#languageofsuffering

[demolitionsman]

@languageofsuffering asked: ∗ 52﹕ sender  takes  a  [ punch / stab / bullet ]  meant  for  receiver .

Wylan didn't mean to stiff the shopkeep. He honestly didn't - this was the first stand he'd seen in ages where the price was written out instead of a sign with just normal numbers on, and he had asked the price, in his most casual, just didn't see the sign way. He'd asked!

He just didn't realize the man had said a rounded number, one slightly lower, while pointing to the sign. He thought he'd paid right, he did, he was just so stupid about it. Wylan had seen the anger build, didn't know what to say, until it burst into the shopkeeper's fist. It wasn't the first time he'd felt so pathetic, but it was a new low, in public, with Kaz around to hear him yelp and flail, fall to the floor - but it was Kaz, then, at his side as stoic as ever. And it was Kaz who jerked, chin jutting over just so with a jawstrike aimed for Wylan's eye.

"I - Kaz?" He whispered. "I didn't mean to, I really didn't-"

[therooftopsofketterdam]

planed starter for @languageofsuffering

A deep breath filled her lungs with the cold, crisp air of winter. The skies were so clear out in the country of Kerch that it left Inej longing for the widened rodes of Ravka. The endless trails the Suli caravans that followed from town to city to the borders into Fjerda and Shu Han. Her hand wandered to the knife sheathed right over her heart, Sankt Petyr, the name left her lips, escaping from her lips as a whisp of smoke. Her first protector, the first knife she ever named... the knife Kaz gave her when he taught her to fight. Her hand held the leather wrapped handle gently as the steady thump of Kaz's cane interrupted the silence between them.

The ground around them was frozen as they made their way to the top of the hill, fields lay barren, the trees had shed their leaves and the Saints left the land to sleep and rest, awaiting the warmth of spring. Despite the sun and bright blue sky, it was freezing, tufts of snow and ice glittered with the sunlight while the silence continued to stretch on between them.

Inej had arrived in Ketterdam to deliver a pair of slavers to the Council to recieve their judgement when a message intercepted her departure. Written in the neat scrawl that belonged to Kaz Brekker, he'd ask for her help on a job. The Suli wasn't one to deny him, especially now that they tried to be whatever they were. It still felt vulnerable and new, but Inej was glad to be close to him again. That, however, didn't explain why they took a barge to Belent and then continued on foot and wagon ride until they reached a small settlement sorrounded by nothing but farmland.

As they reached the top of the hill Inej stopped next to Kaz, who seemed to be frozen. In front of them lay miles and miles of fields, unkempt and overgrown by straw like shrubs and bushes who seemed too stubborn to give into the cold onset of winter. Gnarled fruit trees seemed to form a small orchard around a modest farm house and a spacious barn, but the fence was old and broken in places as if this place had been left unattended for a long time.

Inej took a step closer towards Kaz, her shoulder nearly touching his and she could feel his warmth through the fabric of her dark teal cloak. "What are we really doing here, Kaz?" She asked, her voice was soft as to not startle him from his thoughts. Whatever this place was... it held the ghost of the past and Inej was not about to let Kaz get haunted by old fears again. They both still struggled enough with their demons as it were.

[princguard-a]

❛ you don’t have to keep me company, i’m fine by myself. ❜ 

&. 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝, 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.

accepting @languageofsuffering

Lark crossed her arms over her chest and gave a shrug of her shoulders. She knew very well that Kaz Brekker didn't need coddling, on the contrary--he seemed almost seething at the thought, but that wasn't why she was there.

" I'm sure you are." She replied as her emerald gaze surveyed the other in attempt to ascertain if there was any injury he could be hiding.

" You and yours have the run of the palace for the most part." She informed him as she smoothed out her Inferni kefka. It felt strange wearing it again, but with the Darkling running amok, the crown needed loyal Grisha and she would rally behind Nikolai.

" Just don't cause trouble for Nikolai. He has been gracious enough to allow you to stay." She went on, though she didn't voice what she truly wanted to say. Don't pickpocket the nobles. A glorified babysitter, that is what she was at the moment.

[korolnichevoya]

News of Nikolai's death would reach Kaz fast, almost immediately  —  within a day, or two, of them beginning to spread, there'd be a letter arriving in his office, with an, at least to those delivering the message to him, unfamiliar seal, and he'd have to unamusedly shoo his overly curious, nosy, crew members away, lest they can ask more questions about contents of letters that don't concern them or make ridiculous jokes about far-away aficionados that don't exist. He’d make sure that the door is shut firmly and he's alone before, at last, he'd break the wax and open the envelope. He'd quickly read through the letter and, for a moment, a few seconds, albeit they’d feel much longer in that moment, everything would slow, as though all the clocks stop moving at once and the world freezes to a temporary halt. 

He was young, he'd think to himself, then angrily shake the unwelcome, silly thought away — aren't they all? When did age ever matter to death? When did it ever show mercy to those not yet ready to die? How, he'd find himself wondering next, but he can guess that much already, had seen enough at Rentveer to guess that much. For several long moments, he'd simply sit there, in complete silence, then he'd rise and take his time with kindling the fireplace and burn the letter, as he does with most of them, so they can never fall into the wrong hands, not needing to preserve what’s already locked tight in his memory after reading it once, and watch expressionlessly as the crackling golden flames slowly consume the paper and reduce the paper to ashes whilst grimly pouring himself and downing a glass of the whiskey he always keeps on his desk. To Nikolai, a surprising, yet reliable, friend ally, someone Kaz had come to like the company of more than he'd ever admit. 

( can you tell i'm a sucker for their dynamic )

MY MUSE IS DEAD. TELL ME HOW YOURS IS DEALING WITH IT

'he was young, he'd think to himself'. hi that part killed me and i love this thank you

[themerchliing]

continued from here - @languageofsuffering

While it was true they could go anywhere — and Wylan was interested in visiting Novyi Zem at some point — he didn't particularly feel the need to do so right away. He wanted to be here to see the aftermath of their actions on Ketterdam. On his father.

"I'm done running away." It was a decision he'd reached a while ago; ever since meeting Kaz and the other Crows. Now that he had a group that he could confidently call his friends, his family, Wylan felt like he could do anything.

Turning his attention to where Kaz's gaze lingered, soft brown eyes — once considered too soft by some — watched the fog pass over the inky depths. When he first arrived in the Barrel, this very same sight would have set him on edge, reminding Wylan that he didn't belong here. It was too cold, too uninviting, a far cry from warm hearths, cushy armchairs, and hot tea at regular intervals. But now, even if it still wasn't a sight he felt fond of, he was used to it. He'd adapted. It was a scene that no longer sent a chill of fear to run up his spine or make him constantly lament every small comfort of privileged life.

"...Do you think it's possible to take everything from him? To leave him with nothing?" Wylan didn't have to mention that he was, of course, referring to his father; he was at the top of the list of people they needed to deal with. He shifted on the spot, a hand tugging down his coat sleeve, an action to keep him busy as he spoke.

"It's just whenever I feel like I can hope, he always has another plan to fall back on, another council member to blackmail..." It was like Jan Van Eck had these limitless defenses — when one part of the fortress crumbled, he fled to the inner sanctum to gather his strength while sending out his lackeys to rebuild the broken parts.

[mvndrvke]

@languageofsuffering ( continued )

Harij has grown used to Kaz in his own way. If he's honest, he'd disliked him when he'd first gotten to Ketterdam. But the more he'd observed him, the more familiar he'd gotten with life here, the more those feelings had faded. He can't say there's trust there, but he respects him. He hopes-- foolishly, perhaps-- that Kaz holds the same sentiment towards him.

"Stay here," he says. "As long as I can, at least. It's not safe for me in Shu Han. They'll be looking for me there. I'm hoping I can disappear here. I won't risk being caught and returned to Ravka. I can make myself useful to the group, if that's what you're worried about."

[therooftopsofketterdam]

The blood caking his shirt was worrisome and painfully obvious. His whole body language screamed of pain. The way he stood and gripped the table, the way in which his leg held a slight tremor. Inej was a thief of secrets and Kaz was the one to teacher her how to read people... the rest she picked up through practice. Worry rose in her as she watched him battle his demons, afraid to move closer and supressing the impulse to do so.

Kaz was bleeding, the staines deepened and darkened with every passing heartbeat, spreading over his vest and shirt like a map revealed. They would need to fetch a medik in order to get him fixed... Inej supposed she could try but there was no saying if Kaz would even let her, let alone admit to his wounds not when he was wound up wire tight.

His words, however, suprised her. "A gang in Zierfoort? That doesn't sound like them. Pretentious and arrogant, but they've never been team players before... at least not since..." Not since only months ago when she officially had joined the dregs... When Kaz had ensured her freedome from the menagerie. When he'd given her a knife and a fighting chance at life. No, she couldn't just stand here and let him bleed.

A crash made her flinch and take a step back as she watched specs of amber liquid slosh on the floor, shards glittering in the fire light. Sudden noises, the smell of liquor, it permiated her mind and made her vision blurr. A sense of dread filled her as she fought the memories rising alongside the shadows that seemed to be her eternal captors. Gilded chains and bells clasped on her feet, a whisp of nothing to cover the vital part of her body and spots painted on dark skin to make it look like the markings of the lynx that Tante Heleen had dubbed her.

"That wasn't your fault, Kaz." Inej blinked, willing the sensations away. Kaz was hurting and something in her couldn't bear the thought of it. "The Saints have called him home. He will be kept far from pain." She dipped her head, placing her hand against her forehead then touching it to her chest and laying the hand flat over her collar bone as she whispers a quick prayer in her native tongue. A passing ritual that the Suli bestowed on to their dead and dieing as they send them on their travels to the great beyond. "You have to get these wounds seen to." She looked around, trying to locate his cane but couldn't see it. Had it been lost during the fight? With a sigh she pulled up a chair, deeming it to be a good start.

Even without all of the blood that was sticking to his clothes, barely even visible to the eye against the dark hues of the fabrics it had seeped into, the black of his trousers and a dress shirt kept in a murky shade of grey so heavily saturated it didn't look much different from them, but nevertheless there, damp and distracting, being his own, without the added, unwelcome obstacle of what would've been a significant loss of blood, it bordered on a miracle that Kaz had made it all the way back to his small office in the Slat, was still standing upright, and, if his body was any judge of his physical condition, he wouldn't be able to much longer if he kept going this way, subtle warnings he, as always, adamantly ignored. His leg ached in a way it hadn't in a while, a searing, constant pain, as though a blaze had ignited beneath his flesh and the fire was rapidly spreading through his tendons, eating away at already damaged nerves and bones, making every movement a tedious, painful one that, without him even realising it, had teeth clenching, freshly acquired wounds required treatment, were still open and oozing blood to join the accumulation of it already clinging to his skin, figuratively and literally. But, for now, he didn't seem particularly fazed by any of it, kept still where he was standing by the desk, back to the door, eyes shut as the familiar emotions of anger and frustration rose within him like water coming to a boil in a too-full kettle, threatening to overflow any second, fingers clenching so firmly on the edge of the wide warehouse door serving as an improvised tabletop he could've likely broken it clean off had he tried, given it just a little more effort. Damn it.

He knew Inej was there, he always did, whether he saw her or not, had already caught a glimpse of her in the spot in his office she'd somehow claimed as hers in recent months when he'd entered and, while he hadn't heard her move, or even approach him on soundless feet, he could feel the subtle shift in the air where she stood, could sense her directly behind him. He hadn't spoken yet, and neither had she, until, at last, her voice tore through the pressing silence that lingered within the room, a voice he felt strangely drawn to like a moth to flame, a voice that, at least for a very small, short-lived moment, cleared away the clutter within his mind, an unwanted, peculiar thought that he ignored, before, several seconds later, he answered, a slight, angry strain to the grating tone of his voice, " The Razorgulls are doing business with a gang over in Zierfoort now. It was an ambush. "

That wasn't all there was to the story of what had transpired over the course of the past hour, but he decided to leave it at that, for now, straightening himself, near-black eyes shifting across the table towards the bottle of liquor, a fine Kerch brandy manufactured in a small town north of Ketterdam, he always kept there, prior to his grip on his desk loosening and a gloved hand extending towards it, and, upon realising that there was little of the liquid left within, giving it a sudden rough shove that sent it clattering to the floor, glass shattering on the wooden surface of it.

A pause, jaw clenching so hard he could crack a tooth, and then Kaz spoke again, " . . . We lost a man. "

[demolitionsman]

@languageofsuffering answered: ❛  i can’t  —  they’d kill me if i told you.  ❜

“ If you want me to understand, you’re gonna have to be a little more specific, Wylan. ” Kaz’s patience was waning, rapidly, and if he had to ask Wylan the same question one more time only to receive the same vague, pointless answers, he might just go berserk and give whoever was threatening him a run for their money.

Granted, he already had a good guess as to what was going on, nothing escaped Kaz Brekker’s notice, but he needed confirmation, or at least some semblance of it, needed more details, something to go off before he could act, and if he couldn’t get it from Wylan, he’d get it elsewhere, through different means, but it’d be a significantly easier and faster feat if the merchling just spoke already.

Uneven steps carried him closer to the other, his cane a continuous thudding against creaky wooden floorboards, the serried lines of his brows furrowed ever so slightly in question, anticipation, deep brown eyes narrowed and lowering to catch Wylan in their line of sight, expectantly — it was clear that Kaz was done asking, he was 𝒅𝒆𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 answers,

“ Who would kill you if you told me? ”

"I - I can't, they'll -" His mind had seen it all, seen enough to fill in the blanks. What they would do to him, or even worse, what they might do to Jesper, or Kaz, or Inej ... He shivered, slamming his fists to his temples to try and drive out the images. It was all more than enough. His body was already aching, sleeves stained with blood, and if his ribs took another hit? It was already hard enough to breathe.

His wrists were so red they were bleeding in spots, the dark bruising too covered by the welts for him to even notice at this point. His eyes were too tired, He wasn't sure where he was. He'd been moved, yes... perhaps by Jesper, maybe? He couldn't recall, only knowing there was a haze when something warm was there, and his mind gave up, darkening. Perhaps he had slept, or just blacked out, and now Kaz was there, talking to him in that way that left so little room for argument.

"I... stadwatch. They were dressed like stadwatch. But... their guns looked more like what Jesper uses, I.." He shook his head as wildly as the ache in his neck could bare, hands clutching at his temple. "You can't, they'll kill you, too. I can't, I can't anymore."

[princguard-a]

Lark glanced around the slat. She remained quiet as she took it in. So this is where the Dregs resided. Not that it really mattered now that her ex-boss and his gang had been dealt with. Now she found herself in the employ of Kaz Brekker. Even that did not matter to her.

Lark crossed her arms over her chest. " What will you have me do?" she finally asked as she pivoted to face Kaz. There was no need for pleasantries. If she was hired for work, she would see it done. It was better than thinking about what she endured in Ravka. She couldn't return. Not yet.

" I assume you have something for me to do, is that why you've hired me? "

@languageofsuffering

[princguard-a]

❛ people like us don’t get to decide when we’re done. ❜

A deepening frown protruded on Lark's expression. As much as she didn't like hearing Kaz's words, she conceded to the fact that they weren't wrong. Both have endured, and now are in a position which would be difficult to just simply decide they were done. Kaz was the king of the Barrel, and she served the King and Queen of Ravka. There was no retirement, not until the grave. " ...I hate the fact that you're absolutely right, Brekker." @languageofsuffering

[mvndrvke]

@languageofsuffering ( continued )

Inej regards Kaz with slightly narrowed eyes. She's known him long enough to know that he keeps his plans-- and his emotions-- close to his chest. To know them would be to know the true Kaz Brekker, the one without defenses, and it's not something easily given. Trust is earned, and while Inej is confident that he trusts her, there's a difference between trusting someone to keep you alive and trusting someone with your life.

"No," she says in response to his cryptic reply, voice quiet but firm. "The others might be willing to trust you blindly, but that doesn't mean none of us are owed an explanation. I could help you better if I knew what the plan was. You ask for everything and give nothing."

[korolnichevoya]

HE LEANS himself comfortably against the nearby desk , looking entirely at ease , even like he owns the place . he holds his hands in front of him and his head tilts at the quandary kaz presents him with .

❝ well firstly , i'd have hired a FABRIKATOR . why risk it ? ❞ it's a flippant response and one nikolai knows kaz absolutely does not want . which gives him its own amusement . ❝ but barring that - - - pick the lock . no safe is unbreachable . ❞

Or, perhaps, he simply liked the rough scent of coal smoke and the thrill of the ever-present risk of losing his treasured ( and surely expensive ) frock coat to greedy, thieving hands at every single street corner he passed — people famously did, otherwise Ketterdam wouldn't be the bustling hot spot for tourists seeking an adventure and seafarers needing a temporary place to dwell and find entertainment and pleasure alike that it was. There were many places the king privateer could lose the sparse money of the Ravkan crown here, which Kaz would all too gladly name if he one, was one of the exaggerative, self-declared tourist guides one could find on the Lid and in every other typically busy area on the Staves and two, wasn't solely interested in filling up his own coffers with money. Therefore, the Crow Club was a good enough ( in fact, the best ) place to start and leave a few coins at, and Nikolai better not think for even a moment that the drink in front of him would be on the house just because they'd worked together in the not all too long ago past.

Which only led to another question that had been circling Kaz's mind ever since the man had stepped foot through his door — what did he want from him now? Surely he hadn't come only for a friendly chat and a drink, although he, admittedly, wouldn't entirely put it past Sturmhond to do exactly that.

A trace of amusement flitted across barren features at Nikolai's query, turning the corners of his mouth upwards for the briefest moment. While Kaz wasn't necessarily one for tradition, the conventional did serve it's a purpose, could work in one's favour. A person who always took the same route home, day for day, could easily be robbed, a person who always ordered the same drink at every bar they went to, could easily be poisoned, a person who always followed the same routine, could easily be figured out, was predictable in all their movements. For all the things the Bastard of the Barrel and the rumoured bastard of the Lantsov reign had in common, whether they both liked that or not, this was where they differed — Kaz thought like a THIEF, saw the world from the perspective of one, whereas Nikolai thought like . . . well, a king hiding who he truly was behind the facade of a privateer.

“ A man uses the same combination on his safe, his wife's birthdate, for years. ” He started, “ Someone who's after his money gains knowledge of that, plans to rob his mansion while the family is out, but on the night he finally makes his move, the combination suddenly has changed — it's now the daughter's birthdate, but the thief doesn't know that, didn't even consider the possibility of it changing because it never has, for as long as the merch has owned that safe. What does he do? ”

[demolitionsman]

"You... you don't want Jesper to make sure?"

Wylan glanced up through his messy fringe to see people tripping over their toes to get away from them. He couldn't blame them. He understood; Kaz had managed to wreck the man's health with one vial of an irritant powder. It had to be scary if you weren't used to shopping at places where knocking over a vial of powder might accidentally start a fire. Yet Kaz had lit a match to that man's health so quickly.

He could get why they were scared of Kaz. Even before all this, the man's reputation was warranted. He'd seen a few stray people scurry from Kaz before, and after this, it made sense for more who had bore witness to do the same. He got that and understood the running from Kaz, and he was just the shadow.

It still set him on edge, seeing people run from the area he stood in. He shuddered.

"I don't know how he knew," Wylan said. The man pegged him so fast, jumped on the chance to pull the wool over Wylan's eyes, and laugh at his blind faltering. "I thought you and Jesper were the only ones who knew. I... you know, because you're Kaz and I-I told Jesper because, well, he was making fun of that passport you got me and I had ... I needed to know what it was so, he knows. But no one else. I didn't think this could happen, it won't happen again - I thought...."

He cut himself off, staring at Kaz's form. He seemed so serious, so sure of himself in a way that Wylan couldn't understand. How did Kaz manage to hold himself up so high, so tall and sure of everything? The world around them constantly felt in flux, and Kaz still seemed like a steady rock among the discordant waves.

"I haven't seen a shop like that with prices written out," He tried to explain. Wylan shifted, digging the pack into his chest with a tight grip. "I've always been able to shop just fine, I really was. I... I'm supposed to be smart."

The pained, panicked screaming and moaning from the shopkeeper continued on in the background as they made their way away from the stand, but Kaz didn't pay any mind to it, didn't even as much as cast one last glance in the injured man's direction — he was on his own now, as he had been all along, but Kaz would find him again if need be, if he really was stupid enough to not heed his advice to leave the city as quickly as possible, but they rarely were, not after experiencing the ruthless extent of Kaz's violence and madness firsthand. Nobody crossed Dirtyhands twice, and whoever did, didn't live, at least that was how the stories whispered about him went and enough of them were true. No matter what the vendor did now, Kaz wanted to be as far away from the stall as possible in case the chemicals currently fusing on the ground decided to form a combustible, explosive concoction and blow half the market, as well as the shopkeeper, to pieces, which would only rid Ketterdam of him faster than Kaz could hope.

Only once, the clinical gaze of dark-hued eyes took in their surroundings as the two of them put more and more distance between themselves and the now destroyed stand and howling vendor, strayed to the crowd around the pair — some people were staring at them, some in shock, some in trepidation, others seemed to have overcome those emotions already and were going about their day as normal, as though nothing had happened, likely accustomed to the constant displays of violence in the streets of the Barrel. One thing they all had in common, though, was that they parted around Wylan and him as they passed them, a kind of fear Kaz was used to, but now they were avoiding Wylan, too, keeping their distance from him just as they did from Kaz, wary of him as well, for if he ran with the worst the pleasure district had to offer, he couldn't possibly be too pleasant of a person either. The truth was, they should fear Wylan, plain and timid as he seemed, should fear what he could do with a few powders and a fuse, they just didn't know that. Yet.

As he caught two people nearly toppling over one another in their hurry to scurry to the side, Kaz averted his eyes, looked straight ahead, down the alley they were following, when Wylan spoke. He didn't bother prompting him to finish the sentence, for he knew. Kaz knew just as well as Wylan that he didn't have to do any of this, that he didn't have to do anything, but, at the same time, he, in a way, had. Many things could be said about Kaz Brekker, most of which weren't of positive nature, but one thing nobody could say about him, was that he wasn't loyal to his crew, didn't assure that people wouldn't mess with them, that his gang in its entirety was something to fear, having come a long way from the laughingstock they'd been when he'd first joined them. And then there was the part of him that simply had wanted to, wanted to show this smug vendor son of a bitch that his behaviour had been wrong in every way possible, give him a taste of what he'd made Wylan endure when he'd mocked and attempted to exploit him like that. No matter what the flautist thought, it wasn't a weakness, not that part — the weakness was that he cared about what people thought of him and the things he could and couldn't do, that he feared their reactions, that he let himself feel shame for their actions when they should be the ones ashamed of themselves.

“ It won't happen again. ” He answered quickly, his tone flat, and he knew that for a fact. “ You don't need Jesper to shop with you. Unless you want someone who bargains and ends up paying double the amount of the starting price. ” For all his charm he could use against people, the sharpshooter somehow also had a remarkable talent for performing poorly on any kind of gamble, “ You just need to stop caring about what people think of you. ”

[demolitionsman]

Wylan exhaled as he held the jar. He couldn't really believe he'd taken it, part of him screamed over it. He slid his backpack down, hands twisting between weak and rushing; deeply hurt versus deeply pissed. He packed the jar away in his backpack and picked it back up - not slinging the straps on, no, but he hugged it to his chest, each hand gripping an opposing side with a white-knuckled grip. The boxy shape fit his torso well. He clutched it tight, mentally going over all the chemicals he had in there. There were powders and solvents and all sorts of things; he could blow this stand to smithereens if he wanted.

He was smart. He was able to manufacture a disease for Kaz, something with boils and blisters and puss, fevers and chills, tremors in the hands until people thought they had the full firepox, and he made it last for enough days for that to seem true, minus any term affects, minus the real dangers. He did that, on Kaz's command, in less than a day, because he was smart. Wylan clutched his backpack, the sturdy, steady case that he made to keep all those vials and elixirs safe.

He was smart. Just sometimes, he was so stinking dumb, and that cost him so very much. He hated it, hated that the shopkeeper pegged him and used that against him. He tried so hard to be clever, and it was never enough. He swallowed.

"There aren't many experiments on something like that. But the skin of the throat is very sensitive," Wylan said, his voice still steady and flat, trying to hide everything in him that was turmoil and tormented. "I imagine it would be more prone to those boils, and breathing with that inside your throat would taste awful and be very, very uncomfortable and difficult for those five days."

Kaz sensed Wylan's hesitation and unease, here, in this moment, and oftentimes during the jobs they did together  —  not everyone was cut out for the harsh ways of the Barrel, knew how to handle them and, if his own keen eyes and those of his doubting gang members, were any judge, Wylan looked every bit out of place on these streets and among the Dregs, even after all the time he'd spent living here by now, in the slums, amidst the bloodshed and anarchy of the most dangerous areas of Ketterdam, and far from the luxury and order of the Geldstraat, and probably felt it, too. He ran with the thieves, but that didn't automatically make him a thief, much less a good one, didn't automatically mean he had the makings of one, and he may truly just not be cut out for a life of crime, and yet  — hidden depths.

There was a moment where Kaz genuinely thought Wylan wouldn't react, would either keep still in place and continue nervously watching Kaz handle the situation, or even begin pleading with him to stop, to leave the matter alone and move on, or, and he'd really have hoped that this would be the last option he'd consider picking, burst into tears on the spot  —  it wasn't an order, after all, it was merely an OFFER, a chance presented to him, to reach out and get his own compensation for the wrong that had been done to him today, rather than waiting for it to be handed to him, which wouldn't happen  . . .  but then he caught sight of a hand reaching for the black phosphorous from the corner of his eye and he felt  . . .  hell, Kaz almost felt a sense of relief. He alone was running the raid on the shopkeeper, that much was clear, but Wylan was standing up for himself, taking what he was owed, and more on the sheer reasoning that the man had been a spectacular asshole and deserved it, and that took courage, especially if you weren't used to it.

That's the way, he thought to himself as he heard the faint clanking of glass subdued by fabric as Wylan shoved the vials and jars he was grabbing into his pockets. On a good day, he might've even felt a little proud.

“ So much danger in such a little bottle. ” Kaz mused, as though deep in thought, but, really, he was enjoying this  —  he wasn't a hobby chemist by any means, but he could appreciate the impressive amount of damage a single substance like that could cause, the destruction but a drop or spill of something that appeared as harmless as sugar or a cherry drink could cause. And, unfortunately for him, the shopkeeper had chosen just that range of hazardous merchandise to sell. 

A head cocked slightly to the side, cold eyes seizing the vendor's face up in silent contemplation, before he shifted his cane, hooked it under the man's chin, into his skin, in a way that made it impossible for him to move without ripping his own throat open on the pointy silver beak, so he was able to let go of his shirt and reach for one of the stoppered vials he'd questioned Wylan about, twisting it slowly between gloved fingers, pondering.

“ And what does your expertise suspect would be the outcome if our friend here happened to swallow it? ” 

Of course, the man began winding his body at that, to the best of his abilities, the limbs he could move flopping as a panicked noise escaped him, but Kaz was expecting it, forcefully grabbed him again and yanked him forward, tins and bottles clinking and clattering as his legs collided roughly with the table, making the length of it quiver for a moment. 

[demolitionsman]

Wylan held in a whimper. He couldn't look away; the knick on the shopkeeper's neck had his eyes frozen as the blood began to trickle down the nose of the silver crow.

Maybe he should have seen that much coming. Kaz did have a temper, although it was wildly different from his father's. When Kaz swung, it wasn't from some humiliating burst. Wylan clutched nervous fists close to his chest, his elbows bent at a narrow, narrow-angle with little room to breathe. He was stuck watching the shopkeeper shake and vibrate, with the sick knowledge that just a few seconds ago, it had been him shivering like a wet cat and the shopkeeper red in anger.

He wanted to babble, give Kaz all of his excuses and desperate words, but that icy gaze kept him not just locked in place but hardened his tongue, made it heavy.

"Ten," He said, voice higher than Kaz's with the worry in his body. I just wanted the black phosphorous, Kaz, he wanted to say. I got excited I guess, it looks better quality than where I normally get it and so many things he could try to say to make it better. None of it mattered, it's not like he could ever really change things. An excuse, here, it was just time wasted. "He said ten."

His hands held the small vial. Kaz had seen him shop for the black powder before, but the vial was normally a little bit bigger, and cost eight kruge. It was the quality that was the difference, and Wylan had been willing to pay for it, the finer powder and deeper black color made it worth it, at least to him. Well, before this happened. "I'm sorry."

Wylan needn't explain himself, for he had done no wrong, but Kaz wasn't going to be the one to tell him that — he was a man with no sympathy or reassurance to offer to anybody, and he wasn't going to pretend otherwise, therefore all Wylan got from him in that moment as he kept speaking was a sharp, brief glance cast across his shoulder, coffee-tinted eyes hard as rocks, equally as cold, fixating him in their line of vision, the hazard he generally radiated only underlined by the bruise beginning to blossom on the right side of his face, conveying the words that went unspoken, before his focus returned entirely to the whimpering mess of a shopkeeper in front of him.

Be quiet, Wylan.

The man was gaping at him now, still at the mercy of his relentlessly brutal cane, the dangerous beak aligned with his trachea, blood spilling slowly around it, dripping across the silver shape of the crow as Kaz pressed it even closer to his quivering skin, dribbling partially onto the table bearing the goods he was selling, leaving scarlet streaks and droplets that glistened vaguely in the little sunlight that poked out between the gabled rooftops of the Barrel, falling from a light grey sky overcast with clouds and thick, strongly smelling billows of coal smoke, wherever it landed — a jab with the right pressure applied in the right place and his throat would fill with the substance, flood within seconds, and his last few gasping, strained breaths would be taken right here, in this marketplace, where, by this point, people were staring at the rapidly unfolding situation. It was entirely up to the vendor what the outcome of it would be, whether he'd get to walk away, flee Ketterdam, a city he, from this day on, never would feel safe in anymore, still standing on his own two feet, or whether the bodymen would come to collect what remained of him to take it to the Reaper's Barge for burning by nightfall. Dirtyhands didn't need a reason for violence, to fight, to kill, and, on most days, he even welcomed it, the excuse these pathetic people and their mindless behaviour gave him to unleash the relentless, burning rage that had been simmering within him since a young age, but, contrary to popular belief, there almost always was one, even if it was a tenuous one, and this man had given him not just one, but two.

" Please, I . . . " the shopkeeper began, stammering, at last seeming to recognise the severity of what he'd gotten himself into, of getting on the bad side of a man like Kaz, or just Kaz, really, for there wasn't anyone else quite like him, jerking slightly to the side, trying to wriggle free, to which Kaz merely responded by tightening a gloved palm into a fist around the front of his houndstooth shirt, the beak digging further into his flesh, prompting another hot, wet gush of redness to stain his flesh.

" Easy, shopkeeper, you don't want to make any sudden movements right now. " He spoke in a quiet, but dangerous, tone, before addressing Wylan, without tearing his stony gaze away from the street vendor for even a second, " How much did you give him, Wylan? "

@demolitionsman

[demolitionsman]

Kaz seemed to ignore him, at least, seemed to ignore his spoken word and soft pleading. Wylan’s mind raced a bit more, trying to figure out what the head crow had seen. Maybe he’d managed to disappoint Kaz, let him down by showing off just how stupid Wylan really was. He worked his jaw, taking a slight step back as he saw just how stony the man made himself.

Wylan wasn’t sure why. He felt a swing coming; he didn’t know from who, but he could tell when someone was angry and about to blow. Like he’d been preparing for the shopkeeper to swing at him, he flinched his head to the side once more, this time an arm up and arching until his elbow was over his nose to protect himself from the worse of the brunt.

But it wasn’t the shopkeeper who swung, no, his sixth sense for his father’s temper didn’t give him that much information. The heavy swoosh sound is what gave it away from his squeezed-shut eyes. It rang slightly too much, the air resistance too narrow for a fist, indicating that pinprick that split the air rather than the solid force. Kaz’s cane swept up the wind, when he opened his eyes back up it was just in time to see it smash, bending and molding the stranger's hands with a squishy, yet shattering force. A sudden move, yes, but clearly not without thought.

Wylan looked down with a wince, quite sure that was not what the sign said, and yet it might as well.

"Kaz," He said softly. "I swear I didn't -"

He watched Kaz jerk the man around on the tip of his cane, almost like the keeper weighed nothing at all. He was brutally aware that all this, the blood and pain, was his fault.

"I didn't mean to," He said. "You don't have to do this."

Kaz Brekker had a way of keeping an eye on the situations in his surroundings even when they occurred outside his immediate vicinity, even when he wasn't physically looking in their direction — he hadn't even been near Wylan when the altercation had begun, had been several stands over, slipping a small amount of crumpled up, purple kruge bills into a different shopkeeper's waiting hand while discreetly pocketing another three bottles of the camphor he'd just purchased from him for a relatively meagre price, but he'd noticed right away, heard the growing frustration in the shopkeep's voice, the nervous tremors in Wylan's, and, at last, he'd cast a swift glance in their direction through the bustling crowd swarming the Staves that afternoon. He could've simply left it at that, diverted his attention again and continued robbing what he needed from the various stalls offering goods and supplies of all kinds that surrounded the visitors, tourists and locals alike, of the market from every side, and in most instances, he would've, ignored what hardly concerned him, let it been nothing more than a lesson to show and teach the merchling the truly cruel ways of pleasure district of the Barrel, one that the still far too blue-eyed and oblivious man likely needed, but something about what he was witnessing from afar had set his feet into motion against the cobbled stone.

It was one thing to be an asshole, the world, especially Ketterdam, was full of them, but it was another to pick a fight over this, especially when Kaz knew the true reason behind the misunderstanding.

The crowd parts around him as though they know he's a shark among fishes, the gaze of near-black eyes lingering on the man's hand, all the telltale signs of somebody preparing for a fight present, watching as it curls into a fist, as it raises, the swing imminent, and Kaz braces himself for it, a sharp pain rattling his jaw only seconds later as he reaches the stand and, yet, he remains unfazed, doesn't even as much as flinch other than brief movements from his body at the force of the blow he can't control.

" Get out of the way ", the man hisses, spittle flying, " this ain't your fight. " Either he's stupid or so consumed by his rage that he can't see the danger in Kaz's dark eyes as he looks at him, ignoring Wylan's stammers behind him, for now. Even if it hadn't been meant for him, nobody got a lick in on Kaz Brekker without being paid back twofold, or worse. Seconds pass, arduously slow seconds where nothing happens, the calm before the storm, before the cane swings out in a sharp arc, bones of the very hand that had been meant to strike Wylan cracking with a nasty, gut-wrenching noise, before the man howls in agony, doubling over, gripping at the injured limb with his still intact hand. But Kaz doesn't stop, he never does, not until he decides he's done — he hooks the sharp beak of the crow's head forming the top of his walking stick into the shopkeeper's gaudy shirt, yanking him upright, before pressing it against his neck, wet speckles of crimson trickling slowly from where the beak pierces skin,

" Maybe you should take another look at the sign, as it says right there that you're giving everything away for free because you're closing your shop today. " Of course that isn't what it reads, but it might as well be since there's no way this man will ever be selling anything in Ketterdam ever again — Kaz will make sure of that.

@demolitionsman