11-19-2018, 11:38 AM
The mark was some shitty upstart, too important or rich or connected to simply slide a blade between his ribs, even if it was the simplest solution. Her employers had already arranged the finer details, like how to gain access, the rest of the necessary information filtering through as she prepared to step into this new role -- and she did so enjoy the costume; the caress of silk like midnight sky, teasing soft flesh like the flash of stars. It wasn’t the first time she’d played the whore, and it was unlikely to be the last. It was an unsurprisingly efficient means to an end, and morals were a useless accessory anyway when you killed people for a living. Better to enjoy the perks.
Clothes and cosmetics had been supplied. Black hair slashed a straight sheet to her shoulders, cut heavy above the tilt of eyes that suggested something not wholly Russian in her ancestry, though she had always considered herself as such. As she finished the last of her preparations at the dresser, her gaze travelled to the unnaturally thickening shadows beginning to ripple in the corners of the room; a first warning, like a cat’s bristling back. One of the faded scars on Nhysa’s foot attested to the bloody-minded obstinance of the creature that followed her, the only time she had ever known it to become volatile when she ignored its nudges.
“Later, I promise. We need to take care of this first.”
When she stood she flicked the dimmer switch up, flooding light and banishing it from her senses.
Jaxen Marveet’s building was obscenely lavish, its security procedures rigorous (and ultimately fruitless when one chose to fuck with Nikolai Brandon). The presentation of her fabricated identity sped the process with the sort of discrete familiarity that tickled a smile to her lips; for that moment when she went from a person to a piece of property, albeit an expensive piece of property. The shield of vice amused her. It always did. She felt a certain affinity for women of the night.
A straight-faced escort saw her safely delivered to the lofty heights and indicated to the correct door. Unnecessary, obviously. She had already studied the building’s schematics. Gold bottle of russo baltique in hand, she knocked and waited.
Clothes and cosmetics had been supplied. Black hair slashed a straight sheet to her shoulders, cut heavy above the tilt of eyes that suggested something not wholly Russian in her ancestry, though she had always considered herself as such. As she finished the last of her preparations at the dresser, her gaze travelled to the unnaturally thickening shadows beginning to ripple in the corners of the room; a first warning, like a cat’s bristling back. One of the faded scars on Nhysa’s foot attested to the bloody-minded obstinance of the creature that followed her, the only time she had ever known it to become volatile when she ignored its nudges.
“Later, I promise. We need to take care of this first.”
When she stood she flicked the dimmer switch up, flooding light and banishing it from her senses.
Jaxen Marveet’s building was obscenely lavish, its security procedures rigorous (and ultimately fruitless when one chose to fuck with Nikolai Brandon). The presentation of her fabricated identity sped the process with the sort of discrete familiarity that tickled a smile to her lips; for that moment when she went from a person to a piece of property, albeit an expensive piece of property. The shield of vice amused her. It always did. She felt a certain affinity for women of the night.
A straight-faced escort saw her safely delivered to the lofty heights and indicated to the correct door. Unnecessary, obviously. She had already studied the building’s schematics. Gold bottle of russo baltique in hand, she knocked and waited.