[center][img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/220419/d955e440c95ac6f731dc5e649ad359eb.png[/img][/center][hr]Lilann listened carefully as Aleka took down her information. In a way it almost felt like she was given more than she gave, something she knew better than to believe, especially when it came to information. Genesian, Asvari, the mysterious and allegedly irascible Lady Silvantris. These were things she’d remember. 

[color=skyblue]“Well,”[/color] she said. [color=skyblue]“It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s tried to strangle me, all the better if it’s only over my profession.”[/color]

Her attention split then. The lion’s share went to Kyreth, to his own exchange with Aleka. Part of her lamented having doffed her mask; his cover name was sloppy, but the way he slid so easily into the lie of their partnership would have had her beaming with pride. Instead, she shot him a good-natured scowl cracked with a grin, to help sell the story. Smart boy. 

A liar too, intentionally or by nerves. But it was clear to her—and likely to many of the others—that he’d neglected to mention being an aetherborn. His glowing freckles had outed him to her last night, and while the ample light of the Bounty House didn’t make him quite so radiant, she doubted he could pass as your average Tainted for very long. 

Not that anyone should want that. 

Nonetheless, if that was his angle, she was committed. Their false-partnership was about to be ratified, so she figured she ought to do her part to keep it up. Kytheth Bertasson. She’d remember that, too. 

On the other end, Cerric finally answered the question that had led her to the house at sword-point. It was an excellent story, and one she didn’t buy for a second. Cerric was a skilled orator; he described things in a deliberate way, he put emphasis where it mattered, fluffed his language at the right times. In her experience, the most frightening, gruesome, and terrible parts of a story were often the most embellished. 

Did she believe in demons? Of course—she was Tainted. Did she believe this [i]Rancor[/i] to be the spawn of a warlord's dying fury? [i]Eh[/i]. 

Cerric didn’t seem to, either. Normally she would have considered it poor form to discredit one’s own story, but he wasn’t speaking to a tavern of half-drunk adventurers, or an alley of slighted gamblers. They were future employees. No reason to lie to them—their wasted time came out of Mystralath’s wallet, after all. 

Still, as he dropped the melting sculpture into Ceolfric’s hands, she couldn’t help but giggle. If they’d come all this way for the demon to be nothing more than a local fairytale, she’d be disappointed, but likely not more than him. That was enough.