Chapter Text
He's none the wiser when he sees her for the first time. She strolls into Bekka's inn, all red hair and swaying hips, with all the grace and purpose of a queen. He takes in her appearance as he pretends to check his lute's strings one more time, notices she's wearing leather armor, the kind a thief or assassin would wear, tight and black.
He hears Bekka as she greets her with a bellow, saying something how this time she'll make an exception for this girl - she's in an exceptionally good mood, after all, and she's not one to let anyone go thirsty under her care. Even if they're friends with a witch and a cultist.
His ears perk up at that remark. He's still pretending to fix up his lute, his graceful fingers sliding over the strings, but he looks at her again, just from the corner of his eyes.
He lies to himself when he thinks he would much rather see her wrapped in a nice, royal gown. He lies once again when she speaks up, her bow-shaped lips curved into a charming smile before she even speaks, and he tells himself to remember the ladies of the King's court. Aren't they prettier, more refined, more... appropriate for himself?
"I'm honored that you decided to allow me in your inn, Bekka. I'll go thank him personally."
He swallows a breath when her hips sway from one side to the other as she approaches him, in a motion too natural to be purposeful. His eyes slide over hers, and he notices the color of her iris - a soft, delicate shade of gold, almost like honey.
He swallows his sudden nervousness, too, before curling his lips into an indulgent, charming smile.
"There is no need to thank me, my lady."
She returns his smile.
"Still, it's thanks to you that I can be here. I feel lucky that you're here."
Lucky, she says. Her soft southern drawl is like music to his ears, and for a moment he's seized by the irrational desire to compose a song for her. In her name. Whatever that name is.
But he keeps a hold on himself, and throws her his best, most charming smile. The one he would use before the King, before making an entreaty. It feels like that's what he's going to do, like he's going to beg her to tell him her name... But he does not.
He laughs pleasantly, not knowing if his laugh sounds as forced as it feels.
"Ha ha, do you now...?"
He lets the implication hang between the two of them, watches for any change in her expression. It doesn't. So he smiles at her again, trying hard not to notice the way her armor hugs all of her curves just so. Despite his best efforts, his eyes drift lower for just a moment - and then he sees it. Her amulet, glowing red against the pale skin of her throat.
He wonders what's it for. It looks quite expensive - something that someone of his station could've gifted her, who knows how long ago. The strings, of red-colored leather, really show no sign of wear and tear. Perhaps it's a gift from that witch of hers.
"So, is it true you're friends with a witch?"
His question is bold. Too bold, perhaps. After all, witches and thieves do not mix well with his own kind, but he cannot deny a certain degree of curiosity. What can even drive anyone towards thievery, or towards stooping so low as to make friends with witches?
She inclines her head, slightly. She doesn't seem to mind his question. Her lips curve into another smile and suddenly is attention is no longer focused on the amulet, but on her mouth. It's with pure strength of will that he forces his attention upwards, to her eyes - but truly, wishes he hadn't.
Because now her eyes are wholly focused on him, sparkling in the common room's dim candlelight, and this time it's his heart that skips a beat, then another, on its own.
"What business is it of yours, pretty boy?", she asks.
He takes it in stride - it's not the first time someone's called him that, but it's the first time he hears it in her lovely voice. He can't quite convince himself that he minds it.
"Not my business at all", he agrees, keeping his tone level, "I do find it fascinating, though."
He cocks his head sideways, purposefully. "I mean, what an honor it must be, to live in a witch's house. It's amazing she hasn't summoned a demon and killed you yet."
He tries to phrase the last bit as a joke - but the bitterness of his tone shows, even for just an instant. She apparently picks up on it - and he watches as she cocks her head to the side in return, her stare so focused that now he feels like a canary in front of a big, hungry, vicious cat.
"That witch is the nicest person I've ever met, bard."
She's frowning now, clearly displeased.
"Oh. Then I must be mistaken", the lie rolls easily on his tongue, "or perhaps you've met a quite limited number of people."
He sees the retort in the downward curve of her mouth. She's still frowning, she's still displeased, and the irrational side of him wants to kiss the corner of her lips to make it go away. Instead he smiles again, wide and pacifying, as he strums a couple of his lute's strings. The sound of it is apparently enough to make her bite down on her retort - he watches her frown turn into the slight furrow of her eyebrows, almost as if she meant to say something, but no longer remembers what.
"In any case, it seems that you've succeeded in distracting me, my lady. The inn is without music, and we haven't even exchanged names yet."
He bows then, gallantly, at her. He almost bows at her like he would for a queen of her own right - but catches himself at the last second, settling for a generic, corteous bow. He doubts she'd be able to tell the difference - her garnments are most likely indicative of her profession, and thieves are rarely of noble birth. Perhaps she was a commoner, a poor one to boot, one who'd never known the pleasures of a carefree life before resorting to theft. In any case, most likely clueless on courtly rules.
"I am Sinallion... of Suntown, as you may have heard."
He pauses, purposefully, before stating his town of origin. His deeds should be known, far and wide, and although Bekka hasn't recognized him, surely this lady will?
But there's no trace of recognition as she simply smiles in return. A slight pink colors her cheeks and he focuses on it with a hawk-like attention, his heart swelling in a bout of pride for making her blush.
"I'm Bright. Of Scarcewall."
She almost sounds timid, for a moment, shy even, and it's with her still colored cheeks that the girl - Bright, what a fitting name for a ray of sunlight like her - quite evidently bats her lashes at him.
"Bright flame of my heart", he comments, throwing at her the very best of his charming smiles. "The name fits you perfectly, my lady." Much to his chagrin, he isn't even lying.
"If I had been born in the South, what would my name have been? Valiant?", he grins.
Bright laughs, and the sound of it fills his ears and heart, to the point that he wishes to never be able to hear anything else again. "That would suit you, I think", she says, her voice still full of mirth.
Perhaps she's pleased to see that for once, Southerner names are not spat upon. Before he can say anything else - thank her, you fool - she smiles again and speaks first.
"Why did you come to Ravage, pretty boy?", she asks. Then she throws him a positively sinful smirk. "Or should I say handsome bard?"
He laughs, halfway between pleased and embarassed. He's almost tempted to tell her the truth, right here, right now, in the middle of the common room, not minding whoever might be listening. But instead he lies again, and says what he's been saying to all the women who've approached him today, "To meet the lady of my heart, obviously."
"Come now. It must be more than that"; she prods him.
On the other hand, someone of her ilk might be useful to him. He knows his mission by heart - what harm is there into employing a lonely lady thief to fetch the information he can't get to on his own?
"I'm afraid my story isn't cheerful enough for the common room, lady", he answers. "But if you wish to know more, we should meet upstairs, in my bedroom. We shouldn't discuss any more details here."
"My, aren't you forward", she drawls.
He can't help but blush a bit. In that moment, he'd been so focused with the task at hand - he'd almost forgotten who he was talking to, exactly. For one, blessed moment, he'd forgotten the less rational part of his brain.
"I'm not that kind of man", he says, rigidly. "I only wish to talk."
Her eyes are sliding over him, in a lazy, self-assured manner that reminds him of a hungry cat, albeit for entirely different reasons than before.
"We'll see, won't we?"
Her tone is ripe with promise, her Southern accent making it all the worse, and he almost feels like he's going to swell up from her voice alone. But he grits his teeth, and heads upstairs, fully planning to make use of the basin full of cold water Bekka left out for him.
He is calm now. Much calmer. Much more composed. He stares out the window - onto Ravage's ugly, blighted landscape, trying to convince himself that he would never stoop so low as to desire a thief and a witch lover. But while the cold water has at least partially soothed his body, his mind is abuzz.
He doesn't want to admit that he cannot wait for her to come up the stars, knock on his door, and give him another one of her heavy-lidded stares. But he cannot allow this to continue. His mission is far more important than the simple pleasures of the flesh this woman could offer him. Yes, there's a far greater treasure laying just beyond his reach - one he will have, if only he brings down Ravage's spiteful church.
Bright herself will merely be his tool, acting in his stead, stealing and murdering and doing all the things he cannot do, lest he stains his reputation. The thought is both sobering and enticing for him, for one, wild moment, he imagines the sound of his name falling off her lips as he kisses the column of her pale throat. He almost feels her legs tightening around his hips--
The knock on his door almost startles him out of his reverie. He sighs through his nose, shutting his eyes so tightly he starts seeing tiny pinpoints of light behind his eyelids. Anything to cancel out the last mental picture, of Bright looking at him with those heavy-lidded eyes, trapping him into her smile just as surely as he'd trapped her under him. He sighs again.
"Do come in, please."
His voice is pleasant - but to his ears, right now, it sounds rough and scratchy. He forces a charming smile onto his mouth, just as Bright enters his room, her motions uncertain, her eyes shifting from the bed, to the basin, to the dresser, landing onto the chess table Bekka's left out to him.
It is time to don his mask, again.
They spend the entire afternoon together. It is both a torment and a delight, watching Bright incline her head just so, her eyes sparkling. Her hair is beautiful, curling around her cheekbones and swaying on her shoulders, a deeper shade of red compared to his own.
He's mindful of what he says, treading on glass, fearing for his own self control whenever she looks his way. It had been particularly difficult to deny her when she cocked her head and simply asked him if she should undress - in exchange for information, of course.
For him, it was beyond terrifying that he'd been on the brink of saying yes. He'd almost begged her to, in fact, right then and there, especially when her long, pale fingers had crawled over her belt, like she was going to unbuckle it.
It was a small miracle that he'd managed to hold steady, while telling her that he wasn't that kind of man. It wasn't a lie. He would never force a woman in his bed in exchange for something as petty as money or information - he never needed to. He didn't want her to think otherwise, either.
He'd only relaxed when her fingers left her belt, despite her sultry purr of "Are you sure?" sliding into his ears like poison.
Perhaps it was just bait. Perhaps she, too, wanted to know his worth.
Now they're both relaxed. She's sitting down in front of him, on the other side of his chess table, and her eyes are focused on one of the knights, deep in thought. Bringing down an entire religion is no easy task, and while he already had a clear enough idea of what he wanted her to do, she's far from having no opinions on the matter.
"My plan is to bring down the Church of Ravage. For this, I need your help."
He decides to blurt it out in one go. He doesn't do it clumsily, of course, rather he drawls it softly, looking at her intensely. Bright narrows her eyes at him, a corner of her mouth curling up - he wonders what that kind of expression means on her face.
"You'd hire me? To get information for you?"
She smiles now, self-satisfied, in an almost catlike manner.
"What makes you think I'm not a cultist myself, pretty boy?"
He smiles back, pleasantly, not at all perturbed.
"Well, you didn't stroll in the inn naked, for one."
Her smile turns into an impish grin.
"You have a good eye, bard. I'm not with the Church of Ravage. And I'm willing to help you..."
Her grin widens.
"... if you give me certain pieces of information in exchange."
He feels positively intrigued now, watching how her demeanour has changed from outright flirtatious to teasing and businesslike. He cannot help but admire her a bit - now he has the feeling that her mind is as sharp as her eyes. He leans in towads her, resting his elbows on the table.
"And what sort of information might you be interested in?"
"I'm interested in how you got to Ravage, pretty boy. You see, my witch and I are very interested in leaving."
She narrows her eyes for a second, as if considering something. He knows the next thing she says it's going to be a lie before she even says it.
"My witch encountered some problems as we were travelling through the South. She would really rather not go there again."
Oh, but even lies sound sweet when it's her voice speaking them out loud.
He does wonder what reason she would have for lying.
He's spent the entire afternoon with Bright, and she's lied multiple times - he saw it in the way she would always pause a little and curl up her nose before she did. He's made sure not to pry too much, but somehow, all of her lies revolved around that witch of hers. The witch would really rather not travel South. Why? She was uncomfortable. Why? A shrug, and a nod, followed by a meek I don't know, but I'd rather listen to her. Are you afraid of her? Of course not!, loud, almost a shout, so passionate that he's almost sure it's not a lie. But he reaches out anyway, trying to assure her that she's at no risk of being heard by anyone but himself - he knows how witches are like, and for all he knows Bright could be suffering abuse at the hands of hers.
She just shrugs off his concerns and laughs before changing topics.
He hasn't even met the witch in question, and already he despises her with a passion. Even more, he hates the thought of someone as nice as Bright possibly being blackmailed into obedience by a witch. He resolves to try and tear her off from that situation - it shouldn't be much of a problem to rid Bright of the witch once they've boarded on his ship. Or maybe he'll have her dropped into some cesspool somewhere.