Ah, Sol City. What a terrible horrible awful place. 

At least that's the opinion of one pirate currently marooned on the main island of Capitol Landing. The capital is a shitty place for criminals as there are far too many guards and lawmakers who don't appreciate the creativity and ingenuity it takes to pull off a good raid or pillaging. Stuffy bastards, the only people worse than the soldiers were the civilians who call Sol City home. They're all so placid and lackadaisical, without a single care in the world. Easy marks if they weren't so well guarded. It was annoying to be tempted by every single passerby but unable to even attempt to nick something from their pockets.

Stuck with little more to do than twiddle her thumbs while she waits for some work to fall into her lap, Tsarra wanders the streets of Sol City until she can't ignore the grumbling of her stomach being louder than her grumbling about the situation she was in. 

She decides to find some place to grab a snack to eat. With only a few Solars lining her pockets, she pushes through the entrance of a particularly well placed establishment near the edge of the Market District before the area transitions into the Gold Port down by the harbor. The place is bustling at this hour of the day with many people from all walks of life finding a satisfying meal at an astonishingly affordable price.

It takes the triton woman a few seconds to get her bearings inside the cafe. Eventually she finds an open seat and she makes a beeline for it, snatching it from a lanky elf moments before he can sit down with his meal in hand. The elf turns his nose up at the short fish woman, but a glare from her makes him change his mind right quick about making a fuss. Tsarra huffs and looks around for a barkeep, but it dawns on her quickly that this restaurant does not operate in a way she is familiar with. She can see wagons passing by some sort of window outside where they are getting their food to go. 

The hell? That was an ingenious idea! Food on the go? It's a no brainer!

But wait, something else catches her eye. While there are a few staff that appear to be normal every day folks, the vast majority of those delivering orders of food and cleaning up are some sort of strange metallic golems. The fish woman had never seen such things before and they're odd and shiny enough to distract her from her hunger and from the fact that she still didn't know exactly how to even get any food here. 

Info-gathering. It's something Veliky's decently familiar with: she's gathered statistics for marketing purposes, she's researched and found info on obscure subjects using very limited resources, she's led large reconnaissance operations in Charon's most treacherous locales, and she's found more than one method of ripping cooperation out of tight lips. Needless to say, she knows the value of information.

...But just anyone? Anyone at all? She gets that it's supposed to be some sort of test, but... Well, to put it one way, it's a Common saying that everyone has a book in them; but, in Veliky's experience, most people don't have a piece of advice worth hearing. She really isn't even concerned about getting the information itself as much as she is about just finding a good person. Which is precisely why she's been sitting in a table in her own cafe, for the past forty-five minutes and twenty-seven seconds. Yes, she's been counting; the passing seconds are far more interesting than the people shuffling in like zombies, ordering their choice flavour of Blixt™ and then miserably flopping out of the room.

It isn't as if that's a bad thing. Veliky couldn't care less about how 'interesting' someone is. All she cares about is results. Unfortunately, the two concepts are intrinsically bound in this assignment. Though she's never been properly educated, she'd equate it to writing an essay, just trying to find something - anything - interesting enough to meet the word-minimum.

She crosses her arms, sitting alone at her table, looking somewhat like a child that was left there by her parents (a misconception that she's had the displeasure of hearing more than once today). In order to look less assuming, she's deigned to not wear her usual military attire, instead wearing... well, good clothes are difficult to find in her size. She hates bright colours, but she's a pragmatist by nature; if she has to wear a sweet, pink dress to accomplish her mission, she will.

But she doesn't have to like it.

'This is ridiculous... It's Rush Hour, and yet not a single interesting-looking person has come through yet.' she thinks. 'Rush Hour' is a term she invented, referring to the busiest hour of the day. 'I bet those assholes are laughing at me right now. Veliky, if this isn't legit, then I think you can safely call this the stupidest thing you've ever done. In fact, if I don't see someone within the next three minutes, those cloak-and-dagger dickheads can kiss their meeting goodby-'

...

'Is that a fish person?' She has to squint through all the bustle of the cafe. '...That's a fish person. Looks like a sailor, too. Maybe even a corsair. Sort of cute in a... fish... way.'

...

'Tsarra Krisrel^[1]... She'll do.'


The hour's bustle doesn't die down. People funnel in, they order; some leave, some eat in; some are relatively pleased with their meals and drinks, others complain about seemingly inane discrepancies such as the 'flatness' of a bottle of Blixt™ Salted Pork. All the while, those golem-esque entities are dutiful and compliant, seemingly (and enviably) immune to the frustrations of customer service. Though their red lens-eyes are menacing, the sheer amount of nonsense they currently contest with paints them in a more piteous light. They go from table to table, either taking orders or delivering on them, as dutiful as a well-kept machine.

And it seems that Tsarra's turn has come, as one of those constructs clanks up to her table, only speaking once it's come to a full stop and its joints have ceased clicking. Its voice is a monotonous drone, like the creaking of an old and generally gaudy house. Unlike the voice of a person, it isn't accompanied by any flapping of lips, nor does it seem to come from a mouth at all unless those three vertical gaps in its face qualify; the sound merely spills out in an awkward, emotionless groan.

"Piscine customer, query: what would you like to order today?"

"Salina's salty tits, it talks!?" Tsarra takes a moment to get over the craziness of the situation before it registers in her goldfish brain that the golem has asked her a question. "Aye, ehm...whatever's good. Surprise me."

Somewhere in the golem's skull (if it has one?) there's a sound like grinding metal - a rather ugly sound, by most standards, albeit mercifully quiet. And it goes on for a few seconds too long, as if the interaction weren't already awkward enough.

But then that horrid noise ceases to be replaced by the nearly-as-horrid noise of the golem's voice.

"Report: my chance module has selected - three bottles of Blixt™ Pirate's Rum and one porkbelly scone. Your order will be complete shortl-"

It's interrupted by a sudden explosion of noise and... confetti? It was difficult to notice in all the chaos, but there's now another construct on the opposite side of the table. It's holding a party popper - used, obviously - of the sort found in magicians' wagons and sold at exorbitant prices. Though this confetti is markedly different in a very distinct way: it's cheap. Some of the shreds aren't even coloured.

This sudden newcomer of a golem looks to Tsarra. By all appearances, there's no way of telling these entities apart; even their voices are identical.

"Civilian Tsarra Krisrel, recitation: congratulations. You are our one-hundred-thousandth customer. Congratulations."

Yes, it said 'congratulations' twice. And now, with the popper still in its hands, it holds out its arms and engages in a comically mechanical clapping motion. The other construct, who is about as speechless as an ordinary person would be, does not join. Some of the nearby customers do, however, though others are just startled, disgruntled or confused.

Once it's completed its mimicry of celebration, and after a serious of clunky movements, the construct places something on the table, directly in front of Tsarra.

"Additional recitation: in order to claim your prize, please fill out this short survey."

...Indeed, it does appear to be a survey. The paper it's written upon is a sterile white, and all of the lettering is impossibly straight and orderly, moreso than any living hand could pen. Beside it is an actual, luxury pen, which Tsarra is seemingly supposed to use to answer such questions that are as mundane as:

-"What is your full, legal name?"
-"Where were you born?"
-"What is your date of birth?"
-"What is your favourite flavour of Blixt™?"


...As well as questions that are really rather strange, including:

-"What is the worst mistake you've ever made?"
-"Have you ever truly loved anyone?"
-"Have you ever considered working for Platinum Corp?"
-"Who sent you?"

And, probably most ridiculously of all, "Why haven't you written to your mother?"

At the upper-left corner of the paper is an odd symbol: a cog above a feather and sword.


From afar, Veliky sits and watches. This is neither her most subtle nor her cleverest plan that she's ever had, but she has a firm belief that hasn't been shaken from her in any of her worldly experiences, in all of her years in Charon: most people are stupid. So she'll just have to see how this goes. And if it doesn't work... well, Veliky is the sort of lady that never has just *one* plan.

---

1. Name on the List

Bringing Minions
Bishop-12 (Warlord)
Knight-04 (Warlord)
Rook-13 (Warlord)

Bringing Pets
Lag Switch-06 (Ashlands Tackle)
Stalker-03 (Prismatic Spider)
Vampire-04 (Vampire Bat) {Sleigh Bells}

"Pirate Rum, aye that sounds great!" Tsarra's enthusiasm is shook by the sudden popping noise. Instinctually, she draws her scimitar and points it at the golem that fired the confetti. Before she can skewer the golem, she blinks and watches the shredded paper fall. 

"Oi, someone clogged yer gun with garbage," she informs the golem, but it continues to congratulate her. "Wha? How'd ye know my name? Ye with the guards or somethin'?"

She narrows her eyes and glances about the cafe. Many others had turned their attention to the situation which, while she normally likes attention, makes her feel on edge. She didn't have back up like she is used to, if a fight broke out she would be all on her own. 

There weren't any people wearing the iconic armor of the Golden Army present as far as she could see, but maybe these golems belonged to one? Maybe this whole tavern was a trap! No, no, that'd be too clever for the Golden Army. And they were probably still cleaning up from the flood of crabs that occurred on Hearth's Day.

The thought of them sweeping up the streets of the thousands of crustaceans was so amusing that she was almost distracted from the situation unfolding before her. She snaps back to paying attention when the golem places a piece of paper before her. 

"Survey? What kind o' reward requires paperwork. Seems shifty ta me. Ye tryin' ta trick me inta signin' some sort of contract?" She leans in closer to the golem and hisses. "Ye work for that ashy devil?"

Glancing down at the paper, she frowns at the questions. The golems already called her by name, yet they were asking for it here on this page. That was weird. Why'd they need all this personal information anyway? Hell, she doesn't even KNOW the answers to some of the more mundane ones and she especially doesn't know what the third and second last questions are about. And what's with the questions about her mistakes, lovers, and her mother? What did that have to do with just wanting some food??

Tsarra slides the paper away. "Nu-uh, no thanks, mate. Those are some real personal questions and I dunno what yer goin' to do with that information. This is some elaborate smarty-pants trap, ain't it? Who do ye work for?"

By the looks of things, Plan A didn't quite pan out. And by the sounds of things, it's left this 'Tsarra' more than a little offended. A complete failure by most metrics.

Veliky rests her on her hand and lets out a sigh. She would never have expected that to work... but it would've been nice. Simple, straightforward, and easy as pie (Veliky never understood that phrase, but it seems applicable here). Could've been the quickest run of her career, save for the blackpowder incident. But no. This, it seems, is going to be an ordeal.

That's okay, though. If there's something that Veliky never leaves the house without, it's a backup plan. So she pivots, hops off her seat, and vanishes in the cafe's clutter.

"Civilian Tsarra Krisrel, impartial: Blixt™ Co. apologizes for any grievance that may have been caused by UNNAMED DOCUMENT #481 and denies all allegations of duplicity entailed by UNNAMED DOCUMENT #481." the irksome construct blurts out. Listening to its skull-boring voice is like staring at an overly colourful, abstract painting (especially in regards to the headache it causes). "Report: this unit, and all units working at Blixt™ Cafe, are under the command of Blixt™ Co. CEO Mistress-"

"Would you tin cans leave the girl alone for a damned second?" Another voice, this once refreshingly mellow - and authentic - interrupts the construct's monotonous garble. It's a feminine voice that carries a noble's authority, but a soldier's force; a minstrel's confidence, but a thief's cunning. And if one turns their head to the voice's source, they'd see...

...something that not one of those descriptors would ascribe themselves to. Standing barely taller than one of the constructs' knees is an utterly diminutive woman with a pink dress; ice-blue eyes and long, flaxen hair. Despite her tiny stature, there's an unmistakable power that's exuded in her glower and crossed arms. A halfling? An especially small one, if that, and her pointed ears hint at a mixture of blood.

But probably her strangest accoutrement is that her name (or, at least, presumably her name) is printed on her clothes, on a tag^[1] that glows with arcane lettering in both Common and the script recognizable from the Crescent Isles: "Veliky".

The two constructs turn to see her, at which point she quickly tips her head in a gesture of dismissal. "Clear off," she jeers, "you've bothered enough people today."

What may come as some surprise is that the constructs actually listen to this little interloper. Each emits a strange chirping noise, and then turn and walk away without a word. Tsarra is left alone with her table, the survey, the pen, and this strange woman who now rubs her own face in frustration

"I swear to the gods, those things have got to be the worst thing about this place. They're pushy, loud, clumsy and I'd swear their ears barely work." She ends her fleeting rant with a sigh before crossing her arms again and looking to Tsarra with tired eyes. "What were they trying to shill this time?"

---

1. Name on the List

As Veliky makes her presence known and shoos off the golems, Tsarra sheathes her blade once the construct backs off. The crowd inside the cafe relax and go back to their idle conversations, though a few still keep a weary eye on the fish woman.

Tsarra looks down at the little folk before her. The blonde woman is incredibly short! But she doesn't look like a toddler. How strange. Tsarra didn't know people could be so short. She's seen a goblin here and there, but they have different skin and eyes than most other landlubbers. Dwarves are pretty short too but they're wide and thick. This lady was just pocket sized! Her dress was kinda cute though. 

The blond woman also seems to be pretty comfortable around the constructs despite some of them being taller than even she is! Must be a regular or something. 

"They were tryin' ta get me ta fill out this survey. Got a bunch o' weird questions on it." She gestures to the paper before resting her elbow on the table and watching the constructs go about their business. "Weird clunky things. They always here?"

"Yer welcome to sit if ye want." She offers, oblivious to the fact that she was in the presence of the owner of the very establishment she was a mere customer of.

It wasn't so much that she would be shocked to know that Veliky was the owner, it was just she didn't assume the owner would be out and about and not in the back doing whatever it was business owners do. Paperwork, right? That sounded right. Paperwork for what? Hell if she knew, her parents when they were still around never trusted her with those important tasks for their family business, favoring her siblings instead.

Fine by her. It was boring to sit at a desk and write. She would much rather run around outside and get into trouble. 

Tsarra's offer caught the little woman in the midst of checking her own nails. And at first, it's given a look of skepticism - the cold calculation of merit. It's a practiced look; not the eye-darting paranoia of a noble, but the scrutiny of a businesswoman. It's an icy gaze that seems to weigh Tsarra's motivations...

And then it vanishes back into that blasé nonchalance. "Eh, sure, what the hell?"

As she walks over to an empty seat at Tsarra's table, she idly scratches the side of her head. Even her simpler motions are full of a unplaceable confidence, if only in how brazen they are, lending her a powerful energy. With a rather impressive hop, she seats herself upon a chair that's assuredly over twice her height.

Of course, that's only how Veliky seems on the outside. Her façade, as it stands, is just that: a calculated demeanour. She needs to appear strong, confident and unruly (the third of which, admittedly, is an unfamiliar expression for her to wear, but she wears it well). 'Well, got here more easily than expected.' she thinks to herself. 'Got to seem disinterested for now. Make her earn the attention. Then, getting her talking will be a breeze.'

Not one of these thoughts is visible upon her face... Of course, it wouldn't matter if they were, seeing as Tsarra can barely even see the little woman's face over the table. In fact, as Veliky leans back on her arms in manner that almost seems to be basking in her own relaxation, only her eyes are really visible.

But she continues to speak, nevertheless, with a quiet heat to her tone.

"Yep. They're a staple, here - a big, noisy staple. Apparently, they're like the owner's pets or something; they've been around ever since the place opened. They're called 'Blixtbots™.' Dumbass name."

One of the 'Blixtbots™' can still be seen shuffling from table to table. Indeed, it's a noisy contraption; very step is a hisss and then a clank! Fortunately, it's not too bothersome with the noises of the hour's bustle to drown it out, but it must make for quite the disturbance during quieter hours. The other Blixtbot™, however, is nowhere to be seen; it vanished into the backrooms not long after departing. Of course, with them being nearly identical, tracking which one was which is nearly impossible.

"I mean, if you told me a year ago that I could hire a bunch of mindless machines to cook food and do laundry, I'd've said 'Hell yeah, how much?' But after seeing - and hearing - these things, I'd think twice."

She turns her eyes toward her partner across the table. 'Tsarra...' a strange name for a strange fish. Veliky's never seen a whatever-she-is, and isn't sure how best to read her emotions; it's difficult to appreciate the beauty of her many-hued scales when it's overridden by the frustration of obscurity.

But that's alright. Tsarra's sure to reveal something in some other way. Continuing on.

"You're a sailor, right? You have that sea-accent that all the people by the docks do. Tell me, if you could just get one of these things to do all the menial, mindless, degrading tasks on your ship, wouldn't you?"

She listens to the short woman's explanation and nods along like she understands. She doesn't really, but that didn't exactly matter. They were things that moved and served food, that was a plenty good enough explanation for her goldfish brain.

What was more interesting to her was this new companion. At heart, Tsarra is a pretty social person needing to talk and be around others to feel at ease. That's why being on her own was so hard. The loneliness was something she greatly disliked even if her pride and ego would never let her admit it. 

"Aye, I'm a sailor." She thinks about the question the short woman asks. But not for very long. "Nay, they don't look like they got much for sea legs and I bet they sink like rocks. Ye need ta be able ta swim if yer goin' to be on a ship otherwise ye are just sailin' towards a watery grave."

Judging by how clunky the constructs looked, it was hard for her to buy that they would do any good with water. And water was everywhere on a ship. If it wasn't rocking and rolling against a ship's hull, it was raining down from the sky during a typhoon. Metal corroded, rocks eroded, wood rotted, and cloth stained. The ocean was hard on all kinds of materials.

What's more is that the constructs seemed a bit tone deaf. It would make singing sea shanties an unpleasant experience. She wouldn't say that allowed though in case it hurt their feelings. She wouldn't want to be told she can't sing either. 

"I ain't got no ship anyway." There's a bit of a bitter edge to her words. "I'm between contracts right now. Hopin' something with wash up soon."

As much as she wanted to be out on the open sea, she just couldn't manage it on her own at this time. She needed to find a ship to serve on while she built up her funds. Sailing around on the back of a turtle was one thing, but it was hard to actually survive without some comforts of home especially out on the turbulent sea.

"What about ye? What do ye do for a livin', er..." she squints down to read the name on the tag, "Veliky, is it?" 

It seemed like the most natural thing to talk about given the direction of the conversation. So far she hasn't connected the dots that Veliky might be after something specific, and there was a good chance she never would so long as the quarterling didn't say anything blatantly suspicious. The fish woman seemed a lot more likely to give a person a chance rather than the shady paper or the constructs. At least, for now.

If there's one thing Veliky's good at, it's business. Though that isn't terribly relevant here. If there're two more things she's good at, it'd be math and lying. The latter, here, should be helpful at some point. But if there's comprehensive list of all the things that Veliky is good at, one of the items on that list would assuredly be the thing that is most prevalent to this circumstance: looking disinterested. That is, she doesn't overdo it; she knows precisely how bored to appear at any given moment, so that she might appear as little more than an idle chatterer.

Internally, Veliky knows that it's going well. She's confirmed that Tsarra is a sailor, and learned that this sailor is between jobs. But, more importantly, Veliky's managed to ingratiate herself in a conversation without even a hint of suspicion. And that is a valuable first step.

As if on predatory instinct, Veliky lets out a single prong of laughter at Tsarra's query. She leans back, raising a knee in a casual manner that she'd never dream to use in any context but duplicity. "Yeah, Veliky's it. You could say I'm between contracts too, except I'm the one handing them out." It's an intentionally vague response, and not technically a lie. And perhaps it's a little line to spark a bit of interest, like a fishing line (Veliky can't tell if that's fitting or ironic; even people whose first language is Common can never seem to agree).

She lazily checks her nails as she continues, feigning a far more fashionable air than she actually possesses. "With everyone freaking out over the Solarian situation, lots of businesses have slowed to a crawl. On the other hand, some of them are thri-..."

That pause was not premeditated. For the briefest moment, her character breaks and she shows genuine surprise as she notices something she hadn't before - something that's at once telling and ominous, at once damning and promising.

'Is that a bloodstain on her coat...?' she thinks earnestly to herself. 'Fucking hell, girl. If you're gonna get your hands dirty, at least wash them afterwards.' Even as Veliky silently critiques the fish's apparent aversion to hiding evidence of her deeds, she's also silently pleased. This could be a fortuitous 'in.'

"...I think you spilled something on your coat." Of course it's absurd. No drinks have even come yet. But Veliky's tone speaks volumes more than her words alone. Her words aren't a reprimand, and they're far from clueless - no, they're extremely understanding. It's a courtesy, but not one shared at a dinner table. The unspoken words say 'You should hide that better.'

With a little luck, it can be the start of an honourless rapport.

The woman's attention wanes a bit as Veliky talks to her. She's trying to pay attention but there's a lot of other activity in the cafe which draws her attention. From the people ordering and picking up food from the window, to the clunky constructs moving about, it's a hopping place. It reminds her of the business of the deck of a ship and the occasional breath of sea breeze doesn't help.

She doesn't even react to Veliky mentioning the Solarian whatever it was. She didn't pay much attention to world events unless they directly affected her. She also doesn't notice Veliky stop mid sentence. Her attention finally snaps back to the conversation as the short woman directly asks her a question though. 

"Huh? Oh, it's blood. Don't worry, it's old an' not mine. Probably," Tsarra says completely unashamed of the implication that she probably beat someone to a bloody pulp or killed them. 

The woman is still seemingly oblivious to Veliky's intents. Maybe it's because her stomach is starting to rumble from hunger. Though something Veliky had said earlier does pop back into the triton's mind as something worth asking more about, and that was the comment about contracts. 

She doubts the short woman in the cute little dress is in the same line of work as the salt stained triton. It couldn't hurt to ask though. Any contract that pays puts food in the belly after all. It's not like she could be particularly picky given the current circumstances.

"What kinda work do ye hire folks for?"

Maybe she'd get lucky and working with this little lass would turn into a money pot. Or at the very least might stave off her boredom for a stint. 

A disarmed Veliky is a rare sight. A speechless one, even rarer. It's a difficult task, but one that this fish-woman has accomplished. Veliky finds herself in slackjawed awe. She tries to think of an apt word to describe this woman's behaviour, but the best that she can epiphanate is 'blatant.' To flat-out admit that her coat's stained with blood -- *someone else's* blood...

...Something about it reminds Veliky of Astrid, with that unabashed honesty. 'They'd probably get along, if they met... Not sure if that says more about her or Astrid.' Something about Tsarra does seem rather childlike. Could it be an act? It doesn't seem so to Veliky; hopefully she's as gullible as a child, too.

Veliky recomposes herself just in time to hear Tsarra's own question, shutting her jaw closed and letting out a sigh.. It's a question she was expecting to return. She'd evaded it before, and she stands by that decision as it was made then. But now, she thinks she may just be equipped to answer it properly. She knows her own character, and she knows the character she's dealing with. From here, it's all execution.

She looks to the side, at a Blixtbot™ that's serving another table of uncomfortable customers, before returning the attention to Tsarra. Only, now her demeanour has changed, having turned somewhat more serious than before.

"Let me put it this way." she says in a conspiratorial tone. She glances to the other side, as if paranoid, before leaning forward with narrowed eyes. "Seeing as you obviously aren't opposed to getting yourself dirty... how would you feel about doing some damage, and making a few solars in the process?"

Oh, Veliky definitely had the fish woman's attention now. The leaning in, the tone, the paranoid glances. Tsarra fell for it all. Hook. Line. And sinker. She mirrors Veliky's movements and leans in as well, keen to hear what she has to say. 

Her face lights up in a wide toothy smile. 

"Some damage?" Tsarra loved the idea of sowing some chaos. "Aye, I know how to make a mess of things. Can use the money too. What ye need done?"

Tsarra is pretty excited and it's pretty evident from the trying-too-hard-to-be-sinister glee on her face. The kind of smile that would make a child cry louder rather than comfort them when they had stubbed their toe, but also wasn't scary enough to make them go running.

As far as intimidation is concerned, Veliky probably could pull it off better than the pirate. Which is saying something considering Tsarra being at around twice Veliky's height. But she just didn't have the attitude to back up being taken seriously. It was like an newbie actor trying to get into a role they were miscast for.

She scoots her seat a little closer to Veliky's, eagerly awaiting further details on just what it was that the quarterling was going to hire her for. She wouldn't likely turn her down, and she probably wouldn't ask many questions about any consequences. She wasn't that good of a criminal, only evading capture by sheer luck and fleeing to the open ocean where it was harder for the guard to chase her down. 

'Like shooting a fish in a barrel.' Veliky heard this phrase some months ago, and's gaius that she's found such an apt situation to use it (even if she doesn't get to speak it aloud). She's like a locksmith, she's deftly working away at the tumblers, circumventing the need for any legitimate key to Tsarra's secrets. It's delicate work, and the next step may very well be the most difficult, but she's skilled in her trade.

The moment she hears Tsarra's acceptance, and sees that honest fascination in the fish-lady's scales, she knows that it's time for the next step. Reaching into a pocket, she produces a little pen and grabs one of the napkins out of a little box at the end of the table. She presses the pen to the napkin, ready to write. But what she does next is somewhat odd: she balls her other hand into a fist, raises it in front of her mouth and speaks a single nonsequitur: "Fluency.^[1]" On the back of her hand, little sigils appear, surrounding a pictograph of a speech bubble containing a symbol of infinity. Then she presses that hand to her chest, and the sigils disappear; and only then does she begin to write, eyes downcast and focused on the task.

When she's done, she thrusts the defaced napkin toward Tsarra. Of course, it doesn't go very far with her limited wingspan alone, but it carries the weight of the offer.

"Take it." she commands with a shocking force. "Can't talk any more here. We'll see if you're up to the task."

Without waiting for any response, she leaves the napkin with Tsarra, hops off her seat and minces her way out of the cafe. A few people look at her strangely as she leaves, though it's difficult to tell if it's due to her behaviour or her size.

But perhaps no other words were needed, as the ink that's now stained the napkin says everything else that matters: "Tomorrow. Warehouse #27 at the docks."

---

1. Fluency

What kind of weird squiggly magic was that? Didn't look like it did a whole lot. Nothing was on fire, there were no swarms of crabs marching on the city, no magic doors appeared in the floor. Guess this lady wasn't much of a caster. Heh. No wonder she needed to hire someone as incredibly skilled and smart as Tsarra. Sure was a lucky break for the short woman that she just happened to drop by for a meal. 

Speaking of which, where was that tin can with her food? Felt like it had been hours! She's so distracted by this train of thought that she doesn't see Veliky complete the spell's effects or really even hear what she says. 

Before Tsarra can go full on Karen on the nearest Blixtbot™, Veliky leaves the table and the napkin with it before exiting the building. 

"Huh? Hey! Weren't we talkin' about a job?" She calls after the quarterling, but she's already long gone.

Dammit. Oh well. She huffs. Better luck next time. 

She turns back to the table then notices the napkin with the ink on it. When did that get there? She picks it up and takes a closer look at it. What's this message about? Tomorrow at the docks? Guess this is the job or something. Not very descriptive but the short lady wanted her to break something sooooo maybe she wants this warehouse destroyed? She could do that. But why wait until tomorrow? Ah, who cares. That's a future Tsarra problem and current Tsarra is still hungry!

After she gets her meal and pays for it with what meager coin she has left, the triton heads off towards the docks to scope out the warehouse before the meeting the following day. She is...not very stealthy about it and gets shooed off by some guards at one point. 

Click

...

...

Click

The sound, alone, pervades a warehouse's spacious interior as silvery afternoon light shines through the windows.

Click

The air is clean, though not without a little bite -- one of the last throes of Winter.

Click

She's seated on the first oak step of a staircase that leads up to a small balcony. She's still wearing that same dress -- may as well. But now she's brought something of an accessory^[1], which she holds in her arms with the barrel pointed to the floor. She flicks the tray closed again. Click.

She was hoping this wouldn't take so much effort. Hell, she doesn't even know if this is worth it; if she had a solar for every supposed 'secret society' that's contacted her, she'd be marginally richer. Not to mention that it just doesn't feel right, going under someone else's orders. If these people think that her place is as a lapdog...

CLICK

...

"Excuse me, umm... When do we start?"

She turns her glare to the voice's source. Stood some twenty feet away from her, looking awkwardly toward her, are three misfits; a shorter man (the one who spoke) dressed in stupendously extravagant, golden regalia and carrying a similarly decorated lute; a hunched woman wearing ragged green and whose head is adorned with some bestial skull, pecking and picking at the floor like a rodent; and someone that appears rather between these classes, a man with a rapier at his hip and twilight in his complexion.

The people she's gathered.

"We're waiting for someone else." she answers with an unspoken reprimand in her tone -- one that causes the bard to back down rather quickly.

And then, that silence returns. That silence that's broken only by the occasional click. Indeed, they are waiting for someone -- the most important 'someone' of all, in this venture.

---

1. Musket

Tsarra arrives at the warehouse quite a bit later than what was probably expected. While she had headed down to the docks to scope out the place early...she had gotten the wrong warehouse. Three times.

She almost made the mistake of breaking into a Golden Army supply storage building, mistaking it for the warehouse because she just couldn't be bothered to check the number on the exterior of the building. 

Luckily she got redirected by a panhandler who just so happened to see trouble brewing and decided to intervene. That single act of good Samaritanism probably saved all of Sol City from being flooded with crabs. Again.

The triton woman approaches the correct warehouse and doesn't bother with scouting things out because she is too tired to put in the effort at this point. She pushes the door open loudly and huffs as she enters. 

"Finally! Oi! This job is already a pain in the arse!" She calls out into the warehouse before looking around to assess the scene. 

Well, assess is probably not the correct term to use. She isn't smart enough to really assess any situation. She does see three people she doesn't recognize and it immediately pisses her off. 

"The hell? Ye didn't say anythin' about other people bein' in on this job."

She walks forward and gives Veliky an accusatory glare. The short woman better not be pulling some sort of scam on her. She would make her regret it if that was the case. 

Her eyes are then drawn down towards the musket in her hands. What was going on here? Those weren't easy to get your hands on, even the pirate crew she ran around with only had a handful of firearms at their disposal and many were a pain to maintain out at sea. Why'd this short stack have one and what was with this weird lineup of strangers?

She was at a lose of drawing any conclusions about the situation. Walking further into the warehouse, she pauses a cautious distance from the group. Her skin was crawling with a bad feeling about all this. 

"What is this about?" She asks, a little caution evident in her tone.