A small collection of red mountain flowers rested gently on a scrap of canvas bags, placed delicately so that not a single petal was allowed to crease or bend underneath the weight of the other flowers. Their colour was rendered near black in the dimness of midnight, where only the moon and stars bought light to the world- and though that light was sufficient enough to see by, it was not such that could allow a person to easily spot flaws in the local flora. Still, the small bouquet had an army of ripped and torn flowers surrounding it- those that simply had not met the satisfactions of the one ripping them from the ground, depriving them of their life support, leaving them crushed and wilting in the night.
"Pretty flowers, pretty pretties, Mother will be most pleased with you…" The picker murmured softly into the night as he worked, comforting himself with gentle, crooning words that seemed to make the very flowers themselves shiver and take advantage of the breeze to lean away from his killing touch. Or perhaps that was nonsense. If someone had been watching, they might be brought to wonder why someone would be out in the forest picking flowers in the dead of night- alone, far away from any known village or camp, and dressed… like a jester.
But that, of course, would require there to be a watcher. Not only that, but it would require the watcher, if there was one, to be someone unacquainted with the whispering flower killer. Only part of this was true. There was someone nearby, but they were not watching in the shadows like one who sought to go unnoticed. This person walked forward confidently towards the mutterer without curiosity, surprise, or… any other sillyness that a normal person may feel so inclined to exhibit.
"Good evening, Cicero." The visitor greeted pleasantly with the voice of a child no older than nine or ten. There were undercurrents there, of course. When Babette wasn't acting in order to deceive, her tone belied her age to some extent. No true child would have such depth to their voice, such confidence without bravado, such… comfort, in their surroundings. They were too new to the world to let things pass by without notice. Distractions galore- moon, grass, trees, animals, flowers, all the wonder in the world to entice or be afraid of coloured the voice of every child no matter what they were saying. Her voice held nothing more than she wanted it to.
"A visitor in the night! Oh, how wonderful!" Cicero waved happily to the girl, remaining crouched on the ground as he exclaimed loud enough to betray their whereabouts to anyone and everyone who may be passing by. A bird fled its branch into the night, seeking a less lively crowd to nap around. "Who's there? Ah! The blood drinker! Come to join sweet Cicero in his quest for presents?" he asked. Babette strolled past the covering darkness of the trees and giggled softly, covering her mouth with her hand. This was something she liked about the jester- he seemed remarkably… "You're very genuine for an assassin, Cicero. And some might say, perhaps a little too… sweet? For one who murders so easily?"
Babette sat down beside the careful pile of perfect-petal'd flowers, smoothing her skirts. The jester harrumphed, wrinkling his nose at her and crossing his arms just for the effect of looking exceptionally petulant. Amused, she pushed him right on the knee, sending him down to the ground with a gentle 'thump' of his rump hitting the grass. They both laughed. The flowers in his hand were crumpled then, crushed to uselessness.
Another thing she liked. He just couldn't stay silent, not for more than a moment. So, when the chuckles had faded to nothing, it was less than the span of five breaths before he began to fidget. "Is there something you wanted with the too-sweet Cicero, sister?" he teased, but his question was genuine. Someone as old as she could look through the madness in his eyes- see the intent, the purpose. He was lucid more often than not- not that anyone cared to notice. His intentions were always guided by the tenets, by his rules. One of the defining characteristics of a madman was that his actions could not be trusted- madmen were too random, too volatile. Cicero was none of these things. He was simply… Cicero. She liked that, too. It was a refreshing change from all the seriousness that killing people on a contractual basis seemed to instill in the members of the brotherhood.
"I thought I'd join you out here, the weather's nice, and the sun is shining so bright," she teased back, pointing to the moon. The jester cackled a little wildly, and she smirked. "Actually I heard you talking to the new recruit earlier while I was wandering the corridors. You lived in the Cheydinhal sanctuary for a while? I'd love to hear about it. Haven't been there in lifetime. Is it still so beautiful? With the gardens and the towers?" The thing about being three hundred years old is that when you say you were somewhere 'a lifetime ago' there was a very valid chance that it was an accurate statement. She was curious about the sanctuary, which she now knew to have fallen. About the city itself, which had been her home for many years, a long time ago.
Cicero wiggled his eyebrows fussily, scratching his head through his two-point hat. " Still towers, still flowers… minus one annoying lute player, Cicero made sure of that. Minus one baker, and two… one… sweetroll from the bakers shop… and they weren't even very good. He was a terrible baker. Blech!" he shook his head, "of all contracts, Cicero never wondered why that man had a hit put out on him." Babette shook her head, replied, "You think someone performed the dark sacrament to put a hit out on a baker for being poor at his trade? A few burnt buns?" she sounded a little incredulous.
The jester stared at her then, honey-brown eyes deep and serious. Silence reigned between them then, and the tension of a very dangerous moment filled the air. "It was a very bad sweetroll." He deadpanned.
Their laughter rang through the night, annoying the crap out of many of the woodland creatures and leaving the two of them utterly breathless.
-tbc-