#VERSE. ┊ sharpen your blade. harden your heart. ( TFOTA CROSSOVER. )

[thiefofcrows]

arches brow

@cruelprincae

Somehow, Kaz didn't even have to look his way to sense the way Cardan was looking at him. He managed to endure it for a few long minutes, waiting ... but eventually, he give in. ❝You really shouldn't stare,❞ Kaz rasped, finally casting a glance at him. ❝I think I've heard that it's impolite, apparently.❞

[thiefofcrows]

Plotted starter for @cruelprincae

    The first time Kaz had glimpsed one of the creatures was a dead one, as was his luck. It had been the strangest thing and, for a moment, Kaz’s mind had been reeling, trying to make sense of what he'd been seeing. Had he not looked closer, he may not have recognized the bartender Kobus Sieben. He’d merely worked in one of the Pubs and Kaz had a standing arrangement with him to glean useful secrets the man collected from the patrons who couldn’t keep their mouths shut after a few drinks.

   He now possessed an eerie, inhuman kind of beauty, even in death. His skin had clearly been a color Kaz never seen on a person before; his ears were pointed, and attached to his back were a pair of crumpled wings … it hadn’t made any sense, but there was no denying what he was seeing was indeed real. The disguise that had made him look human had been the trick and it had fooled him. It was as if the concept had entrapped Kaz’s mind — he’d needed to unravel the secrets of, not only how the trick had been done in the first place, but what these creatures were, where they’d come from. If they could disguise themselves so thoroughly without the aid of a tailor, what else were they capable of?

   He’d started with looking into the people that had seemingly materialized out of nothing one day, stepping off of a ship, arriving in a carriage from Saints knew where. These people had no contacts outside of that time frame, no one they’d known any longer than that — and, lo and behold, Kaz eventually found what  he was looking for. However, he’d also learned the hard way that he needed to protect himself against their will being forced upon him. Once he’d figured that out, getting information out of them became relatively easy, given how susceptible they were to bribes. They were glad to receive real kruge and, of course, they liked to drink. He’d made a deal with one in order to gain what they called The Sight, which allowed him to see their kind for what they really were, rather than being fooled by their disguises.

   They’d merely become one of his many contacts with which he would get information — and eventually, Kaz heard about the Prince that was seemingly walking among them. A Prince who had evidently escaped the burden of rule over a kingdom he’d never heard of, nor seen on any maps. Someone who could potentially become a King, someone who no doubt had a vast amount of knowledge and leverage that Kaz could use.

   He could see Pekka Rollin’s life, his livelihood, being swiftly demolished with precise, deliberate blows. He could see a path forged to finally rid the Dregs of Per Haskell’s authority, to take his place and never have to take another order from some old man who only ever wanted to drink, build model ships and talk about his glory days, rather than run a gang. After all, it was all thanks to Kaz that they were one of the most powerful gangs in Ketterdam; Per Haskell hadn’t even managed to put a decent roof over their heads, let alone lead them to any worthwhile gains.

   The Prince hadn’t even been difficult to find, in the end — he was one of the patrons that showed up at the Crow Club to drink copious amounts of alcohol and trick people out of their kruge. Not to mention, he was paying for all of that alcohol with glamored money, at least at the start. That in itself was something Kaz would have to put a stop to, regardless of any other intentions he had.

   After successfully arming himself as well as the bouncers against the enchantments the Prince would no doubt use to try to escape the situation, Kaz made his way to his desk, his cane thunk-ing against the wooden floor. He rested it against the inner edge of the desk, next to him and within easy reach if necessary … and, when the door swung open, his two bouncers on either side of Cardan, he leaned down to rest his hands atop his desk, watching as they crossed the room before forcing the Prince into a chair. He was glamoured, of course, but Kaz could see through it now.

  ❝Looks like your days of tricking my customers out of their kruge has come to an end. Normally I would say, given how much alcohol you buy when you’re here, that might make up for a portion of it, but ... I suspect there’s a fifty-fifty chance it isn’t real. Which means you’ve been stealing from me as well,❞ said Kaz, his rock salt rasp adding just the right amount of weight to his words, his dark eyes piercing, calculating. While he had certainly manipulated and cheated his way through a multitude of card games, that simply made it incredibly difficult to do it on his watch. Now, not even those who evidently used a kind of power unknown to most could get away with it.

    ❝So … you’re not leaving this office, not until we make a deal.❞

[thiefofcrows]

           While most would be completely enchanted by the disappearing coin, Kaz was not — or, at the very least, he did not seem to show it. It was real magic, which elicited something buried deep inside of him to stir with delight and curiosity. The nine year old boy he’d once been, eager for miracles, eager for the world to be a much kinder, more magical place than the much more cruel truth of what he’d experienced it to be. That boy was long gone, however; after all, he wasn't the one who'd kept Kaz alive all these years.

      The Prince’s point was made, but he suspected the conclusion Kaz had come to had not been what he’d intended; real enough to be deposited into the coffers, but … the one who supplied them had all the means to make it all simply vanish with ease. Real until it wasn’t, and he wasn’t keen on someone having that kind of control over the Crow Club’s finances. Whether he would do it or not was irrelevant — the fact that he could was more than enough.

          Kaz straightened with casual ease, listening as the Prince hurled his threats, his dark gaze flickering to the bouncers who stood on either side of him. Tension wound throughout their limbs as he’d caught them briefly sharing an anxious glance. He'd known the threats were coming and, given the ferocity of them, it only illustrated that the man was cornered and he very obviously did not like it. Kaz couldn't blame him — he wouldn't have liked it either, if their roles had been reversed. When one had as much power as the Fey did, however ... well, cornering them was really the only option to make a fair deal, in his opinion. As for the threats, he had no way of knowing yet if they were empty or not, but he obviously knew the other was capable of it. Regardless … Kaz had a reputation to maintain.

         He directed his gaze at the bouncers and gave a sharp nod towards the door. ❝Get out and lock the door behind you.❞ They both cast an uneasy glance at the man in the chair — they weren’t concerned with whether he’d hurt Kaz without their presence ... they knew that being left alone with Dirtyhands was a dangerous game. That was fine; it's exactly what he wanted them to think. ❝I won't tell you twice.❞ Evidently, it was more than enough to get them moving. Only after he heard the click of the lock and their retreating footsteps did he retrieve his cane and limp around the desk.

      He leaned against it, facing the Prince and, after leaning his cane against it as well, Kaz produced a coin seemingly from nowhere. Then he too made it vanish briefly before it reappeared between his fingers. He flipped it between his pointer and middle finger, then ran his hand over it, showing the seemingly blank coin. Then, Kaz tossed it into the air carelessly and caught it, the engraved details back again ... but now, it too was gone. He quirked his eyebrows with emphasis.

        ❝I know coin tricks too,❞ said Kaz. His tricks were sleight of hand, not real magic, but … he liked to think he was good enough for it to blur the lines a little. The smirk that colored his features conveyed nothing but an easy confidence, despite the full gravity of his knowledge. He hid it well, but he knew what he was dealing with — as well as a mortal who'd never set foot in their country was able, at least.

      While it wasn't exactly the same, he'd spent his entire life living on the razors edge of a knife on the streets of the Barrel. Learning to become something far beyond human himself, wrapping himself up in a legend, in order to maintain the privilege of breathing. Kaz was no stranger to unimaginable cruelty; he was playing with fire, but it was a fire he intended to tame.

      ❝I'm not trying to trick you into some unsavory deal that you'll regret — I realize these circumstances aren't exactly an ideal start for a partnership, but ... given what you are, can you really blame me for wanting to even out the playing field? ❞ Kaz tucked one hand into the pocket of his trousers whilst the other sought out the crows head of his cane. He smoothed his fingers over it idly, but his sharp, dark eyes never left the Prince's features. One brow quirked upward expectantly. ❝Are you finished spitting out threats so we can talk business? At least hear me out — I know you're running, hiding ... and, while I'm sure longevity has its perks, blindly running forever isn't a viable long term solution, is it? ❞

He ought to have known something was wrong when his attempt to gather magic, of inflicting his will on the two reasonably larger men who rounded behind him amid his drinking a particularly foul-tasting liquor, fell on a deaf man's ears and left them completely unaffected. Though it is not unheard of for mortals to possess a natural appulsion for magic which often comes with the ability to be able to see through the glamour of the Fae ( the gift of True Sight bestowed upon birth, they are known amongst the Folk and greatly despised for that exact reason ) few are those who actually possess it and thus, for his magic to bounce off of them and back to himself like a rubber ball thrown against a hard surface, is concerning, to say the least. He has had far too much to drink to wield magic, the Prince considers in an attempt at brittle reassurance. Perhaps he is not in any kind of trouble and the mortals are merely instructed to throw him out for he has nearly drank his way through the majority of their liquor.

However, when one mortal makes a grab for his arm while the other remains situated by his side, both leading him to a second floor he was not aware even existed up till now, rather than the exit door, Cardan is certain this is no longer the case. Whatever feeble hope he has managed to hold onto flakes faster than the wood of the old bar under the sharpness of his nails.

The further away he is led, the quieter the cheering and chatting of the crowd below reaches the sharp shell of his ears until the voices become little more than a hint of ghostly muttering. Black eyes rimmed in gold warily dart as in to take in his surroundings; the minute decoration of the walls, the furniture surrounding them, each door and window of the narrow hallway within which he navigates ― he burns each and every detail within the walls of his mind for he is in an unfamiliar space and should the occasion call for him to run, knowing the way out would be of absolute advantage. It in the midst of glaring at a particularly intriguing door that Cardan catches a glimpse of red from around one of the bouncer's necks, meticulously hidden behind layers of clothing yet briefly poking out with each step he takes; Rowan berries, the Prince is soon to identify them― there lies the reason for which his glamour did not affect them. They are protected from it.

The only remaining question is, who protected them. Though mortals can be crafty and resourceful in their attempts to outsmart the Folk, these two hardly look the part. They do not even seem to acknowledge that the person they are leading to. . . wherever it is, they are leading him anyway, is a far cry from a mortal himself. Like the remainder of their species, they are oblivious to what lies right underneath their noses and all Cardan has to do is take advantage of that.

Being raised under Balekin's roof, he has grown exceedingly good at spotting one's weaknesses.

Once the pair comes to a stop before an elegantly crafted hardwood door, one of them makes the horrid mistake of letting go of his arm in order to open the said door, and that is when Cardan deems it best to strike. In one swift motion, a manicured hand comes to grab around the bouncer's throat, on the rowan berries, but before he has the chance to yank it away, the other, careless bouncer retrieves hold of his arm and instead pushes him through the door, into a meticulously organised office. He stumbles into the space, and from behind him, the Prince can hear the hard sound of skin hitting on the skin, as though one of the bouncers hit the other on the back of the head. The office itself reminds him an awful lot of his brother's strategy room, filled to the brim with parchments and notes where Balekin spends the majority of the night scheming away ― the one he was never allowed to step into, least of all be punished for it. Except, instead of the eldest Greenbriar seated before the grand oak desk, another is seated; a boy, who Cardan presumes cannot be any older than himself, with a golden crow cane instead of a sword and rough features that promise nothing good. A manicured brow arches high beneath the circlet of his brow and his lips part as though to voice his question, but before he can, the bouncers roughly shove him upon the wooden chair facing the desk and situate themselves by his sides, surveying his every motion. And if Fae feels his tail awkwardly crushed between his back and the wood, his face betrays none of that; rather he maintains a calm ― one can say bored even, should they not be familiar with the way the Prince copes when nervous ― demeanour, with his lips curling to form the slightest of smiles.

❛ Real or fake, none of it matters. ❜ Muses Cardan with a shrug of his shoulders. Clasping his hand into a soft fist, he gathers whatever magic his drunken mind can master right this instance and paints the picture of a small, golden kruge coin within the closed palm of his hand. He can feel the magic pulsing away within his hand as though vibrating into existence before he altogether releases his hold upon it, and when his long, slender digits open to reveal what is inside, the coin lays open his hand, real as any other coin he has seen circulating amongst the citizens of his city. His other hand takes hold of the coin between the index finger and his thumb, and with a slight tilt of his head, the Prince sends it rolling towards the boy who, should his claims be true, owns the space they are both currently in. It rolls like any other; the glint of the room's lights catches upon the metal of his surface, echoing as it continues to glide towards the other but before it can fall upon his grasp, a wave of Cardan's hand has it disappearing out of sight, as though it never existed to begin with. A mere parlour trick, any Fae would happen to peer into their conversation would call it, yet enough to get his point across. ❛ Magic is the only thing real, not that it is any of your concern. I may be thieving your delicate crowd, but I assure you, the coins I give you are quite real. ❜

You may have the Sight, but I see through your rotten excuses, he means to convey yet he says none of it, for he is a guest in this space and guests ought not to offend the host. Not unless he wishes to face the consequences of it. However, all pretence is soon to lift when the delicate threat lands on the table, a plain and brutal violation of the unspoken peace between them.

Who is he to even attempt to trap a Faerie ― and a royal one at that ― within a bargain he wishes not to make ? He is a mortal; A nought; A nothing, and yet, he brags and gloats as though he is the one in power. As though, the possession alone of a shred, a semblance of the Sight ― for judging on the arrogant matter the boy speaks Cardan doubts he was granted the gift since the moment he took his first breath, least of all had more than brief interactions with the Folk, all of which ought to have been lesser to just carelessly give out power like that ― makes him consequential. He ought to curse him for his offence, a voice that resembles Balekin's whispers in the back of his head, to teach him a lesson of how humble mortals should make themselves when in the presence of a creature superior to themselves, but the thought startles him, horrifies him even.

Too long is the time he has spent wearing his brother's skin in order to appeal to him, to please him, that the cruelty of his methods comes naturally to him. Although, Balekin's tactic of intimidation might be of handy, right now, when he needs an out.

Drunken fool, the voice hisses, but Cardan pays it little matter.

Instead, he wills his sharp features to harden and black eyes rimmed in gold, cold, and unreadable, glint dangerously as they narrow upon the boy's equally as dark hues. ❛ You dare try to force my hand on a bargain ? ❜ The Prince spits, his voice low, almost like the hiss of a snake. His tail coils from where it is meticulously coiled around his waist, hidden under his shirt and away from plain sight for that, he can not school to mask the enormity of his emotions. It betrays far too easily and thus, it is better to remain hidden. ❛ You may see me, mortal boy, but believe me when I say, it does very little to your favour right this instance. In fact, I ought to claw your eyes out as a consequence of your offence, so the sight of me will be the last you shall ever see, be it of Folk, or human. I could curse you into madness, so the sight of Faeries, dreadful and horrible will be the only thing you shall ever see again. That should teach you a valuable lesson, I trust. ❜

All blank threats, for saying he can do something does not necessarily mean he will ― not when the sight of an ensorceled mortal still haunts his memory from the days spent in his brother's estate. But the mortal does not know such, and thus, it is a playable card. The only card he has, for that matter, which he plans to take advantage of to the fullest. Well, maybe he can claw an eye out. But just one, merely to level on the offence.