#// sam nearly turning into a stereotypical chihuahua barking at a saint bernard lmao

[fishermcn]

Perhaps Soot has already grown accustomed to the stony silence of the hunter, even in the meager few minutes that had passed since his coarse proposal and their exchanging of gold coins. Perhaps the unkempt man is simply too preoccupied with the time-honored task of quickly but thoroughly examining each tool or implement those stained hands of his unerringly find and stow away to notice the object of her attentions. Whatever the case may be, Soot stiffens at the sudden breaching of the quiet done by her question, long fingers nearly wrapped around one of those very same bombs but stilling as he spares the hunter a confused and somewhat irritated look.

"What?" Those flinty eyes narrow in then on his bomb held now in her hands, and nearly a dozen different emotions smash the relative stone of his gaze as they widen. Half of them are variations of alarm and concern, but by the furrow of his brow and the sudden set of his jaw he's chosen instead to grasp for the other, more incendiary feelings that likewise lurk there. "Reckon ya might've knew better, not pickin' up any old thing lyin' around. Maybe ya ain't half so keen as I figured." Oh, but there's a fire seemingly stoked now in Soot's belly, and it seems as though the staggering difference in both stature and temperament are no longer a matter of concern given the way in which he stomps over and bares his teeth up at her for another remark.

Then that now cutting gaze flickers from her expression to her calloused hands, to the scars lining them, and whatever he might have intended to fling at her face is extinguished on his tongue. A stained thumb brushes over a small burn just on the outside of a pointer finger as though without thought as those now calmer eyes trace the similar shapes fire-etched into her darker skin, and Soot lets a rattling breath slip from between his teeth with a weary sigh.

"Aye, I do. Though ya might've asked first." There's no true bite to the remark compared to the fangs he'd seemed keen to sink into her moments prior. His gaze settles on just how carefully she's holding the bomb, his nose twitches as though recognizing a familiar scent, and the already thinning thunderhead of hostility is snuffed out entirely in favor of surprise, then blatant curiosity alighting on his gaunt features. "Thought I were th'only one. Strange chance, meeting someone who knows their way 'round black powder'n fuses."

In the light of this recognition, in the loosening of a tension to his person that seemed almost a permanent fixture, it's plain he has more than a single question in return for the hunter regarding their shared craft. Yet whatever Soot might've asked is silenced by a rolling peal of thunder so fierce it shakes the tavern, and when he blinks and shakes his head that cool composure has once more slipped back firmly into place.

"Should get a move on." Carefully, carefully, Soot plucks the bomb from her hand and places it back onto the makeshift workbench he's turned a once dull table into. "Got what I needed. Reckon now we go'n fetch them things o'yours."

STORMY EYES ROAM THE length of her. She welcomes them. One must know what they are paying for, and it’s a pretty sum he has to give for her obedience. Alizebeth takes in his scrutiny without pride and without shame. She knows precisely what she is; sharp, well-trained, a blade to be pointed at evil. He looks without shame, too, only a hint of discomfort as his neck craned to follow her when she rose. His face tapers to a fine point under his straw hair, flashing with thoughts as momentary as the crackle of lightning that batters the village.  She doesn’t bother guessing at what those thoughts are. She doesn’t care.

His inspection does not find her wanting. To the room, then. She trails the stranger like a hound through the cramped tavern, wide frame and long strides parting the crowd effortlessly. Her gaze is fixed on his shabby hat, following its sagged point through to the halls upstairs. The wood creaks under the weight of her armor. There a certain ease returns to her, mindless of the skittering vermin. She shivers as if to shake off the discomfort and noise of the lower floor. Now that the cacophony in her ears has dulled, the smell of wet leather and ale abated, she can attune her senses to him more closely. His voice is ragged, weak. His steps are quiet, trinkets clinking in the pockets of his frayed clothes. Behind it all is that familiar scent, sharp and acrid; black powder. Good. She thinks she could track him blind.

Rituals and riverbends, her employer mentions. Sounds more like the work of Men than her usual quarry. Still, she listens intently; know thine enemy, they say, and she isn’t about to let her employer’s knowledge on the subject of their strange prey fall on deaf ears. It worries her, relying on a stranger, putting her life on a line she can’t quite make out. In her mind a dozen creatures of the sea dwell, their traits, habits and weaknesses as natural to her as to be instinct. None of them seem to be the culprits of these particular doings. He opens the door at the end of the dusty hall.

Alizebeth lingers in the shoddy doorway, amber eyes surveying the mess inside. Everywhere there are vials, pouches and satchels. He moves through it like a snake in the grass, as though he can see through leather bags and linen precisely what he’s looking for. When Soot turns to hand her the jar of beeswax the hunter steps in, two strides of her long legs enough to close the distance in the small, dingy quarters. This time, his words go unheard. She doesn’t look at him as she places the beeswax in the satchel hanging at the small of her back, one gauntleted hand running the length of the rickety table and the collection of scrap metal, knicknacks, tools and other paraphernalia atop it. She carefully picks up one of the bombs stashed at the corner, holds it up to the gray light that shines weakly through a dirty window. Smaller than her own, with a short fuse. He must know what he’s doing, or else he would be dead.

“ You make these? ”