Things Held in Darkness

[Carnath-Emory]

He could walk. He could leave right now. There is no door barring his escape to the foyer, no burly bodies between himself and the forward doors. He has merited a few half-curious glances, the occasional slowing of a stride; youth will do that, an unfamiliar face surely will, and isn't there something to the quality of his eyes? Something bold; no, something audacious. Still: priorities. Mice, after all. Horses.

"The Silver Duck-Noose."

Perhaps she didn't actually mean to echo him aloud like that. It was so quietly-said, hardly a motion of the lips at all. Perhaps she'd only been turning it over in her thoughts, and this is not completely inaccurate. It'd been Silver Witch in Orvere. The word wasn't exactly 'witch', of course, but this hardly matters; it was the likeness that caught her attention, sparking a small twitch of amusement at the corner of her mouth. It becomes something else entirely, mind, when he presses the looking-glass into her hand and spouts so many words. Meaning. Congratulations. Reprehensible. In her palm a weight of glittering bronze and glass that had been taken right out of her own room. Think about it long enough and it doesn't even matter that at the time, she'd been downstairs all engrossed with a -

"Diversion."

As if a swordswoman were only a mimic, today. A mimic and a canvas; look at what a mess he's made of these trousers. Her narrow body sways slightly to each poke of his finger, easy and yielding: once; twice; thrice. He's lost his prize, he's left her lost for words; he could walk right now -

"Really."

It's only a small step. A few inches, and not so quickly at that.

"And when was it you last spoke with him? M'Ser Duck-Noose."

Silver. Syl'wh. It's not so different, really, and who else could he have meant?
You begin with 'diversions' and everything else starts to fall into place.

"Perhaps you will tell me of this. I have some curiosity."

This boy. With his little jab of the finger, the way he stretches at the neck as if the disparity between their heights were more than just a few inches. A thing she'd never done, not even at his age when everyone was taller, and only because the moment you start doing it they know it matters to you. This understanding should temper everything which she does, but still - another step, another quiet advance.

He could walk.
He could walk right now and she would probably let him do it.

[Glenn]

It dawned upon him that perhaps, just perhaps, she was not going to show him where the secret passage was. This was problematic. It was also a weighed response. He really poked her? It had just been playing his role, and yes, he had poked this creature of nightmares and cautionary takes. Four times. In the shoulder. Using his very best word. Obviously it was time to cut his losses and...

"He sent me a letter." And that's why Elliot called him what he did, because it's hard to read a name sometimes. Ariane knew that, right? Well , the rogueling had no idea if she knew that or not, really, bu the was sticking with it. "He thought everyone here needed to be tested. There are all sorts of nasty things lurking about. Jirai. Jirai is lurking. And the Marshall just came back to life. And they say that was a drow plot. And demons, not that I believe that bit but..."

Oh, oh that wasn't good, he was getting off topic. "Did I say that your defenses were reprehensible, because they are. I've been here for an hour, less...and I know.." He shook his head. "Well, it hardly matters what I know because I'm here to help. The next enemy that comes might be a REAL one, he'll eat you people alive, he will. *I* am on your side, and you ought to thank me for it."

That craning neck had given way to a brash teenager who was quickly rationalizing things. He HAD exposed things here. He didn't really want to TAKE anything. He just wanted to prove himself, and he had. That was only half of what he wanted though. "And.." He'd continue, quickly gaining enthusiasm. "If I was able to get that," a nod for the eyeglass, "out, then he wanted you to take me to your most challenging lock, you know which, and let me try my luck at it. If I can crack it, you need better, you see."

Really, why settle?

[Carnath-Emory]

Three years and a lifetime ago, she'd have beaten the boy bloody and called the matter settled.
Even now, there's no denying the straightforward elegance of that solution.

"A letter."

Still, if she'd pursued that sort of conclusion, there'd have been no opportunity for this moments like these: a boy's tale spinning wider and wilder, a swordswoman largely reduced to echoing it piecemeal. And isn't that worth giving up a little brutal satisfaction?

"From his lord most fowl. Regarding tests."

Not really, no.
Although: fowl. Duck. It's a joke, even if it's not intentional. It's such a joke that there's even a name for it, and it's a shame she hasn't remembered that name because it's the sort of rare joke that she finds funny even before everyone else starts laughing.

"To be certain that our defenses are not, mm - reprehensible."

But her smile had fallen away the moment he weighed her hand down with sparkling bronze.

"And you have brought this with you - yes? To show, as m'Ser Duck-Noose has surely instructed - knowing, as he does, that our patience is so small and our temper so hasty. he would have insisted, I think. Lest this clever boy he has sent to us be mistaken for a lowly thief. What would it be for him then, this sorry boy? Oh - " the slight lean of her body, the slight bend of her head. "Oh, I think you could imagine. Constables would be the least of it."

He could walk right now.
She might even let him escape.

[Glenn]

Oh. Well, then.

That was likely why one should settle. One with such good sense, far more sense than pride really. Why, there were so many people, even in Myrken Wood, that would apply to, survivors, stalwart folk with a fear of god and a fear of the unknown and a healthy fear of very, very dangerous people and far more dangerous situations.

It's such a shame that one of those is not facing the swordswoman now. Instead, she has in hand, a boy who really does like the sound of the word lowly. Lowly. Lowly.

"You know what.." Lowly. Lowly Thief. "I think that you're..." Lowly. Lowly. That settled it. "You're wasting my time. I come in. I embarrass you." Sorry. She said sorry too. "I embarrass everyone here." Sorry and lowly. "Every. single. one. of. you. Without really hurting anyone. Taking what I please. I could have been free and clear, if I wanted, but maybe I didn't feel like hurting anyone today."

Oh look. There was his pokey finger again. "And I'm the sorry one? Don't give me that stupid speech about mercy either. This is Myrken Wood. I grew up here. I was born here. I lost people here. What mercy? I showed your stupid people mercy. So we're even there. You're not even that scary in person. Go haunt someone else." And this would be the point that he turns his back on her, yes. "I showed you people just how lowly and sorry you are today. I did you a favor. Get better. I will, too, I promise, and next time? We'll just see, won't we."

[Carnath-Emory]

His pokey finger again. Look at it, like a buzzing fly, hovering and darting and that is exactly how we brush it away before it can touch this time: with a swift little lift of the hand, with a tilt of the fingers; like that, little fly. Perhaps that was a demonstration: certainly her gaze had fixed quiet upon his for just that moment, before wandering past his shoulder again. Perhaps it's that all of this has been a demonstration, although if that's the case it's certain that young Elliot's played the instructor's role as often as the swordswoman has who's intercepted him.

Sometimes you give a thing some room, and then you watch what it will do with it.
And that's how you begin to learn.

"Deceits are best when they're built upon a little bit of truth," remarks a swordswoman who's just now slanted some easy lean against the corridor wall; who is in the same moment shrugging her own words away. "Or so I'm told. Perhaps you disagree. Are you hungry?" As touches fingertips to the shoulders of some passing person; heads are bent for some brief, quiet exchange before the other continues on her way. "There's breakfast to be had, if you're not too proud to risk a bit of mouse-hair."

But they're both in motion, then; 'pride', she'd just said, and look at how a boy turns his back to her. He will never see the smile which briefly threatens, and that is likely for the best.

"It's more interesting when you dispense with it," as she steps past him; simply past, but with her stride slowing to nothing a moment after, just to allow for the words. "Deceit. I'd rather speak of Marshals and drow, than sort through lies; those waste time. I'd rather speak of - mm, challenging locks. What I won't speak of is mercy, because you don't know what it looks like - and I don't care to practice it."

[Glenn]

Such temptation. Part of him wanted to keep poking, wanted to try to make it around that swatting hand. A full year of training for speed, for deftness. Could he get past her defense, not to stab her, but to poke her. A day of this. Ariane Emory had a penchant for wanting to drink her drink and speak of grand, interesting things. Real things. Elliot Brown wanted to send twenty straight hours poking her shoulder just to see if he could.

She is newly fond of the term impasse. He does not know it at all. It hardly matters, perhaps. She was in a position to make whispers to passersby. He was in a position to make harsh claims and near threats. It was plain to see which of the two had the higher tactical ground here.

He threatened to come back. He challenged her to get better. And she responded how? By offering him food? By... was she mocking him still? A hand went down to a hilt, but he hesitated. As she passed him, he would halt his egress. Finally, when he spoke, it was with a low voice, a deep voice, not quite raspy but with a great deal of surliness. "We could, maybe, come to an arrangement." No matter what, he refused to do this on her terms. No mercy? Fine. how far would her patience go, because his persistence was excruciatingly large.

[Carnath-Emory]

Impasse. It is a word which she finds singularly beautiful, a sound which flows like water. It even signifies a thing which she's come to enjoy: the point at which the playing board is so evenly balanced that we both have an interest in postponing hostilities in favour of proceedings that are so much more interesting. Impasse. A thing which she might have shared with Darkenhold's most unlikely intruder, if she had more of an affection for talented young thieves.

It is a lacking he won't much mourn.

"An arrangement."

Perhaps she keeps echoing the boy like this just to fill a space with some sounds while she thinks.
Perhaps she just likes borrowing his words.

"What, you'll hold your forces at bay while we come to a settlement?" It is amusement, this tone. It is something else as well, things less easily defined. And if he follows they will make an easy progress here: she's a swift walker and he's drawing some interest but people have a way of stepping from their path - the bodies make way, even if the eyes rather linger. They have reached a passage which is somewhat carpeted; walls which periodically feature tall windows and their whispering drapes. "Very well then, Captain Thiefling. Name your terms." A sharp turn vanishes her around a corner, but when he's caught her up the woman is paused where she stands; has turned a glance down towards his hip where -

"Best you don't reach for that unless you mean to use it. I'm sure someone's told you that by now - yes? It was an instruction worth heeding. Consider the weapon, if you'd like. Imagine its weight, picture what you would do with it - but with your mind." A little tap of the fingertip to her temple. "Not your hand." And when she turns again, it's to lead him into a passage that gives way to the kitchens.

[Glenn]

Hold his forces.

It would be damned hard to get all those mice to do anything, really. He would hold back drawing the dagger. That he could do. Could she feel it in his mind though? The weight. A dive back. A throw to her chest, which is where he was suddenly staring. He would be remembered forever. She was quick but so was he, and he wanted to try it just to see if he could. A poke of a different sort. Solena wouldn't approve. It wasn't worth the risk, not at all.

By the time he shook off that thought (and chose to look elsewhere, upon his surroundings, perhaps) she had herded him. There was no other word for it and it had come as something of a surprise. The door was THAT way. They were heading THIS way. Somewhere along the line, something had gone amiss. "Terms." Sharp, suddenly. Frustrated. "Sorry and lowly." Those were the words, no? "It's a lovely place, this fort. It's pretty open and kind of friendly. Warm when it should be cold, yeah?" His voice tugged. There was a sticky element to it, as if it would drag the listener, tripping and stumbling, right over that chip on his shoulder. "You need help. Badly." Why? Because.. well.. "Because this." A firm nod. "You can make it secure, really secure, as secure as you need for Myrken, right?" Right. She could. Absolutely. He stared at her face now, not eyes, but face, stalling. "But." Yes. But. "But, it'll cost you all that other good stuff. The nice and open warm stuff. Except for I can see the cracks and the holes and the.." the.. something? Elliot just scowled for a moment. "the flaws." Yes, that was it, exactly. "I can see them, just like I did, and tell you how to sure them up, without losing all the other stuff."

As sales pitches went, this was not the best in the history of the province, or of the vast profession of security services. Still, there it was, what he had to offer. And the price? "For a very reasonable fee." Well, he was working on that.

[Carnath-Emory]

Sorry and lowly. Those were the words, preceded by a very significant If, but what does a single syllable matter when you're young and Myrken-born? Which is, after all, just another way of saying Everything to prove and nothing much to lose. Courtesy would have had her gesturing the boy past her and through that doorway; the particular equilibrium of this conversation has her continuing on ahead of him instead. Let him have her back. Let him make his attempt, if he's of a mind to; let him weigh the risk either way. And in the meantime -

The kitchens prove spacious, but he'll understand when he sees all the benches that this is something other than extravagance. Those corridor people, those upstairs women; there's seating enough here to accommodate a small battalion and with such good reason. Even now there's a scattering of seated bodies busy about their morning meals, and thin threads of scent weave their way from the kitchens proper. At a point just comfortably distant from the larger groups she settles herself, an easy sprawl to accommodate legs that their chase had left stinging; a wave of the hand invites the boy to seat himself across from her.

"You'd like to see to our defenses," she's suggesting them. With this lift of the brow, this slight tilt of her head. "Is that it? Perhaps all of this - " some abstract motion of the hand " - was, mm. A demonstration. A practical means by which to persuade us regarding your services." Your erstwhile services. The sort of thing that Syl would say. The sort of thing that Syl can say, because unlike her he actually knows what 'erstwhile' means. Hah. No. "Tell me, then - "

And this must pause a moment so that the someone who has arrived may set several things down upon the tabletop. A pitcher, two mugs accompanying; a small assortment of winter fruits; a heel of dark bread nestled up against a sliver of cheese. A bowlful of porridge, steaming and drizzled with honey, and that she'll nudge towards him before plucking an apple from its bowl.

"Your very reasonable fee. What do you propose?"

[Glenn]

Somehow he didn't think that 'sitting down at a relatively spacious table with the person you were trying to steal from was part of the usual guidelines. Still, he had gotten this far and really, yes, well, she was actually quite a bit scarier than the few times he had seen her in the Dagger or elsewhere when he was younger. He hadn't wanted to admit it before but the adrenaline was doing strange things to him. Presumably it was the adrenaline. Before he had an out. Now he was deeper in, with more people, and with her full attention.

He had unfinished business though, strands and strands of it now. The young thief would sit down across from her.

There was one thing he had going for him and it gave him courage where only his faith in his own abilities might otherwise. That and blatant foolishness of course. In the end, he had a point. He was living proof of their lax defenses.

He had leverage, whether she thought so or not. The problem was simple. What DID he want? The lock, of course, but past that? Elliot Brown was a teenager of increasing means, moving up in the world. He had few day to day needs, and really, she was making it seem like things were sparse here. 'Look at these poor hard-working people toil and have few comforts in our draconian dining area.' Granted, neither of them knew what draconian meant, but the IDEA was there. "Fine."

Elliot Brown's Most Generous and Cunning List of Things he Wants (Numbered).
"One, I want a room, here, that I can use for whatever I want.
Two, I want to be able to eat whatever I want.
Three, I want to be able to come and go as I please.
Four, If I have a defense suggestion, you listen to it.
Five, Catch gets to visit your gardens whenever HE wants.
Six, Niall gets to use your stables with her horse, whenever she actually gets it... I wonder if she got it yet." And here he would pause. To be fair, there was a bit of hesitation between Four and Five, but not like this. "It's stupid she's not taking me to get it, you know. I was a SQUIRE. I know a lot about horses. Why would she take some other idiot to get her a horse. I even worked in the Dagger stables for a while." Then a long, cold stare at Ariane. Well, then. "Like I said. Six, Niall gets to use your stables with her horse, whenever she gets it.
Seven, I get to see ALL of the secret passageways AND where you keep all your most important stuff, which, really, absolutely, completely, and totally, is NOT in your room. And I get to mess with the lock you have guarding it. I don't even WANT your dumb stuff, especially if your other dumb stuff is any sign of what the rest is like. But I get to use the lock."

He'd take a breath, stare at her still, and think, hard. "Look, I'm going to keep coming back and trying to find it. You can't stop me without killing me, and don't you think of drawing that sword unless you mean to use it, in case anyone didn't tell you." So and there. "So better to just let me do it and get something out of it, namely all my expertise. It's only logic-y, right?"

[Carnath-Emory]

Things are sparse, here. Or the breakfast table is, at least, and very much because a swordswoman views their intruder through the filter of her decade-ago self and proceeds accordingly. It might very well have been blintzes, little cushions of delicate sweetness leaking warm, sweetened cheese with every bite. It might well have been crackling bacon, glazed pastries; it might have been scones slathered with that strange, tart jam that someone's been making lately from who knows what. And then? A young boy used to simpler things gone queasy in the stomach, and half her household losing their appetites after seeing what came of it.

This is better. And as a boy lists his demands she is filling her mug with cool water, just as if an hour ago the wells hadn't been leaking something reddish and remarkably grotesque. The first sip cools the throat, the second is just for the pleasure of it, and: "Who did you squire for?" she's interjected; it is the only point during this substantive list that she interrupts, unless one's willing to count the sudden smile near the end of it, the outright grin when he mentions swords and the drawing of.

"Well."

The short paring knife separates a thin sliver of meat from the apple.

"Your fifth is unnecessary. Catch is welcome and knows it; the condition is that I accompany his visits." A shift of the hand is already dismissing that request. Not the hand with the knife, which has just popped the bit of apple into her mouth; crisp apple, by the sound of that crunch. "Your sixth is a thoughtful attempt to negotiate on behalf of a person I do not know. Unacceptable. If your friend's in need of a place for her horse she'll visit here herself and tell me so." Renting out excess room in the stables. It's an interesting idea. Perhaps 'Siris, who's already established useful lines of trade elsewhere, might consider -

No. Later, for that.

"The rest - all conditional. If we were to come to an agreement at all, and you must understand that - "

A pause.

"What is your name?"

[Glenn]

Her interruption was unwelcome for any number of reasons. He'd yet to touch food or even water. Sitting was enough of a concession. For someone who had demanded free access to whatever he wanted to eat, apparently he had yet to develop a hunger. Like everything else, perhaps it was only on his terms that he would be deign to consume. "The Ashfiend killed my knight." He went for a cold stare but it was really much more of a hot simmering, thing, an old hurt. Many old hurts, and that ever-returning flash of memory: a boy on an active battlefield burning the bodies of his mentors and friends so they would not rise to destroy those who remained fighting. Then, as if to exorcise it once and for all, he mumbled. "I'm doing fine now, though, better than I ever would have there." Of course, it was hard to believe that something was firmly behind a young man when he spoke of it with a near sneer.

And of course, speaking of only accepting things on his terms. "No." Flat out. Firm. "Plenty acceptable. She gets usage of the stables, on the condition that you approve of her when she comes to meet you." It was basically what she had said, except for he had said it instead, and the onus of earning such usage, the proof of whether or not she would be allowed the use, was switched. Before she had to earn it through conversation, now she had already earned it but Ariane could revoke it. "And," because he was offended, apparently, at Ariane quashing his only truly selfless demands. "And, Nova gets.." Gets what? The boy seemed to be at a loss for a moment, his pride moving more quickly than his brain once again. "She gets to come and look for pretty stones if she wants." It went from petulant and forceful to more than a little embarrassed. Perhaps he turned even a little red.

Thankfully, she said something just right to get a rise out of him. "Of course everything else depends on whether or not we come to an agreement. I'm not stupid." Perhaps overcompensating a bit. Still, he shut his eyes, found his calm, his natural state, which, unfortunately, was more than a little irritating. "My name is Elliot Brown. What is your name?"

[Carnath-Emory]

"The Shepherd Knights." It's a guess. In the same sense that suggesting the sun will rise again tomorrow is a guess. "Deucalios' lot." It has to be. And this, which is no question at all, has her easing back a little in her seat; apple and knife and colourless eyes which quietly consider this boy and his hard, hard eyes. Had he seen it happen? Not if it was the battlefield; even at his most zealous, Malaroth would never have countenanced placing children within the Ashfiend's reach. The Chapter House, though. The Keep which Teron Ashfiend had laid to burning waste, and where a boy would have seen considerably more that his own Knight's kindless death. And in the wake of all that cold butchery - what then? He might have cast his lot in with the remnants of the Silver Staff; he'd fallen into this instead: thievery, and something like - ambition, perhaps. Something to replace a squire whose aspirations had been so utterly severed.

His eyes burn hard, hard. Her own are devoid of the sympathy which would be tantamount to insult, but neither is this the amusement of moments ago, when honest laughter had begun to threaten. For this briefest instant they've moved so very far beyond that. To which Knight did he squire? She might make some inquiry of Malaroth - who has always been willing to suspend their personal antagonism when genuine need was at hand. She might, and very easily, if she were to make this boy her business.

No.

"Nova, too, is subject to approval." Isn't that what he'd just said about Niall? Or something like it, something not particularly important. "There may be a place; a lake's edge not so far from here, where the water grinds the stones smooth." Smooth and colourful, and was it really years ago that she'd crouched there alongside young Iosedde? Exchanging ribbons for tiny shells, examining his precious finds. Not so young, though; childlike though he might sometimes have seen, that boy had several years on the thief presently grouching at her table. It was so easy to forget that, when he laughed with such naked delight at the way stones would skip across the water -

"And that agreement depends very much on what you're offering, Elliot Brown. Defense suggestions, mn? The better securing of a fortress? But you must understand that I have no reason to think you capable of these things. What you have demonstrated to me is a knack for locks and a talent for sewing chaos." It is not nearly a smile, thin and humourless, and if his question surprises her she answers him not with startlement but some easy shift in the seat, a second sliver cut from the apple.

"Ariane Emory."

[Glenn]

"Because there are so many orders of knights in Myrken Wood." Oh, look at that. The fledgling rogue was beginning to get surly again. No, perhaps not quite over this at all. Perhaps there was a chip on his other shoulder too. And knees. And that third tooth from the left.

Of course, she couldn't just agree with him about Niall. And now Nova? "Nova is sweet and harmless. And she has a demon tail, but it's best to ignore that, because it's rude to stare. You want people to go around and stare at you?" He was staring. Maybe thinking about finding a tail and pinning it t... no, maybe not. Still, he COULD stare.

And really.. things might have been different. She might have taken an interest. Alternatively, she might have taken offense. Things might have been very different indeed. Instead, however, there was an interjecting young man. "And three questions. That's nine or ten. I get three questions to ask you whatever you want." That was always a good thing. He wish he had thought of it sooner. "I'd even give you one."

Then, of course, there were her terms, her concerns, reasonable perhaps. "That's all I did? That's all I am? Only an idiot wouldn't have reason to think that I had something to offer there. I saw the holes. I studied the holes. I used them to get where I wanted to get. If I can do that, I can plug them. What kind of absolute," oh look, he was on his feet, "idiot wouldn't be able to realize that?" On his feet and turning. "I'm done. You're wasting my time. Your name can be moron with a sword for all I care. It'll make it easier for people to recognize you." He'd look back, stare right at her. "I told you to get better because I would. Try getting smarter too." Because he needed to as well? Was that what he was implying? It was one of those comments that didn't quite work no matter how good they sounded in his head. Still, if he could just keep staring a few more seconds as he walked away, he might be able to bluff his way through.

[Carnath-Emory]

"Because it was Malaroth's knights that sacrificed everything when they made the Ashfiend their personal cause." Point. Counterpoint. And it is not hotly spoken, but there is a hardness to her tone that all those previous words had so very much lacked. It being Malaroth, after all - sullen and ill-tempered; a man worn thin by his cause and his creed and his resentments. It should have been friendship between them; she'd wanted it to be, but oh, the stubbornness that had intervened. His. Her own. Malaroth Deucalios; quiet, solemn Patience. The things we try to live up to until we realise they're not for us and never were.

But look at this, really look at it: a boy and his indignation - on behalf of a demon-tailed girl that she's never heard of before now. Precisely as if she hadn't just explained the conditions regarding Niall; precisely as if she hadn't made Catch's welcome so very clear, along with all which that implied. So that she's expelled some thin breath of sound, has moved as if to interject, but of a sudden they're into the thick of this, of a sudden a boy is spitting words all over the place and standing at the height of it, as if the crescendo of his own voice had propelled him right out of that chair. And she is some mild thing throughout this; she is some impassive observer to what is entirely too deliberate to qualify as a tantrum, but when he is up out of his seat with that backwards glance, that very pointed stare, so is she, and -

It all happens so very quickly.
The little nudge which unbalances.
The little touch which puts him where he needs to be: back flat against a wall will do, shoulder caught into the doorframe is fine; her one arm very much blocking his path in any case, and:

"Enough of that, I think."

Quietly, now. Quietly.

"Are you misunderstanding me? Or is this deliberate." Colourless eyes, set evenly upon his own. Her sword all the way back there, along with their breakfasts. "If you're looking for a little cheap excitement and something to shout at, leave right now and look elsewhere. I'm not interested in the tantrums of annoying - little - boys."

Thumb and forefinger: flick! - short and sharp and right between the eyes.

"What does interest me is the security of my household." And how strange it is to describe that so possessively. It sits poorly with her, and there is no remedy for this; there is only the old, practiced ease with which she keeps its taint from her voice. "What I am willing to come to an agreement with, Elliot Brown, is a young man who is capable of making good on his promises in that regard, a young man with a talent for locks - tell me, do you only defeat them or do you design them as well? Since we're to be dealing in questions," but there's so little time for him to answer; already she's moving onwards, so many words of a sudden after she'd listened so quietly to all of his. "First: a room, for your use - within limits. Second: meals, of your choosing; I'll advise against some of the more exotic stews but your stomach's your own concern. Third: You're no prisoner here unless you make your presence intolerable; roam as you please - within limits. Fourth: of course. That was your initial proposal - yes? Fifth, sixth," a shrug discards these as already negotiated. "Seventh: No - no - and, conditionally. Understand that there are locks which keep people out - and there are locks which keep things in. I've no intention of compromising -

Aneirin," to some passing figure. "Some paper?" With eyes that have not left this young thief's and now her attention returns there as well.

" - their integrity. Now." The eyes do not relent. The posture very slightly does. "A demonstration of your ideas. A sample. You were Malaroth's once and you've spent half your requests on your friends; on Catch," which has singular and wonderful meaning; she has almost smiled. "I don't imagine you're untrustworthy unless you need to be. But I'm agreeing to nothing until you've demonstrated that you can make good on your claims - "

A pause, as the fellow returns; a tilt of her chin directs him back towards their table, and there he's spreading a sheet of cheap paper, a few charcoal stubs.

"So. Begin with what you did today - or just a part of it, if you like. Write. Draw. Or just say it: the solution to the problem that you've been."

And this time it is a small smile.