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Started September 20, 2022 by @Veere group

tune

(Veere, I hope this is alright haha)

Soren had been keeping an eye on the auctions for a long time now, waiting. Watching. He would never forget the abuse he had suffered, and he had been waiting for the opportunity for revenge. For some semblance of justice. He had slipped into this auction, careful and quiet, his pale eyes and scarred face hidden by a deep hood. Indeed, the only thing visible was the faintest glint in his eyes, sparking beneath the hood as he monitored the crowd, abilities flickering over those around him, pricking lightly at their abilities to get a sense for what this crowd was capable of. He didn't steal any abilities, didn't grab for any power, just lightly sampled. If need be, he knew which abilities to grab at and pull. He would bring down this whole damned building, if he had to, because he knew that stage. While he had not been a pleasure slave, precisely, he had been used as such by some owners who had decided that, with the amount of money they had paid for him, they deserved to do whatever they wanted.

He had already been moving towards the stage when the lights went out, and he went still in the audience, fingers flickering to his sleeves to tug at them in a quick, nervous gesture, while at the same time his abilities reached out and tugged, pulling power in just in case. He did not need to strike yet, but this change…this was not good. His eyes adjusted quickly to the dark, and as such he was able to spot the flicker of movement, but he was not quite sure just what that movement was yet, beyond the fact that it was, quite certainly, people. He tentatively reached out with his abilities, probing very lightly. All he could find out was their abilities. Shadow manipulation. A changeling. And someone else, whose abilities were not quite solid enough for him to define. That was fine. He pulled back a little bit, ducking into the crowd where he was more likely to escape notice. If the Widow noticed him– ah. Who would notice him now? In this darkness cast by, seemingly, one already would-be assassin, who would notice if he was to get just a little too close?

So he moved through the crowd. It was easier now than it had been. Everyone was milling around, murmuring uncertainly about the lack of lighting, while the guards frowned and stepped closer to the crowd, grips tightening on their weapons. So no one noticed him, cloaked and furtive, as he wove towards where the Widow had last been. He reached out with his abilities, searching for her. His plan all along had been to drain her. If he grabbed her magic and pulled it out, it would kill her. It might kill him too, but it was a price he would pay, for her death. He would prefer the Handler's death, but he would settle for hers. It was easier to completely drain through physical touch, or through blood, but he rather doubted he would be able to get any of her blood. He wondered, for a moment, if she still had any of his. Enough people had taken enough of his that he was quite sure there were still vials of his blood somewhere, gathering dust on a shelf, saved for a special occasion. Sometimes, he knew that someone had drank one, because he would collapse, drained and semi-conscious.

The Widow, though, was proving difficult to find. With all the people, it was hard to pick out her magic from the others, when he had never felt it before. He had always previously had a collar on to stifle this portion of his power, so he had never felt her magic, had never tasted the power of it on his tongue or felt the sting of coppery blood from pulling too hard for her magic. He could not tell what magic he felt was hers, and draining everyone in this room would surely kill him sooner than it would kill her.

He pulled his hood deeper over his face, thin fingers flickering quicker than was normal as he moved, hands brushing lightly against each person he passed. If he could not find her through magic alone, touch would tell him quickest. If he had to, he would touch her by mistake, and then again on purpose. With the second touch, he would drain her. The other would-be assassin(s) were not his concern. If they succeeded, then that was perfect. He would go home to his little apartment. If they had not, then he had no intention of letting the Widow leave this room alive. She needed to die. And once she was dead, the Handler would die too. He fully intended on making the Handler's death a much longer, more painful one. The Handler deserved it, even for just what Soren had gone through, without even considering what others like him had gone through.

"The fuck—" Mal exclaimed, struggling to get his limbs back beneath him in time to see the offender flee into the crowd. They've just come and left me for dead! Fury flooded his veins at the realization, but the sound of an airy laugh made his blood freeze.

The shadow wielder's head snapped towards the sound, and he paled at the sight of The Widow towering right over him.

He scrambled backward in a panic, eyes darting to his abandoned short sword and cursing at the distance. As he whirled around to face The Widow, a strange glimmer of light caught in his peripheral vision. The strands of pearls draped over her and her gown, which Mal had assumed to be simple decor, had shifted with her movement, revealing connected, razor-thin thread spiderwebbed all around her. It was near invisible to him even in the dark, and thin enough that no shadows were cast in the light.

One such strand was threaded dangerously through a floorboard, directly in front of Mal. Had his "attacker" not stopped him, he surely would have run right into her web.

There was no time to properly process what that meant, however, as The Widow was finished laughing.

"Order, please," she called, voice clear as it once again rang out through the room. Though soft, the demand in her tone was clear and the crowd stilled instantaneously, fixing their eyes on the scene before them.

Mal tensed as her sharp gaze met his. It was laced with amusement, still, and Mal was not ashamed to admit that a shiver ran down his spine.

"Little assassin, have you lost your wit?" The question was accompanied by an unnatural movement from her hair, and it was only years of training his reflexes that allowed Mal to roll out of the way in time to avoid one of the sectioned-off pieces striking the floor where he'd been a moment prior.

He let the momentum of his roll pull him into a half-kneel, just barely managing a lunge to the side to avoid the second strike. He was close to his weapon, now, and without hesitation made to dive for it. His fingertips had just barely brushed along the hilt when something vice-like wrapped around his ankle and slammed him into the floor—again.

Mal wheezed, fingernails scrabbling to find purchase as The Widow began to drag him nearer, lifting him up until he was dangling midair from just his ankle.

"Your friend was right. It was idiotic of you to plot against me." The shadow wielder thrashed and jerked against her hold, but it did nothing.

As the blood rushed to his face, making it pink, he glared at the now-eye-level official regarding him with a kind of detached curiosity. Her eyes widened just slightly, and, quick as lightning, her white hand flashed out to caress his cheek. A red nail traced the curve of his face, paying special attention to his scarred eye which was flooded with blackness as a side effect of overusing his powers.

Mal gripped her wrist with both hands, exerting pressure in the hopes of dislodging her own, but she merely looped her free hand over his, effectively tangling them in the threading from the pearls and yanking them back—completely immobilizing them in the process.

"Defective," she murmured almost disappointedly, her hand falling away from his face. "You know, it's a shame," she said, now projecting her voice for everyone to hear as Mal continued to struggle in the makeshift bonds. "Such a pretty face… But no one wants to buy damaged goods, least of all untrained damaged goods." She looked out to the crowd, eyes narrowing at the sight of two hooded presences in the crowd. She recognized the first as the one who'd left the assassin behind, but the second… Instinct told her to keep an eye on that one. When she blinked, however, she'd already lost sight of both. Wary, she continued on with a steady voice, "When a citizen of Haven disobeys the rules we officials have set, protocol demands that we had them over to The Alchemist. But you…" she trailed off with a tilted head and a sharp grin. "You are no citizen of Haven. Are you?"

Mal twitched, but his lips remained sealed and he glared in defiance.

"Well, then. I suppose you fall under my jurisdiction, having come here to kill me. Tell me, what do you think… About an eye for an eye?"

The shadow wielder's glare further darkened at the slight, and he released the glob of spit he'd been holding in his mouth. The Widow was ready for it, though, yanking her sleeve up in time to keep the saliva from hitting her eye. That didn't make her any less angry, however.

Just as her hair began to writhe, preparing for the kill, a someone bellowed, "Ten thousand gold coin!" There were murmurs, and then another shout as someone provided a counter offer of, "Five hundred thistlehorns!"

The Widow glanced out to find the source of the voices, and Mal struck. Shadows that he'd concealed against the black silk of the official's dress now jumped up her body to reach him, one such tendril sharpening to slash through the hair holding Mal's ankle prisoner while the others slunk underneath the threading holding his arms and expanded enough for him to slip through.

The Widow screeched as he hit the ground once again. His landing was heavy, body sagging from the effort of holding the shadows for so long after his previous overuse, but he managed to land feet-first and reclaim his weapon as one final tendril handed it to him before dissipating.

He was dismayed to see his shadows hadn't actually managed to slash through The Widow's hair, only forcing it to release its grip. He had no time to dwell on that if he wanted to live, however.

Berating himself all the while for his misfortune and failure, he leapt off the stage to follow the trail of the person who'd tackled him, his vision positively swimming with shadows all the while. If there was an attempt to recapture him, he didn't linger around to see it.

The dark robed figure looks back and watches all of this, glaring.

Once Mal is through getting absolutely thrashed by the Widow, they call out, "Now that your done, let's go!"

They weren't dumb enough to think that they could actually fight the Widow yet. They couldn't even agree on anything in the few meetings this figure had attended.

But for now, they put those thoughts aside and glared at Mal for a moment longer before putting on some speed.

They notice a sort of figure, out of place among the rich, snooty nobles of Haven, and narrow their eyes, focusing.

"Hey, person." they think at the man, their eyes closing.

They still run, though, still dodging and weaving nimbly through the crowd.

The shadows that Chirp hid in were not particularly thick, but she'd decreased her mass, part of her muscles and flesh melting into a puddle on the floor. The result was a gaunt, short looking creature, with tar black skin and hair. Her eyes reflected little light to avoid a shine, giving away her temporary position. She stayed put, trusting her camouflage to hide her for now, and she watched. She took in the details of the scene, the tiny flicker of movements, the shadows that lined faces, the emotions that blazed so strongly in the eyes. The half-eyed man, Mal, had come to kill the Widow after all. Chirp felt a brief flicker of amusement kindle in her chest, she'd underestimated the man. Still, as she watched, she couldn't help but see the staggering skill difference between the Widow and him. Between herself and that woman. It was a wide gap, a chasm she couldn't yet leap without immense pain. Chirp had overestimated herself, but she'd never planned to take her in a one-on-one. Neither had Mal, the fight was terribly one sided.

With all of her energy concentrated in watching, the changeling noticed small details, the spiderweb spreads of the Widow, the shifting crowd, several watching with mouths hanging open like cattle. She couldn't blame them. The Widow moved with a feral sort of grace that was mesmerizing to watch, the way she swayed and the pearls and long hair shifted with her had an illusionary effect. She fought like a wild beast, tempered by years of experience. She handled Mal not unlike one would an unruly kitten, except instead of holding him by the scruff, she dangled him by the ankle.

Chirp had seen enough, she dared not make a noise, but her flesh slithered together again into a form. She hadn't been able to smuggle any of her more valuable skulls in with her for the auction, she had no space to carry anything in the slaves "dress". And anything small enough to change into now, like a mouse, wouldn't be large enough to house her human skull. Something she was very loathe to leave behind. With a moments concentration, she was human again, the long hair of the slave girl falling away into a short, blonde mess. A strong jawline, green eyes, tanned skin the face of one of the guards. It wasn't perfect, but it would do. Chirp stepped away from the shadows with a purpose, heading not towards the stage, but the crowd. With enough confidence, no one stopped to question, who would dare halt someone who walked like they had authority?

The crowd was getting more and more restless, like a churning sea of people. They didn't know what to do. The cattle were uncertain, maybe a little frightened, and more than their share of awed. Emotions rolls off them in waves, betrayed by every twitch of the face and ripple of the shoulders. Chirp finally felt in her element, walking with quick, bold strides, getting a feel for the soldiers face. The slave body had been short, so she'd had to elongate the muscles of this form, dangerously close to snapping the spine from the added weight. That was fine, she didn't plan to stay this way long.

The crowd provided a comfortable anonymity, the Widow was still speaking, but even her great power felt small compared to the masses. Chirp navigated to a spot where she could be heard, making sure all the attention was drawn elsewhere. With a swift motion, she detached her hand from the main body, the lump of flesh falling to the ground with an unpleasant sound. The stump smoothed over before any blood was lost. She could maintain a link with her flesh for a few hours, less if she wasn't in the area. The hand hadn't been much, but it didn't need to be. All it needed was lips and vocal chords, and the oxygen from the blood would do for a short shout.

She glanced at the stage, she was running out of time. The Widow had a sharp grin and a gleam to her eyes, Mal still held up in the air helplessly. She moved quickly to another spot in the crowd, pushing aside those in her way. The Widow was an animal, the way her eyes shone, it was the look of a wolf preparing for the kill. Chirp took in a deep breath, cupping her mouth with the soldiers remaining hand.

"Ten thousand gold coins!" She paused, then engaged the link with her missing flesh, and with a surge of will, made it speak. "Five hundred thistlehorns!" Chirp didn't pause to see the results. She'd done what she could for the resistor. Mal was on his own to take advantage of what was hopefully a window of opportunity. Her face melted away once more, and she adopted one of her favorites, a middle-aged woman with storm gray eyes and brown hair. She snaked through the crowd, scooping up her hand, casually reattaching it to the stump. It came with uncomfortable pins and needles as blood rushed back into it, the oxygen in the red blood cells depleted by the noise it had produced. Her form was shorter than normal, again the bones of the slave-girl were uncomfortably small. Chirp felt cramped, despite her favorite face being shorter, it just felt wrong to use this face with these bones. But circumstances called for it, so she didn't complain. This face had wisdom and prudence that the others lacked.

Risking a glance backwards, the stage was empty of one eyed men and she allowed herself a smile. She wasn't a fool, leaving the crowd now would draw too much suspicion, she was slowly working her way to the back. Watching the way the people parted, as if letting someone through.. Or being pushed aside. She went that way.

The day was getting old, but the night was young. And she felt sure there were more surprises in store. Making a quiet disgruntled noise in her throat, she made a note to herself to pick up one of her stashes before approaching anyone. And by note, she meant the skin on her hand changed color, forming the words on her skin, a physical reminder to pick up her bones. Wolfhounds weren't too out of place in Haven, and she'd have better mobility to follow Mal.. And the hooded figure, whoever they were.

A wave of weariness hit her like a tidal wave. Chirp had flooded the soldiers body with adrenaline to keep it going with its lack of muscle mass. Now that it was wearing off, the older face staggered. She'd changed her face three times already today and she felt the need for a nap deeply. Her limit was nearing, another two or three transformations and she'd completely tapped for the day. Maybe four if they were small changes. With her new time limit, Chirp tried to walk faster, gritting her teeth.

(Oh, thank you for reminding me!! I'll change that as soon as I get home from work!)

(No problem! Thanks!)

When the Widow's voice rang out over the crowd, Soren went still, eyes searching for the source of the voice. He could still kill her…but it was more and more dangerous to do so, the more time went on. The longer it went that she was aware of assassins in the audience, the more difficult it would be to get close. He still had not pinpointed which power in this room was hers, and without that, he could not drain her. There were too many powerful people in the room. It was throwing him off, his abilities automatically searching for the person with the most, the person with the best. Not the person he wanted.

He ducked back faintly, fingers slowly twitching as he thought. Try to kill her anyway? Or melt away in the crowd and try again some other time, when there was no one else around to mess this up?

He didn't know what to do. Stay, or go? Stay, or go? He pushed his power outwards, brushing it against the other people in the room and probing for the Widow, but without touch, without confirmation by sight, how could he tell which was her? He could not read minds, didn't know anything besides abilities and when he didn't know what hers was…

He sighed, and pulled his power back, shuttering it up inside himself. He could not make the attempt now. If he pulled at the wrong person's abilities, he would give himself away and fail in his mission, neither of which was something he was willing to do. He took a few small steps back through the crowd, gaze moving around the room until he foudn the closest exit, which he then began to head towards. His hood was still shadowing his face, hiding everything but the very faint glow of his eyes, and his pale fingers continued to shift and move as he walked through the crowd, still plucking lightly at people's abilities. He would pull from someone, if he had to, but the guards were unlikely to stop him. He was not the only one wanting to leave now, in any case.

After this disturbance, while many stayed, quite a few were heading towards the doors, disgruntled murmurs breaking from the lips of rich people with too much time and money on their hands. The type of people he was far too familiar with, the type of people he still hated. If he had managed ot kill the Widow and survive, he would have taken as many of them down on the way out as possible. The type of people that would buy a slave did not deserve to live. They deserved death, and as painful a one as possible.

Once he was out, he took a moment to breathe, moving over to a shadowed portion of the street and smoothing his hands along his sleeves in a quick, easy motion, meant to soothe himself. Being back in there had brought a lot of emotions that he was not comfortable with, and he did not have the time or space right now to process them, but he needed something to calm himself. While standing there, his eyes flickered about and watched as people left, keeping an eye for the Widow, just in case.