forum єνєяу мσмєηт вє¢σмєѕ єтєяηιту | RATED R | CLOSED | Stalkers Welcome

Started September 20, 2022 by @Veere group

tune

A hand flew out to land heavily on a nearby table. The darkness around them shuddered in the uneasy quiet that followed, strangely shaped shadows writhing along barely illuminated walls before settling back into place.

Some of the patrons, the weaker ones, shuddered at the display, while the older, more powerful species sneered at the offender.

“You’re not listening,” Mal seethed, his lips curled in something akin to a snarl as he took in all the faces now forced to acknowledge him. “Are we all cowards? Too afraid of some titles and rumors to act? Haven’s officials must be laughing at us.”

Mal didn’t consider himself one to lose his temper often, nor for little reason. However, a night of schooling his expressions and playing nice while the others had done nothing but insult him had quickly worn away the already depleted reserves of his patience.

If he had to deal with one more bigoted remark about knowing his place, he might lose his mind. His own shadow trembled once more as if in agreement.

“While I have everyone’s attention,” he continued, a mocking lilt to his voice as he straightened from his hunched-over position. The movement loosened the strands of hair tucked behind his ear, falling further over his one good eye, and he paused to fix it. “I would like to once again point out that now is the time for us to make a move. As Commander Deus has so thoroughly pointed out, we have absolutely no new information. We have reached a persistent dead end.”

He took a breath, his expression still drawn with annoyance and frustration, but no longer with open contempt as he switched to a more persuasive approach.

“To fix this, I propose an assassination,” he spoke, waiting until the surprised gasps and whispers faded before pushing on. “We target one of the officials. We don’t know enough about Haven to launch a full-scale attack, so one of the smaller, less attention-drawing targets is ideal. I believe The Widow, in particular, is the perfect target because we know the most about her, and because she—”

“That is enough, Delune!” an authoritative voice interjected. A spindly—almost skeletal, really—twin-horned figure pushed off from the wall he’d been leaning on looking immensely displeased, fiery glare focused entirely on the shadow-wielder across the room.

Commander Deus; an Infernal who elected himself as the leader of the so-called Movement about a year ago. Mal suspected he had a power complex, as he loved to order others around and yet somehow never managed to get anything important done himself.

“What you’re suggesting is ludicrous,” Deus said, “and your impatience speaks volumes for your age and lack of experience in strategy.”

Commander Deus was also very, very old—over two thousand years if he was to be believed, which is why no one had challenged him for his title as of yet. Listening to him speak, Mal had half a mind to be the first.

“Sir—” he attempted, the strained word barely passing through gritted teeth before he was once again cut off.

“No. I’ve entertained your brashness for far longer than you deserve. Your ideas of storming Haven are suicidal, improbable, and completely pointless; something only a child would propose,” he proclaimed. “No, what we need are more informants; people willing to infiltrate and gather information on the Founder so that when we do stage our attack, we can cut the head off at once.”

“Your spies are pointless!” Mal shouted, face flushed with fury and embarrassment from being disregarded so publicly. “Every other informant you’ve sent has ended up dead or otherwise compromised and you want to send more? To accomplish what, exactly? We haven’t learned anything!”

“Cease with your yelling at once, boy! We are all frustrated at the little progress we have made, but that’s no excuse to take your frustration out on your superiors, nor to disrespect the efforts that our comrades have gone through in the past. Now sit down and be quiet, or I’ll have you removed from this meeting,” the Commander warned, motioning none-too-subtly at the subordinates on either side of him.

Mal looked him right in the eyes and inclined his head even further, before turning away from the Commander entirely in what might’ve been his biggest display of disrespect, yet.

“Killing The Widow would give us such an advantage,” he continued on, no longer addressing the Commander directly, but the crowd of people around him. “Haven will never see us as a threat unless we prove that we’re capable of dealing significant blows. This is the only way to catch them off guard without suffering major casualties–” by now, one of the Commander’s subordinates was already on the move, so Mal smoothly stepped onto the table, taking a sure step to the right when the flustered guard made a move to grab him, then missed. “—And the only way that we can accurately gauge their responses to a genuine attack!”

The human was forced to abandon his table and hop to the next one as the Commander’s other subordinate arrived, but he continued on with a desperation to be heard.

“Furthermore, we have the most information on The Widow, including her habits and where she’s likely to show! There are rumors of an auction later this month—” Mal’s voice abruptly cut out as the table tilted dramatically beneath him. Panicked, the human threw his arms out to balance, glancing around wildly for another table to leap to and instead catching gazes with the people responsible for his sudden displacement.

He had just enough time to register the distaste in his fellow attendee’s eyes before he crashed into the ground, his head and hip colliding painfully with the stone.

Mal wheezed, the breath fully knocked out of him. He tried to get his feet back beneath him so he could at least finish laying out his plan, but strong arms were already looping around him and dragging him away.

Not that it mattered, clearly, when the ones he was speaking to wanted nothing to do with him.

In a fit of rage at the injustice of it all, Mal threw his head back with enough force to break a nose, ripping free of the rough hands and raising his own hand indignantly when the other subordinate stepped forward to apprehend him. Whether the man hesitated because of his friend’s position or because of the menacing blackness in Mal’s visible eye remained untold.

With the first man’s howls of pain as a background, Mal finally caught his breath and snarled, “I’ll see myself out, thank you.”

Before anything else could be said, he spun on his heel and exited through the nearby door. The last thing he heard was more hushed whispers, some laughter, and the Commander’s voice as he tried to calm everyone down.

Mal didn’t stop walking until he was sure no one had followed, at which point he promptly slunk into an alleyway to brood.

“Spies, my ass. If they’re not going to listen to me, I don’t see why I should give them my help, the lot of cowards,” he muttered to himself angrily, pressing lightly at the new bruises on his head and hip. He winced, then sighed, sliding down the filthy wall.

He didn’t think he had asked for much. Just for people to at least listen to his proposal. Hell, it wasn’t like he was asking them to risk their lives while he lived on without worries. He wouldn’t have proposed an assassination at all if he wasn’t willing to follow through with it, himself.

Mal frowned, replaying that thought again. No one had offered any support, but… He knew it was a good idea. He knew his target, he had a plan—and even if the plan originally depended on having allies, those were details that could be reworked. What was stopping him from acting on his own?

He hummed, retrieving some papers and a flimsy map he’d drawn from the inside of his tailcoat. He also grabbed a match from one of the pockets, swiping it against the stone wall and holding the small flame over his notes.

The Widow; the pseudo-official responsible for the sex industry in Haven. Unlike many of the other officials, who each had their own district to run in its entirety, The Widow is in charge of only a small portion of the entertainment district and answers directly to the one who oversees it all—The Handler.

Not much is known about The Handler, whereas The Widow was often spotted at semi-formal events and evaluations of the many brothels under her “care”. She had a habit of flaunting her strength and beauty, so much so that she was one of the few officials who they actually knew the species of—not to mention, her alias was pretty on-the-nose.

And, most importantly: According to the most recent intel from their now missing or dead spies, she was scheduled to make an appearance at an auction in the coming weeks.

Mal was certain the Commander knew this, as well as the other attendees that came to every meeting, as it was the subject only a few weeks back. He was also certain that he could kill an arachne all on his own, especially with surprise on his side.

Anticipation thrummed in his veins as he blew out the flame, mind already whirling with thoughts of how he would pull off this assassination solo.

---

The auction itself was not all that difficult to get into, which was a welcome surprise to the shadow-wielder after how hard it’d been to get into Haven in the first place.

Not only were the guards posted outside hyper-vigilant and eerily intuitive, but they had a very keen sense of smell that had proved to be the most challenging for him to avoid. In the end, he was unable to sneak in undetected without drawing on a huge reserve of his power, which left him to recover (read: waste precious time) the two days leading up to the auction.

It was a miracle in and of itself that he managed to find a safe place to recuperate without being discovered by any of Haven’s soldiers.

Something that unsettled him, however, poking at his sense of unease even through the haze of his mental vulnerability at the time, was the manner in which the citizens of Haven conducted themselves. They weren’t outwardly suspicious or miserable-looking—which was what he half-expected after spending so long coming to terms with the evil hiding in the city—but actually, they all seemed quite…happy as they went about their lives. Perhaps they didn’t know about the dangers lurking all around them?

Still, that wasn’t the weirdest thing Mal had noted. The observation that bothered him the most was the way in which the citizens never actively acknowledged him.

It wasn’t the disrespectful or discriminatory lack of acknowledgment that he’d encountered with The Movement, but rather, a complete absence of awareness that he even existed until he first interacted with them.

Like zombies, he mused, a droplet of sweat sliding down his temple and beginning to pool at his jaw. Before it could fall, a thin strand of dark mass flicked out and caught it, drawing back to the pool of shadows that concealed the human crouched in his perch above the stage.

Mal would’ve preferred a more subtle hiding place, one that wasn’t in front of literal dozens of witnesses, but The Widow would be making her customary appearance to kick off this auction and there would be no better chance to strike.

His muscles screamed at him from holding the same stance for so long and the strain of using his shadows was beginning to creep up on him, but moving now would only get him killed, so he gritted his teeth against the moving shapes in the corner of his eye and waited.

It wasn’t long before the lanterns, enchanted to respond to a spellcaster’s command, brightened from their dim glow. Mal watched intently, the sudden brightness of the light only darkening his shadows from behind one of the wooden beams.

His grip on his short sword tightened.

A white hand gracefully parted the strands of beads shielding the otherwise open doorway on stage, revealing a feminine face stepping forward.

Her skin was an unnatural stark white, body hugged closely by a black silk dress that shimmered under the lighting. Hundreds of authentic pearls draped around her neck, wrists, and waist before connecting to her dress, looking from afar like dewdrops clinging to a spiderweb in the early morning.

The Widow’s hair, an endless black at the roots that transitioned to a shimmering white at the ends, held a shine more prominent than her dress and was parted into six clearly defined sections that each gave the occasional, independent twitch as it hung down to her thighs.

Her monochromatic appearance was interrupted only by the vibrant red stain on her lips and the same tone of powder framing her narrow eyes. Her nails, too, were colored a matching red upon further inspection.

As The Widow moved closer to the forefront of the stage she seemed to grow in stature, finally coming to stand at her full height of eight feet—if not taller.

Mal’s heart rate sped up, adrenaline coursing through him as he thought, ‘This is it!’

“Welcome, all, to this very special event that I’ve arranged.” The Widow’s gentle voice floated around the room, enrapturing the audience who looked on with greed and anticipation.

Mal’s face contorted in disgust upon seeing their reaction, noting the difference between them and the almost apathetic citizens he’d encountered aboveground.

“I am sure I need no introduction, but if you would all humor me for a moment…” The Widow paused with an elegant smile, allowing for a few laughs in the crowd before sweeping her hand in a request for silence. “You all know me as The Widow. I am the soon-to-be co-official of this entertainment district, alongside the hard-working Handler, thanks to the loyalty and persistence of you people here. This event is to properly thank you for your support.”

Mal’s eyes widened slightly at the news. He hadn’t heard anything about this development, this promotion, and he wondered if it was recent news—not that it changed his plans any, he reminded himself.

“In just a moment,” The Widow continued, clasping her long fingers together in front of her chest, “I will have the merchandise brought out and you will be welcome to place your bids on any which ones you like. I assure you, they’re all of the finest quality and properly trained, too. I do hope you enjoy the evening. Thank you once again for all of your support.”

She bowed slightly and then turned to make her leave, the first row of slaves being ushered out from the other side of the stage.

Sensing his chance, Mal gathered the brunt of his powers and forced his shadows to encompass all the lanterns but one, flooding the room in darkness save for the faint glow left over.

There were a few surprised murmurs at the sudden darkness, but Mal was already on the move, falling gracefully from his crouch in the rafters to land in a wide stance on the ground. The visions dancing in his eye were so frantic that he shut them both, relying entirely on the feel of the shadows around The Widow to guide him while simultaneously weaving the ones around him to hide his presence until the last possible second.

He lunged forward, brandishing his short sword in just the right angle to drive into the arachne’s heart—only to falter when something—someone?—crashed into his side and sent him sprawling on the floor a mere five feet from his target.

Mal’s weapon clattered somewhere off to his right, stealing his focus away entirely as the shadows obscuring both the lanterns and himself fell away.

Chirp hated these meetings.

It's not like they were a waste of time, there were people to see and things to understand, and the Resistance at the very least gave her a list of faces not to use inside the city..

It's just- It was so boring! One of the high rankers would speak, everyone would nod along, listening to whatever they said, usually some plan that was little. Today we'll destroy one of the fruit stands! That'll get them shaking in their boots! She rolled her eyes as best she could in her current form.

A bird, a massive, jet black raven. She was perched on some boxes, busily preening the feathers that had taken so long to form. Hair was hard enough to do, but feathers? If the birds hastily constructed body could shiver, it would. Chirp was really only listening with half an avian ear, tuning out most of the voices and words, when a loud noise startled her. A hand against a table.

The large raven squawked, then settled down, ruffling its feathers in indignation. She drew her attention back to the meeting, a young man was standing there with fire in his eyes. ..Well this should be good..

Chirp hopped onto a different barrel, the weight of her bird body making it wobble briefly, before stilling. Chirp searched her brain for a name for the face she saw, but she'd left most of her brain matter with her human bones, and thus, most of her memories. It took most of her concentration to pay attention with a brain this small (bird brain?), but she dutifully noted the young mans face, memorizing the curves and edges, before she realized she hadn't been paying attention again. Blast.

The man had one eye that was injured, likely blinded there, yet it still seemed to have the matching fire of the other, while he spoke of grand plans and assassinations, words filed away in the birds brain to remember later, the conscious part of Chirp could only think what a pain it would be to have to mimic that. A dead eye with life? Yet contradictions were what made up people, it was what she loved about them.

The scuffle took too much brainpower to process, and Chirp desperately wished she'd taken more time to make this form, the raven was designed for speed and remembering, rather than processing. The swirling people confused her eyes, making it hard to follow.

The only thing that stood out to Chirp was the name "The Widow". It sounded so familiar, the main body would know. The bird did not. Something about an auction? What would they sell? Would it be shiny-

The bird's focus was lost, still listening again with half an ear, but more focused on bird like thoughts, by the time Chirp gathered her will together again, the action was over, people were disgruntled and looking around with a fear. What had happened? A man was on the floor, clutching his face, the bird half wanted to leave at the smell of blood, and Chirp obliged, making a mental note to stop rushing her forms, it made things an unnecessary nuisance. Normally she had greater range as a giant raven, but she'd figured it'd be a normal meeting and intentionally left out processing power. A mistake, in hindsight.

The large bird left the warehouse in an intentionally comical way, exiting through the door, waiting in line like everyone else. She liked it when people smiled at her, she'd spent the last three weeks convincing everyone that the raven form was just someones well trained pet, she'd bribed one of the resistors to go along with the ruse for a while.

As soon as she was out in the open though, Chirp couldn't bear being on the ground. She lifted off, the first few powerful beats of her wings struggling to lift the bird, before she was in the air. She went in the opposite direction of Haven, into a grove of tree's, thickly gathered together to form a wonderful little grotto of shade. Chirp landed, the poor wings making popping noises as her talons sunk into earth. A few hops closer to a specific tree, and if Chirp had allowed the bird form a sense of smell, it would be evident what was hidden here. Who would steal bones and old flesh?

Inside the stump of a tree a lump of… Something sat. A mound of flesh and bones, still partially alive. She kept a piece of herself with it always, a mental link to it so she never lost herself, and it kept the pile alive.. For a while.

The form of the bird melted away, into the puddle, and Chirp Expanded. She could think again, and the memories poured into her consciousness. She didn't take her base human form yet, as a blob she had greater thought and could remember everything that had ever happened to her all at once. She was her own think tank, having lived dozens of lives from dozens of different perspectives.

The raven's memories entered the blob and Chirp started analyzing it. The mans name was Mal, a spit-fire, a new recruit with new ideas, it seemed he'd finally snapped. The information about the Widow was new, Chirp had worked in some of the woman's territory before, but had never met the matron herself. The changeling knew the entertainment industry well, as it was easy for a shapeshifter to find easy work.. But Chirp had heard nothing of the auction. Maybe she should have been paying more attention, looked into more of her sources.

It occurred to her that Mal had wanted to assassinate the woman, someone like the Widow wasn't the most powerful, but if that was the mans first target.. It was a bold opener. It would cause waves. Chirp liked the idea, but she doubted someone like Mal, without resources, without the backing of the Resistance, could pull it off, maybe not even get inside. She didn't know his power, but she doubted it was that strong. If it was, surely he would have been given greater responsibilities, right? ..Right?

Regardless of the mans power, Chirp liked the idea. And decided no one would mind if she took it herself! After all, it was bold, it was daring, and she could do it without any repercussions! Chirp made a decision. The next month would require careful scoping out..

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The weeks had passed with startling quickness, and Chirp found herself on the day of the auction as one of the slaves. It had been startlingly easy to pass off as one of the docile girls, one with blonde hair and grass green eyes that reminded the changeling of a cow or a horse. The face was pretty, very passive, and had a dopey smile. Her and some of the other merchandise was being prepped, make up applied, wearing next to nothing, a single piece of cloth that was strategically placed to just barely hide anything.

Chirp was good at her job, she smiled at everyone, but made no eye contact, head down, walk with the hips first. Eyes that showed nothing but dullness, the sign of the drug popularly known on the streets as 'Lovesick' at work. It was put in all the slaves water, and Chirp had felt it the moment she'd swallowed, and had worked quickly to not let it affect her mind, she'd succeeded, but poison wasn't her strong suit, so she still had a killer headache that Chirp couldn't quite maneuver her flesh around to banish. Still, as long as she behaved correctly, she should be in the first wave.

The sounds of a crowd outside reached her ears, and Chirp quickly sharpened her ears to hear better, the face's long hair hiding any irregularities that someone could notice, or the rippling skin.

As the slaves were ushered in, the changeling got her first good look at the Widow, a gorgeous, tall woman with an imposing air. Chirp hid a smile, if all went well, no one would ever know that the woman had been missing. It was a good opportunity! A thrill went through her, she stepped onstage..

And everything went black. Chirp's eyes widened in surprise. What? What's happening- Someone was-
Reacting quickly and trying to hide her shock, Chirp tried adjusting the corneas in her eyes, adjusting to the darkness, seeing two shapes colliding, nearest to the Widow, and soon after, she was blinded just like in the dark, as all the lights returned.

The changeling hissed, clutching her eyes that were so sensitive to the light and did her best to quickly adjust once more, her head spinning. Blinking away tears, Chirp looked up, the people starting to speak, looking around and moving in disjointed clumps. She ducked her head, her face shifting and the hair bleeding to a new color, a dark black, along with her skin, doing her best to slip into the shadows of the stage. She stared hard at the two, who collided so forcefully, and was surprised to see Mal, a blade drawn and an equal look of surprise on his face.

This was a new development, and Chirp took it in stride, changing her plans. She'd observe for now, and step in if things continued to escalate, which they looked like they would..

Watching, the robed and masked figure stays silent through the meeting. Nobody even payed attention to them anyways, though it's not they wanted anybody to.

They sigh when things escalate. Lord above, these people have short tempers. This is why I can't stand the living: always so loud and fast.

When the meeting ends, they step out and appear to vanish entirely from sight.

---

They watched the proceedings with disdain, watching as the Widow steps out.

Damn her. Damn them all. Damn this entire bloody city. they think to theirself, their lip curling in anger and disgust.

They watch as someone tries to attack the Widow, as the theatre goes dark.

Huffing, they jump down from their perch and sprint towards Mal, tackling him to the ground.

"For the love of the gods, Mal, don't be an idiot. You're attacking the Widow, for fucks sake. Be smart." they hiss.

They pull Mal to their feet and scan the slaves.

"You. Come with me." they say, pointing to a particular girl, a girl who seemed to have shifted skins and stepped back, into the shadows. They were having a bit of a difficult time focusing on the girl, since she was blending in.

They look back at the Widow and tilt their head slightly before disappearing in the crowd.

(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.