Yara Nahir

“most guards find a man that works better on one leg than two a bit intimidating, so they pay for their ale and bugger off. so, the short round is i can get you information,” a smirk pulls at his lips as he pats his bad leg, one of the few good things to come out of the injury was unnecessary chatter. “i have a few of my own that i gain gossip from, so worry not.” his aunt would always say that talon had to know everything that was going on, no matter if it involved him or not - it was a bad habit. “the crooked nag, down in the cursed quarter. windows are broken, barrels outside and an actual donkey outside, so not hard to miss.”

lips curl into a smirk as he firmly takes her hand to shake, appreciating her lowering to his eye level - most people preferred to stand when he was on the floor, hardly any dropping to be eye to eye with the man. “a sailor raised by a single aunt and a number of docksmen becomes known to certain aspects of life, yara.” he leans back against the balcksmiths wall once again, “bothersome? not at all. i welcome the pay and the work, pouring ale all day hardly has the same appeal after a month of such a task, so it will be a nice addition.”

“if you ever have the chance, i recommend a visit. he’s an artist with the forge, he would not disappoint.” he hums, thinking of the ever-shrinking man with the long white beard - the amount of times he would attempt to swing from it as a child has long lost count in his mind. “nahir…nahir auction house? apologies but it rings no bells to my mind. i don’t get out much anymore, i’m afraid.” a smirk pulls to his lips, “temporary bartender and shipwrecked sailor, talon hideark at your service.”

open starter // location: a rooftop in the cursed quarter, just an hour or two shy of dawn

Ever since the doom had occurred and his subsequent dismissal as the captain of the guard, Cyrus had not missed the fact that the guard itself seemed to be lacking in not only numbers, but diligence to their duties. Not only had they seemingly forgotten to strip him of his keys, but they hadn’t either changed the locks to many a door. Important doors at that. Early in the twilight hours Cyrus had helped himself to one of the outlier guard posts, one that still only had one man to a shift in the early hours of the morn. 

He’d heard of a bit of a scuffle at one of the upper end taverns, an uppity two-bit noble who liked to think he had more class and money than he truly did. Bottom of the pecking order of damned nobles. Easy to forget about. Easier even to snatch from a jail cell where he’d been left to sleep it off until morning. He’d knocked the man unconscious and carted him off to a quiet rooftop to feed. He didn’t drain the man, but once sated, the man was pale, limp and still unconscious, but he was still breathing. For the time being at least. Cyrus was no medic outside of basic field treatments. 

There was the scuff of a foot landing on the rooftop behind him, and Cyrus turned his gaze to the unexpected guest. He made no effort to hide the noble slumped on the rooftop, between himself and the newcomer. “Before you go spouting your head off, he’s not dead,” he said quietly, not wishing to rouse the tenants of the building below. “He’s not all that great a person either – bastard was in a jail cell just hours ago. Was planning on putting him right back where I found him.”

“I’m surprised I didn’t end up like him - or worse, back in the forest,” Yara said eloquently, stepping lightly over the legs of the said victim. She quickly raised her hands. “I’ve come to try and establish a truce. Or, we can once again find ourselves at an impasse.” She kept a carefully calculated distance between the pair of them - close enough to show she wasn’t too frightened, but far enough out of arms reach that she might have a chance to make a dash for it if he lunged for her.

“leg stuff for my fucked up leg, yes. leg stuff.” he uncrosses his arms and gestures to his left leg, knowing underneath the fabric of his trousers was a mass of scar tissue rather than simple flesh. “not frequent, but i’m here enough to know they do decent enough work - though not as good as maron in hilak, but they do just fine.” brows raise curiously as he eyes the dagger, the shine causing lips to curl into a smile. “smithy is better than the jeweller for such a blade, the jeweller would try and talk you into selling it to them. smithy will fix it.”

.

“Hm,” Yara raised a brow at the mention of his ‘fucked’ up leg. “Well, seeing as I can’t get to Maron in Hilak, this will have to do.” She noticed the glint in his eye when she revealed the dagger, and frowned. “I’m use to being pressured to sell, but no one with the right mind would do that to me, seeing as I own and run the Nahir Auction House. But I appreciate your frankness. What do you do, besides sit on the ground?”

he huffs and lets his head fall back against the cold stone of the forge, arms crossing lazily over his chest - for those known to him in the tavern, it wasn’t strange to see him off his feet, sometimes he would become tired of using his crutch and simply crawl around the cursed quarter. a terrifying image to some. “go ahead, i’m not going anywhere whilst they fix my leg stuff.”

closed starter for @yara-nahir​

he’s sat on the ground outside of the blacksmith’s, his crutch and brace inside of the building whilst he is left like a hopeless child outside. the tedious journey to the castle took whatever strength was left in his equipment to break and since he was nowhere near his man in hilak, he resigned to the arellan smiths. “it’s not nice to stare.”

⟾ proprietor of the

“Oh, do you? I must have forgotten, perhaps even blocked it out of my memory.” He teased, his brow arching upwards as she looked him up and down. That wasn’t unfamiliar to him, not with other women – most other women – but Yara hadn’t exactly shown interest in him before. Time had passed since he’d last seen her, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different. He scoffed, rolling his eyes at the dramatic recollection. “I wouldn’t say that I stormed out… just merely walked.. with purpose. You and I both know that that contract was rubbish. No sense in denying it now.” 

He etched a few more lines on the pad in front of him as he listened to her, turning his head toward her when her speech scrambled momentarily. That was odd – it almost sounded as if she meant to say her own name. He remembered Bellamy fondly, spending many a night together, unlike his memories of Yara. “Ah, yes – where is she now? Still working for you, or has she come to her senses?” His eyes narrowed suspiciously as she praised him for something that he had been under the impression that she disagreed with before, but perhaps he had just been making assumptions. “Your disdain toward me definitely made me think otherwise. You acted like one of those stuffy aristocrats I was trying so desperately to get away from.” 

Something about her seemed so familiar, but there was no way that he could have felt this way toward Yara. They didn’t spend enough time together to feel that way. Their conversation felt easy now, unlike before, when it was like pulling teeth. Like it was with– Bellamy. Curious. He shook his head, setting his drawing aside as he turned his full attention to the woman next to him. “Pity you didn’t share this sentiment the last time we met. Tell me, Yara, what’s changed?” 

.

“Bellamy? Oh she...,” Yara felt her throat close up. 

What could she say? She’d come up with numerous stories for lesser people: Bellamy had run away, had decided to marry a well off Hilaki, embezzled from the House, and was now rotting in prison. Any of those could work, but Yara found herself battling an internal conflict. Just tell him! Came the insane thought. But was she even Bellamy anymore? A month of being Yara had resulted in strange changes mentally. She was more gregarious than she had ever been in her life. She had a shorter temper, and had even started to become arrogant towards everyone around her. Yara felt even she couldn’t call herself Bellamy for much longer. 

“She left me. A giant fight about honor and what not broke out and she walked away. She turned her back on everything we had built.” Yara blinked down into her lap for a moment, and then straightened, tossing her long, curly hair over her shoulders. “A stuffy aristocrat may be what I am, but I’m a businesswoman with a savvy inclination towards talent. You still seem incredulous about that fact, when everything I’ve built points directly to it.” 

She was suddenly broken from her empty chatter by Icarius’ voice cutting into her thoughts, both accusing and curious in tone. His final question hit her like a ton of bricks, and she sagged under the weight of them, her shoulders folding and her hands gripping the other tightly.

“Maybe something has changed,” She said, staring at nothing in front of her. “Maybe she broke my heart.”

“Yara, Yara, Yara” he tsked, shaking his head, “Truly, feigning ignorance to a former business partner? Sure, you did indeed screw our arrangement over, but I wouldn’t think you’d deign further to play the clueless damsel.” He tapped the knife along her collar bone and dragged the tip down her torso, settling it in along the nest of her bodice the edge tapping a faint rhythm against her torso. 

“Screaming is a funny thing, see,” he said, pausing to press further into her space. “If your lungs are punctured you can’t make much a sound at all,” he grinned at this, it would be so simple, and if he got an extra meal out of it, what a convenience.  “We had an arrangement, Nahir. You were the one that decided to break code. I don’t like those that break word. Its truly to your own luck that you managed to so publicly bring your face to light in that village –unfortunately people would notice if you were to disappear in the night in a camp at peace. The castle on the other hand,” he smirked, “Perhaps dozens of mad beasts around every corner - such a shame if you turn one without looking.” It would be a fitting end for a woman who upended everything in his life without thought nor care beyond her own greed. 

“Former partner - what are you -” Yara began to spit, her chest heaving as the knife moved down. She gasped as the tip of the blade pressed just below her ribs, a fatal blow no doubt to come. But it didn’t - he was toying with her! And these things he was accusing her of....

Yara grasped the wrist of the hand pressing the dagger into her bodice, and she could feel the trickle of blood smearing against his skin from the cut her ring made on her palm. She stared into his eyes in the darkness. She heard her dress rip against the metal blade.

“Cyrus Cartwright,” She finally snarled. Fucking hells. The realization that it was Captain Cartwright of the Guard digging a knife into her side, he who had dragged her back into the forest to potentially murder her, and was now prosecuting her of Yara’s past misdeeds - it only made her angrier.

Unlike most, Icarius often found solace within bustling crowds of people, even amidst the chaos that had unfolded the last few days. There he sat, as everyone tended to their wounds and set up campfires, sketching away, not a care for anything else in the world. Every time he drew or painted, he lost himself in his work, the rest of his surroundings melting away. He would only glance away to gather more details from his subject, every crack in the stone, every growth of moss or vine that crawled it’s way around the tower. 

His attention was pulled by the utter of his own name, surprised when he craned his neck upwards and saw her. His eyes narrowed at the familiar figure, something in how she carried herself seeming off, but he couldn’t quite place it. Not that he paid much attention to her in the miniscule interactions he’d chosen to have with her before, but it was more of a feeling than an observation. 

“What would you know about fine work?” He scoffed, returning his gaze back to his artwork. He didn’t much like talking to her before, and from his understanding, the feeling had been mutual. “Here to tell me that you’ve finally pulled that branch out of your arse and then beg to work with me? I would truly love to see that.”

Yara almost laughed out loud at that, her face splitting into a smirk. “I do happen to own one of the finest auction houses in Ezia. I know exquisite work when I see it.” She pointedly looked his body up and down at that, unable to resist the temptation. She glanced back up at the castle before them. “And I’m not sure I deserve such harsh criticism. If I remember correctly, you were the one who stormed out of my office after reading the contract.”

Yara sat down beside him on the log, and spread out her finely woven skirts, and leaned on one hand to look back at his sketch. “I was always telling Ya- Bellamy that I was impressed by your fiery attitude when it came down to what you thought was the right thing to do. No more painting nobles and kings, no more fine dining in the midst of stuffy aristocrats blah, blah, blah.” 

Yara kept seeing glances of the man throughout the day between the rush of people, and crowd of trees, but she never got close enough to confirm her suspicions. That was, until they were setting up the camps around the base of the castle walls, and she had noticed him pull out a sketchbook to try and capture the ornate machicolations on the flanking tower in charcoal. She wanted to race towards him, to greet him with a smile, but she didn’t have Bellamy’s face. She remembered how he had scorned Yara, had laughed in her face - and those feelings that Yara had felt of enmity and indignation rose in her throat. She pushed them aside, and approached the man, picking up her skirts to avoid the muddied ground.