A Head Hunter's Haven
Routine
A black alleyway. Turn, open the round gate and descend to Lowtown. Those cast aside -- scathed and bare, beaten and thin. It's almost like a depository for the unwanted citizens of the cruel, wreck-of-a-city the Rabanastrians now call the central city of Dalmasca. Yet it is inhabited by more than just the simpletons, the outcasts and homeless. There's a small door which leads to an unknown sector of this derelict. It belongs to them, and only them. It's only known to them, it's only accessible by them. Trudge along, drag your feet through the gooey sewage, grind your teeth as the cracked marble claws your already-worn sandals and the sound of groans and moans lulls you into a despondent state. Sand leaks through the ceiling the way a punctured pipeline does. Fitting, considering the water which drips from the ceiling is from a defective conduit. Keep your dusty straw hat on.
Then see the door – it may well be hidden amongst the shadows and hidden by crates that since decades have never been opened. There stands two, maybe three suspicious looking citizens, maybe they question your business and request a code or password. It's only appropriate that such a thing is required to access it.
It is a head-hunter's haven, after all.
---
"Password?"
Far from amused, Fran gives a blank stare with an expression wordlessly informing them of the agitation they have caused her.
"You need not ask us, idiot. Now hurry, we have a fugitive we must keep hidden until we claim our bounty."
The door is flung wide open. 'Tis slightly splintered, but still attached to the bronze hinge nailed firmly into the mould-coated walls that surround them. Quite a contrast in scenery faces them now. The dainty yet magnificently tall Viera is followed by a trio of goons trailing a rope-bound, shackled body with a sack for a head, not far behind. This body-like figure struggles ever so slightly but reluctantly stumbles forward with them like a blind man does without a guide; they constantly shift their head, hoping vision will return to them. In single file, they now enter a cramped, smog-filled room which is alive with singing and laughing. But it isn't the friendly type. There's an air of cynicism and foolishness. Immaturity, evil.
A vain attempt – the captive raises their head, desperately trying to see through the beige bag which resembles a potato sack. Maybe it is. He chokes ever so slightly. Soil...no, salt. Salt? Sweat. He can feel his limbs tremble. And the air's too thick, not cold at all, but the heat is pleasant. It can't be the warmth of the room what irks his glands to the level of sweating, neither a chill which leads his limbs to an uncontrollable level of shakiness.
Maybe he had swallowed soil. His throat's clogged and as coarse as bark and, unbeknownst to the cohorts of crime crowded around him, the creases in his forehead are only deepening.
"Dear God...help me."
There's still an uncontrollable level of noise despite their entry. Their entry had been a bold entry and almost certain to have attracted some attention, yet at the same time it had been casual – like it was an everyday routine of theirs. The dimness of the room makes it awkward for one to see, but it's a rather complimentary orange hue, maybe leaning towards purple. Mauve.
With her head flicking from right to left, the Viera Fran scans the room, leaning slightly to one side as her pair of hands clutch at her thighs. Her posture is so refined but it has a rather impertinent quality to it. Her goons saunter up behind her, halting with the trembling captive at their side.
Without changing her stance at all, she speaks in a tone of tranquillity yet authority, "And where do you suppose Leradine is usually at this time?"
No snappy reply, and over the boisterous voices of the other occupants of this haven, it's, granted, a much less awkward experience but nonetheless punishable. She's the type you knew required snappy answers.
Her trio of goons sigh, casually eyeing around them in a manner which suggests they are unenthused. She jerks. Suddenly. Her gazing eyes peer directly into theirs in an awkwardly daunting way. Along with her, they jerk backward and send the detained foe into a state of confusion.
"...Well?"
Her neck feels chilled for a brief moment as a very slight puff of air tickles her hair, "Behind you, dearest Fran."
Quirkiness, as she rotates to stand eye to eye with the blonde haired, smug grinned gentleman. Very slightly her lips part and the broadness of her eyes suggest excitement. It's her stance which clashes with her other sudden changes in appearance – still stood nonchalantly, casually.
A little jelly-like.
"And where have you been?" questions the gentleman with a suavely raised eyebrow. His arms coyly curl around her waist, only very gently touching. For a moment she tingles, but shows no sign of it. It's alluring.
"For your information," her tone is strict, "while you have been doing whatever it is you do, bathing with other women, shining your shoes, stuffing your gullet full with Cactus plant and Cockatrice, I have been out about business, keeping the money rolling in."
She clasps his wrists, descending one finger at a time allowing each nail to poke playfully at his skin. She pushes his arms downward and gazes with a snarky look across at him.
A mild grin follows and his eyes flicker from his feet to her eyes, "Nothing in that adorable little list of yours is true. I have, in fact, been attending to more demanding matters, such as the repair of the Falcagg. Your little stunt last week cost us a rear propeller which can only be paid off now by capturing the rarest of hunts. Got anything in mind?"
She smirks and glances behind her. It's a form of gesture, but not exactly subtle as intended. His eyes are immediately drawn to the wriggling sack-headed body. The dimness of the room casts multiple shadows behind them and the shortness of the ceiling causes lengthening of these ominous shadows. Leradine's inquisitive glare leads Fran to respond with a warm yet leering smile.
"It will bring in at least 50,000 Gil – if we play our cards right."
"Same routine, huh?"
"I think so. It is the best way."
The noise is still at a peak level, they can notice it more as the pitch of their voices continues to lower. Simply stood eyeing one another, each stands at a very slight angle - still, no attention drawn. It's most definitely routinal.
"Will you be joining us?" she questions with a blasé look about her.
His grin can be practically heard, "How could I not?"
-- End of Chapter I: Routine