#mebbeh?

The lights were dim in the Sanctum’s Song, though they always seemed to be. It was a quiet place, and Dia seemed to prefer it. And she did now as she pegged a corner table off to herself. Her jaw was clenched, her fingers were tapping one after the next upon the table’s surface, and the glass of whiskey was sweating profusely without even a sip missing. Something was bothering her, enough for Mhakaracca the smooth talking bartender to know to stay away.

Another shaded figure came down the steps, face hooded so neither Dia nor Mhakaracca could see, but the lithe and quiet steps made their way straight to Dia’s corner - after making a detour near the bar counter to call out a quick order of a bottled beer with the cap still on. Dia’s fierce golden eyes had remained upon the table until the figure sat across from her. 

“D’you have ‘em?” Dia inquired firmly in a quieted tone. 

“Impatient, I see,” the hooded figure cooed at her, but they reached into their jacket and pulled out an envelope, setting it upon the table’s surface carefully. Both of them were silent for a spell as Dia’s eyes flit up to Mhakaracca that brought the stranger the bottle they asked for. He seemed terrified of them both, and came and left without a word; though Dia’s piercing gaze may have been enough of a signal to scare him off. As soon as the Miqo’te’s back was turned, she reached for the envelope and emptied its contents.

“There’s no copies,” the stranger assured her, as Dia thumbed through the pictures of a Mr. Stone. “These are the originals. As requested, of course. If you’d like more, we can extend the contract and –”

“No,” Dia interrupted them quickly, but her attention was glued to the pictures. She was careful to monitor her expression, but anyone who knew her pokerface well enough was to know that she was completely disturbed by what she saw. Her muscles tensed, her breaths were scarce; the most confusing part of it all was that he simultaneously looked so familiar yet so foreign. And she wondered if that familiarity was only placed there because she wanted so badly for it to be him. 

“Did you get a name?” Dia asked, lashes fluttering up from the photos at her fingertips to look into the shade of the hood. “A first name,” she specified.

“No,” they answered. The word was like a stab to the gut that made Dia growl, until they added quickly. “But I got something better. Take a look at the last one.”

Dia’s eyes strayed from their deadly piercing gaze to revisit the content on the table, and she flipped her thumbs to the back. It was an address. They’re right, Dia mused to herself. This is better. The Highlander reached down to her belt and began to untie a small pouch; it jingled with either jerk of the tie. Let’s give this “cleaner” a visit and see who the fuck he really is. Dia tossed the pouch across the tabletop, and while it landed in front of the hooded businessman, she gathered the photos and recollected them within the envelope. Now, however she seemed to be in a hurry. 

“Your tip’s included,” Dia quipped sarcastically as she lifted herself from the table and hurried her way up to her room. She didn’t care if they followed; she hadn’t completely settled here anyway. As she turned the corner and entered the threshold to Room #4, Dia pulled her pistol out and checked her ammunition. Full, but hardly enough. With furious steps she stomped to her wardrobe and flung it open open, pulling daggers, poisons, and another pistol and tossing them carefully on her bed. This Mr. Stone was going to have problems if he was pretending to be someone he wasn’t. And… well, she just may have problems if she was right about the whole thing. Either way, she wasn’t a fool. Packing the weapons carefully hidden onto her attire, she headed for the door again. Time to potentially reunite with her dear lost brother.

@professional-problem-solver || @into-the-grey