[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/4zEf6qn.png[/img]
[sub][@Rune_Alchemist][@Aerandir][@Guilty Spark][/sub][/center]
The Handler was late.

Leaning against the wall beside the shuttered window, a pale-skinned man drew a shard of flint out from the pockets of his coat. He held it between his index and middle fingers, before striking it with a heavily scratched ring around his thumbs. Sparks, bits of light in an otherwise dim room, scattered and fell into the bowl of a polished tobacco pipe. A mixture of foreign herbs and leaves, dried and shred, smouldered upon contact with the sparks. They glowed red as he breathed it in, then turned gray as he released a faintly nutty smoke out. The man’s black eyes gazed at the other two in the room, not focusing particularly on either one. He felt the itch in his scars, but did not respond to their cries of revenge or retreat, and instead, remained where he was. Arms folded, flint in his pockets once more, a mahogany pipe cradled before his lips, his vision growing hazier as smoke filled the room and found no easy escape.

Another tinge of emotion. Pity this time, as those sweetly-barbed words left the pale woman’s mouth. She was pale like snow, droplets of blood where her irises laid. Tone irreverent and confident; in an age of bodies warped by the well of leylines, one could never be sure if what looked like a child truly was one. But perhaps such disrespect could be expected. This was Arskel, the dead end of the trail others named the High Road, and this was the Wayfarers’ Guild, the last chance for any aspiring adventurer, any wayward criminal, to find employment with their craftless skills. With no Handler here, what were they to do but turn on each other?

Qantz-Farron let out a small, mirthless laugh. His gaze settled on the bladed lady.

[b]“We’re not going to get along, but I pray we get out of each other’s ways,”[/b] he said, voice as viscous as a snake’s venom. [b]“You’ve a name, or do you prefer ‘girl’?”[/b]