loch lemach gives zero fucks (cutandthrust) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-05-18 13:36:00 |
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Loch was a fixture of the warehouse district, her entire cover built around the business with Philip. Miles had less cause to haunt the district—he had some assets in storage which were presumably gone now, but it was hardly an entire clean-cut livelihood like it was for her. But he came anyway, shedding the skin of Basil Norwood (staying at the Albrecht estate was starting to become claustrophobic and confining, like a cravat knotted too tight around his neck) in order to prowl down to the docks in scuffed boots and frayed clothing, his hair unruly and loose. He got the occasional nod of recognition, noted the bleakness in the faces of passersby. He filed away all the visual details of the city and district, Emillion a wounded body teetering on its heels. More than that, however, he was here to assess something else entirely. He waited by one of the crumbled sea walls and shook out a cigarette merely to give his quivering hands something to do, waiting. The area was wide and open, but Miles noted the escape routes nonetheless (that alley being a prime candidate, its pile of scaffolding affording easy access to the rooftops). It was old instinct. A game he’d forgotten how to stop. Down that alley she came, work boots turned white with the dust of an empire of dishonesty and theft. It would be reborn from its ashes soon enough, but until it did the ashes were all she had, and they were not the most profitable of assets. She sidestepped a fragment of debris with a frown of annoyance that it had dared to plant itself in her way and walked up to Miles, her hand already producing a silver cigarette case from her pocket. It was a ritual by now. "Change of wardrobe?" A good enough reason to give him a quick once-over as she put the cigarette to her lips (too concerned with finding a light to give much thought to the tip of the bandage peeking out underneath her shirtsleeve, beneath it what she assumed to be a mark of the architect of her current troubles). “An upgrade from a full-body cast and an upgrade from too-tight shirtsleeves,” he said drolly. Miles wore all his various guises effortlessly, but there was something indefinably different about him when he was merely himself: one layer of varnish scraped away, exposing the bare wood (or bone) beneath.. Now, though, his gaze kept trailing over the woman. She was still walking, talking, smoking. It seemed unlikely anything would ever put Loch Lemach into the ground; another time, he might have to pause and examine the rockhard belief that she was something close to immortal (it wasn’t healthy, wasn’t rational, would likely end horribly afoul), but this was not that day. “You’re mostly intact, I see. Wish we could say the same for the docks.” She let out a snort, but it lacked humor. "Yeah, no shit." For another moment she looked him over out of the corner of her eye; not long enough to be construed as concern, and perhaps they were both too busy masking their examination of each other to notice what the other was doing. Loch tugged down her shirtsleeve almost casually, just when Miles’ gaze seemed it might lodge on her wrist and the glimmer of white he saw there, then made a sweeping gesture at the mess the district had become. "Shall I give you the grand tour?" “Let’s.” Instead of dropping the half-finished cigarette and grinding it out underfoot, Miles folded it into his hand as he settled into step beside her; it wouldn’t do to be wasteful, not with things the way they were now. They set off down the unevenly-cobbled street at a matching march, their paces evenly measured. But as much as he tried to focus on the crumbled warehouses around them, his attention kept drifting. “So give me the situation report,” he said lightly. “Spin me a tale, for my amusement. What happened to you? Lionel said he found you by the Cathedral.” There was a shift of something in the back of her head, a dream half-remembered, the lazy blink of a slumbering beast. Her impulse was to rub at the bandage on her left forearm, but she raised her hand to pull the cigarette away from her lips instead, blew out a coil of smoke before giving Miles a small smirk. "I was looking for someplace scenic to bleed out after my heroic exploits, the better to inspire the bards." She took another long drag, then glanced at Miles out of the corner of her eye. "Or would you rather have the truth?" “Truth, please. We all know how much I value honesty.” A crooked grin. With a low chuckle, she said, “It was rhetorical, Miles.” As if on an unspoken cue, they started walking down the alley Loch had come from, crossing through the field of debris that was the area. Where once there had been rows of warehouses casting a million shadows at every turn—not to count the shadows within―there was now the sound of hammers meeting nails and shouted instructions, as those who had the means to do so went about building their destroyed property back up. Most of those who did not had abandoned the rubble of their businesses like a snake shedding its skin, on to other markets with a more traditional sort of risk. They stopped in front of one such pile of rubble. As if continuing her earlier sentence, Loch said, “But the kind of honesty with numbers attached to it. You want that now, or you getting a drink first?” “I’m trying to cut back on the afternoon drinking. I’ve a nice, respectable facade to maintain, after all.” Miles made a show of buffing his fingernails against the lapel of his grimy coat, still all flourish and theatrics. It was an easy crutch to fall on around her, leaning all his weight on this incessant balancing act. Then, as if offering his own little bit of truth would make it easier for Loch to give up hers: “As I mentioned, a fucking guest house fell on me. All rubble and brick and wood, like the wolf from the stories had blown it down. Leradine pried me out and got me to a clinic, and I was there for over a week.” The grim dissatisfaction was thick in his voice; Miles hated any reminder of his mortality, hated the vulnerability of a battle fought with monsters and knives, rather than nobles and words and disguises. “It was a golem again, just like at the wall. I’ve had it with those bloody constructs.” Her expression gave nothing away; she hummed thoughtfully, as though she was just hearing all of this for the first time. From her, he would not hear that she had gone to see him, and had learned about his injuries then―and he would not hear from Tom, or Tom would hear from her. (She had to think the man had some faith she’d carry out the threats she had dished out to him inside that room at the Cathedral, but of course if he did mention the visit, no amount of retaliation was going to erase his words from Miles’ memory. And then, Miles might start thinking she had been concerned about him, of all things.) “Guessing getting walloped by a golem wasn’t dramatic enough without the guesthouse involved,” Loch said, rolling her eyes. She did not acknowledge the mention of Audrey; instead, she continued, “Ought to stay out of the Nobles’ District next time there’s an attack, Miles. That’s the only area with guesthouses.” “Not like a tumbling warehouse would have hurt any less,” he pointed out dryly, his eyes flitting briefly to the area around them. Loch clucked her tongue. “Wouldn’t know. I managed not to get crushed by a golem inside my own warehouse, narrowly.” She took another drag from her almost-exhausted cigarette and then added, “Told you, it was heroism almost did me in. I saw what it was and I ditched the shining armor, but the damage was already done.” “Heroism?” Miles prodded, while drizzling ashes to the ground, the rest of his cigarette finally tapered down to a thin ember. There wasn’t much to look at in their vicinity; the warehouse was wholly and unquestionably gone, their assets dissolved on the wind. But the mime was still conducting another inventory and analysis, it seemed, of a different sort. She took one last drag from her cigarette and let it fall, then stepped on it, planting her boot down firmly―to extinguish it, or a perceived rumble of the earth below, the echo of a memory. “Ended up against the big bastard on day one. Thought if I couldn’t hide inside a building, I could hide behind a couple of fighters and their dragons. That was a bust.” She let out a snort. “Day two, ended up cornered by an Elemental with a mage girl. But playing meatshield ain’t my style. I ditched her after a while. Think she was okay, I saw her around the Bazaar a couple of days ago.” The last remark was accompanied by a shrug, a dismissal of the sense of responsibility or relief that would have come over anyone else. “Bad idea to be around at all,” Miles said, not even blinking at the mention of some mage. And if he felt relief, he kept it calm and measured and out of his voice. “I’m increasingly considering just having an airship ready on hand at any moment to escape the city, next time this sort of thing happens.” “Ask Damia. Hear she’s been working on getting hers back.” She smirked, amusement plain in her voice. “Then again, she might just shove you over the railings.” “I do need a replacement for The Rising Sun…” he said, with a mock-ponderous voice of contemplation that made it clear he’d already pondered this quite a bit, ever since Damia had mentioned her quest. (A twinge of guilt then: he wondered where he currently stood with the corsair, and how to repair the damage done, if possible. Questions for another day.) “And you, are you still available for consulting if I need you?” Miles’ question was light as the sea breeze drifting in off the waves. Just as transparent, too. “For theft and profit at other people’s expense? Can’t believe you need to ask.” That rakish smile returned then, zigzagging its way back onto Miles’ face as he tapped out another cigarette and leaned over for her lighter. “It was rhetorical, Loch,” he said, and observed the devastation in front of them, the city’s losses piling up. Not all gone, at least. |