Every fight was life or death for him, and either way he would always come out of it one step closer to the grave. The scratches on his chest were proof that this young man, while rough around the edges, possessed a kind of raw power that reminded him a bit of Zarius- but a diamond in the rough that had yet to be harnessed. There would be injuries on both sides, but Cyran could probably tip the scales in his favor with a couple of well-timed cuts with Spell Slicer.

He did not want it to come to that.

Cyran didn’t have much money on his person. He’d learned from experience to never carry money on him during his job where it could be stolen, but he still had a considerable amount of funds back with the rest of his things at his temporary hideout. His employer had managed to repurpose an old, abandoned tea house just at the other edge of Starlight City. That was where he was meant to store any of the wine he managed to steal. He straightened, pulling out a small slip of parchment from his bag.

He really should not have been doing this- it was dangerous to reveal his hideout. It would risk not just his safety he would be jeopardizing, but his employer’s as well. But he would make the offer nonetheless. He extended his hand outward with the paper extended. “Here. If you truly do not wish to fight, then here is where I’m staying. If you want to find me, I’ll be here.” If the young man accepted, then all Cyran had to do was steal away his memory of this confrontation, leaving him behind with only the address of Cyran’s hiding place. He would not have anything to report on Cyran’s face to Madam Seriko, and they would not need to fight.

But it all depended on the young man.

It ain't a surprise to hear the Red Rogue say that Seiya's bein' used.

Some part of him knew that, distantly, from the start-- there ain't no way some high and mighty woman like Madam Seriko or Marlow Fenestra would go lookin' for a guy like him when she had the funds to strap together an entire band of mercs for this kind of job. He's the kind of man most people 'round here scoff at, whether it's for his brawn or lack of brains or the demon's blood that flows like poison in his veins, and no noble in her right mind would go seekin' him out when there were people with the right kind of experience for this runnin' around.

But if he goes back to that list of things he knows and doesn't, one of those things he does is that you don't fuck with people with more power than you; you don't turn them down, not when they're pressin' stones into your hand and cooin' over it like they've given you gold. If they expect you to smile and play along, smile and thank them for what they've tossed your way, you do just that, because they ain't givin' you a choice. It doesn't matter if you can snap their bones in two, doesn't matter if you have raw strength and calloused fingers and scars when they ain't ever had to pick up anythin' heavier than a wine glass before, doesn't matter if their life could end in your palm if you wished it-- no, none of that matters when they've got the other kind of power.

Seiya's got the kind of strength that could end a life in an instant, but nobles have the strength to end a life over years and years and years of agony.

If it was just his problem, just him against the fancy folk who act like they're doin' him the biggest favor in the world by lookin' his way, then he'd keep walkin' and call it there. But he's never had anything to his name in his life, nothing more than the things his mother's made by hand, and he'd be one hell of a wretched son if he brought any trouble to his ma's doorstep.

But here he stands, starin' down a guy who's older and wiser and far stronger than he could hope to be, the kind of man who's fought monsters Seiya's only dreamed of, the kind of man who could rend him apart and go on with his life like none of this mattered at all, and for a moment, all Seiya can do is hesitate. This feels like the very definition of bein' caught between a rock and a hard place, caught between the blades of this man's deft weaponry and dexterous hands and the raw power of the nobility. There is no victory for him, either way.

"...That doesn't surprise me," he says with a shrug, careful to ease his shoulders back into place, back into a fighter's stance, though his willpower to do much of anything involving combat is steadily dwindling. As neat as a fight with this guy would be, it's clear the rogue is determined, and... and Seiya's startin' to realize he probably wins in terms of sheer experience. "That's how those noble types are."

He speaks simply, matter-of-factly, 'cause that's all there is to it.

"You're damn right, it ain't worth my life," Seiya's quick to say, voice flat, the words flying forward easily. And it's true! He ain't dyin' for somethin' like this-- not when he's got someone to go home to, not when he's got someone out there to look for, not when he's still lookin' for a chance to get stronger, no matter the cost. "I ain't that dumb, no matter what you might be thinkin'. Still. I'll... hear ya out."

He watches, warily, as the rogue extends the paper toward him, his own hand moving to take it, gaze roving over the writing etched across it. It looks like an address, from what he can see-- damn, this guy's serious, ain't he? Takes a lot of confidence to hand somethin' like this over. He's either real confident in Seiya, or real confident in his ability to take Seiya out.

"...Alright, Red Rogue," he says, his voice strangely quiet, pensive. "I'll hear ya out, wherever you're hidin'. On one condition-- I don't wish to fight now, over this. You've got some interestin' moves, though; can't say I ain't interested in sparrin' some other time, at least. Just... not here. Can ya promise me that?"

He manages a small laugh and a broad grin, pocketing the slip of paper and extending his own hand, devoid of any such information, nothing to offer except his palm.

His words seemed to have broken through to the young man, which came as… a bit of a shock. Even though he’d voiced his suspicions that the young man was being used, it was a difficult truth for anyone to swallow. Not everyone enjoyed such a blow to their pride. There was a lot of maturity in that.

He shifted his stance as the young man admitted that he wasn’t especially shocked by this. There was something so… resigned in the young man’s tone that Cyran’s heart softened. It was spoken with the helplessness of someone who knew how power worked- not the kind born from bloodied knuckles and back alley brawls, but the kind that money and influence earned you. No one that young should have to learn that lesson.

“You’re not stupid.” Cyran said firmly. He was all too aware that it was not smart to let business and feelings mix. When he was on the job, he formed barriers of ice around his heart to prevent the soft parts from being stomped out. That was the way he survived in such a dark line of work- preservation and professionality. And yet, right now he could feel that line in the sand blurring as he gave advice to the very man he should have slit the throat of to ensure his job was done.

But even the assassin could not kill his own bleeding heart.

“It takes a lot of wisdom to know when to put your life first.” He admitted quietly. “I know you may not believe the words of a crook, but all I’ve come for is the wine. I don’t wish to see blood spilled tonight.”

And then the young man finally relented, though not without some confusion on Cyran’s part. Red Rogue? The… children’s myth? Who exactly did Madam Seriko think was after her goods? He supposed it was just as well. He could easily hide in the shadow of another’s name, if need be. Besides, it was not as if the young man would remember much about their interaction in the first place.

Slowly, Cyran pulled himself from his spot upon the crate, approaching the larger man. A spar was an odd request, another thing he hadn’t expected. For the Specter, every fight was for his life, had forged a deadly killer from a quiet noble. Fighting was not fun… but if he wanted a spar, Cyran would deliver one. He just had to think of it like how he would train Iryla- it would be a learning experience.

“I promise you a spar on our own terms. When the time is right.” He said with a smile, grabbing the young man’s hand.^[1]

The next thing Seiya would remember was standing in the middle of an empty warehouse, a slip of paper neatly tucked in his hand with an address he couldn’t properly recall- and the words Hideout scribbled underneath it.

Tucked in Seiya’s pocket were a few coins that he would not be able to recall the origin of- all that Cyran had been able to find on his person, along with another, more personal note that read I’m Sorry in neat handwriting.

And once he was able to come back to his senses, he would realize that only a few crates of the most expensive wine of the shipment had gone missing. Not enough physical product to mark a substantial loss, but enough that their absence meant significant financial harm. And while Seiya would try to put the pieces together of what had happened, with only a fleeting impression of an elven face he’d seen that was rapidly dissolving by the second, until he would not be able to recall much at all, save maybe a whispered promise in the wind.

And under the moonlight, Cyran retreated with the goods he’d been able to steal, left with the knowledge that he’d sabotaged his entire mission because he’d worried over someone that he shouldn’t have. Despite the fact that he’d no doubt incurred the wrath of madam Seriko, Cyran only felt an odd sense of calm as one of the first mottos he’d ever forced himself to learn since taking up work came to mind.

Finish the job before the target comes back to haunt you.

And yet, he found he didn’t care he’d broken that particular rule once more.

---

1. Fade From Memory

Huh. It's strange to hear someone openly tell Seiya, without any kind of hesitation or doubt in their eyes, all honest and meaningful, that he ain't stupid-- it's the kind of thing he'd ordinarily roll his eyes at, really. People only say that kind of thing to him to be mockin', when they're tryin' to talk him down when he's startin' to get mad, or when they're just gearin' up for a second, sharper insult. But no words come after, and there's no taunting edge to this man's voice; it's all matter-of-fact, like he really believes it, despite havin' made a fool of him half the night.

Hell, this guy even goes as far as callin' him wise. That ain't somethin' he hears every day.

Seiya's sure he can probably be pardoned for the way he gawks at the rogue at that one, surprise painted all over his face as clearly as his demon's markings. Wisdom ain't the word he'd use, really, just... he knows what he wants from his life, and he knows better than to throw himself at the feet of some noblewoman and wait to take a knife to the spine for the sake of fillin' her coin-purse. The only day he'll ever let anything drag him six feet under, to ash and dust, is if he's draggin' the damned Dog Prince with him. If Kamui ain't dyin' with him, then Seiya's stayin' quite firmly planted on this plane of existence, stubborn as ink-stains on parchment, bloodstains on silk.

"...I'll trust in that," he says, though he's still a bit taken aback, and it shows. It rattles him to hear another person show him respect like this, no strings attached-- at least, none that he can see. He's lookin', though. Always have to keep lookin'. "I ain't dyin' over somethin' like this, and if you had any plan on sendin' me to meet the gods, I'd give ya one hell of a fight. Still... I like the thought of a friendly spar much better."

Then the stranger takes his hand, and a strange feeling washes over him.

It ain't too different from walkin' in the woods all alone at night, where the other yokai play; the dangerous ones, the little spirits jumpin' for a chance to sink their teeth into some lonely traveler. Blue lanterns and umbrella demons and all those kinds of things, usin' the mists as their veil from mortal eyes. You always know there's somethin' there, can see their shadows in between the bamboo stalks, but the lines are just lines and nothin' more. There's no color, no shadow, no nothin', just the knowledge that there's somethin' on the other side and you can't put your finger on what.

And then it's just him, alone in the starlight, with the cold creeping in from the hole in the wall; there's paper in his hand, a gentler heaviness in his pockets that wasn't there before, and a few of the towers of crates piled up 'round him are a bit shorter than they should be. His chest stings with dark-stained magic, open wounds still singing, demanding his attention or a continuation for the fight that went nowhere, and all Seiya can do is sigh.

Man, he's got a lot to think about, doesn't he?

...

.....

As Seiya glances around the room, drinkin' in the damage the way he savors a sip of whatever random bit of alcohol he's swept up, Marlow Fenestra's words from earlier settle over him like snowfall, cold and stern as her commandin' little noble voice can be.

"Ensure that he does not steal a single bottle of wine."

...Well. That ship has sailed.

"...shit," he breathes, already wonderin' where the hell he's gonna find bandages in this place. "Marlow's gonna kick my ass, ain't she."