Obsidian owns all the NWN2 characters here portrayed, including Bishop, whom many of us would love to own instead; Livetta belongs to a friend who has granted me gracious permission to use (and abuse) her.
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Chapter 1: The Hat
He watched. Specifically, he watched with the studious disinterest of one who frequently watches others, the surreptitious noticing of one whose life depended on watching unnoticed. And really, the only things different about this group coming through the Flagon's door were the disparate nature of its members and... the woman in the hat. It had a wide brim and a feather, and either all of the woman's hair was tucked up under it, or she was bald. No, the hat sat wrong for bald. And there, under its dapper angle, he could see the taut upward slope at the nape of her neck. He couldn't tell what color exactly it was for the shadow, though he could tell, at least, that it was dark hair.
It wasn't the hat that marked her off, though, Bishop noted. No, it was the fact that she watched, too. He caught it in his peripheral vision, the way her gaze took in the room, the way her line of sight would flick to something innocuous but just in view of a patron (oh, he knew that trick-- take it all in with the periphery, never let them know you're watching them), and the fact that she was only paying half attention to those who had walked in with her, inclining her head this way and that, the same way he'd sometimes do to catch snatches of conversation from across a room.
The elf next to her was on edge, muttering quietly about a roof and walls and the city itself. A bundle of tension, that one, her movements jerky and ill at ease. It was hard to pick out more than that. The dwarf and the tiefling were bickering... some rot about short beard hairs. Their manner was more jovial, but there was an edge to each voice. They might have been playing, but they meant every traded insult, like wolf pups play fighting to establish rank. The woman in the hat, however, interjected in their conversation at just about the right moment to get off a one-liner, and then her attention was back to the room at large.
She must be feeling out the patterns of their talking by their inflections, he thought. Not bad. He relaxed back into his ale once he'd determined she wasn't an immediate threat, and turned just so, so that he could best hear the exchange with Duncan that he knew would follow. After all, it appeared that this was tonight's entertainment.
"I'm looking for Duncan Farlong." Polished voice, hatted one.
"Uh, Duncan, you say? That depends, I mean--if you're looking to be collecting on a debt, I have to tell you, he's a drunk, with nary a copper to his name!"
By way of reply, the woman took off her hat. Duncan immediately stopped his evasions and began, "Livetta! Lass! You should've-- If I'd known it was you-- I haven't seen you since you were but a babe!"
Bishop choked momentarily on his ale. The woman's hair was green. Surprise, surprise. No wonder she kept it under her hat. All the room's attention seemed to be focused on her, though, so he was reasonably sure no one saw his lapse in composure. She had a slight frame, and a pronounced bump at the bridge of her nose. High cheek bones, sharp angular jaw, moderately thin lips, heavy brows that broadcast her expression extremely well. Her face was completely unfamiliar, so he doubted he'd encountered her anywhere else-- but now he committed her gait and posture to memory, so he might pick her out in a crowd. He watched her glance about, and replace her hat. So she doesn't want that hair of hers recognized, eh? A useful thing to keep in mind.
Bishop had to strain to hear the next bit. "Uncle Duncan, I need to know about--"
"Esmerelle?"
"Who's Esmerelle?"
Silence dropped for a moment. Bishop shot a glance over to the conversation, and noted Duncan's look. The half-elf's eyebrows had shot up, and his mouth was working, though no sentences were forthcoming.
"He never...?" Bishop's ears strained, but the rest of the question was lost. The conversation continued in much lower tones, and looking sideways from the corner of his eye, he noted the that The Hat's entourage had drifted about the room as her chat with her so-called "uncle" continued. Their bodies leaned in close to one another as they discussed, and the tones ranged from confusion, shock, doubt and curiosity. Bishop picked out a few words, "Sand" and "shard" for certain, possibly "battle," "magic," and "viper."
Apparently, Sand had better ears than he did. "Just in time to deflect the usual barrage on my character, I see." Duncan jumped. But the green-haired woman didn't seem to be taken off guard as the moon elf entered the bar.
Duncan sighed. "Livetta, this is Sand. He owns a magic shop here in the Docks District. He's the one we took the shards to originally."
Shards plural, then? Interesting...
Sand was as droll as ever-- not that he could hear it. At the woman's sign, they lowered their voices, but he could see Duncan bristle from across the room. Small blessings. But the secretive air to all of this was intriguing, as was the fact that this woman seemed to be aware of his watching. That would not do. Those who watch needed to be watched. They were, after all, the most dangerous sort. He'd have to keep an eye on this "niece" of Duncan's.
It turned out she was a bard. He'd been out in the common room enough in the evening to hear her play odd little tunes on her recorder on more than one occasion. Careful, careful, little watcher. All those patrons? They're watching you. And that stuff you use as hair dye? Leaves brown spots all over your clothing when it bleeds. Yes, be careful, don't come down here with your fresh dyed hair, little watcher.
He could see she wasn't unaware of her mistakes, either, because after that first time, the dye job was perfect. Always a fresh tunic when she was out in the common room, and her hair bound up in a knot and pinned in place to keep it off her shoulders. Just in case, he thought. Smart. But not smart enough. I caught you that first time. I saw.
Bishop's relaxed air of those first few nights faded as he observed her over the course of the next couple of days. He noted there was soot on her clothing the day the Watch building in the docks had burned, and how carefully she observed any members of the Watch who came into the Flagon for a drink. She was running with Moire's gang, from the look of it. And the little watcher was definitely watching him. Now that had a certain amount of threat to it. Her attention was like a lance. She rarely looked at him directly, but he could tell where her focus was by the tilt of her head, and the tiny responses to her environment. See, he reasoned, if she'd been focused on Sal at the bar, she'd have reacted, however subtly, to the sound of the tankards being washed and stacked. But she didn't. No, she was focused on him. His movements were what made her eyes flick away, and he caught her--in his periphery--chance a direct look at him when he raised his mug. Clever. He'd used that trick himself more than once. Usually on quarry who were too blind or oblivious or just plain drunk to realize they were being tracked. Clearly, she underestimated him. Better for him. You just go on feigning rapt attention to your little flute, he jeered inwardly.
She did not go on feigning rapt attention. It was fairly late at night, and most of the Flagon's patrons had left. She leaned over from her stool, tucked her recorder into a rigid sleeve which she set on a table, and then stood, stretching. He took the opportunity for a full look at his little watcher in turn. Sinewy. Compact. Precise. Controlled. Abrupt! Her stretch ceased mid-motion, and her gaze caught his. Dammit! Had he underestimated her?
She wandered over to him, and like a fool, like a bird trapped by the sight of its own reflection in a mirror, he locked his eyes on hers. Brown eyes. And they studied him carefully.
"So," she began.
But he wasn't going to let her. "If I wanted a wench, I'd go to the local brothel," his lip curled, flicking his gaze up and down her form to drive the point home. Then he added as an afterthought, "And she'd be better looking even if she were a half-orc I fished out of a heap of night soil."
"I don't know about you, but I wouldn't go around screwing things I fished out of dung piles." She sat down across from him at his table. "You were watching me."
"And? You've been watching me. I'd be careful about where I rested my eyes. It's a great way to lose them."
"And here I thought you just liked to hear me play," her tone was teasing. He couldn't read her expression-- a subtle shade of blank.
Well, two made a game. "If you were here to play, you wouldn't be striking up conversations with men who obviously want to be left alone."
"Fair enough."
"Well?" he prompted, when it was obvious she wasn't going to leave.
"Wells are for water. But honestly, I'd like to know why you've been keeping such a close eye on me."
"I don't think you're entitled to know that, little girl."
"Last time someone called me a 'little girl' I broke his nose."
"Looks like he returned the favor," Bishop snickered.
She merely grinned. "I suppose we could keep watching one another from a distance. But I'd rather not. Someone might get the wrong idea and think we're lovers."
"You know as well as I do that no one else is paying attention."
"It's a shame, too. If people paid attention, I'd be rich, and could retire to a grand estate out in the country. So, you were watching and listening since I walked into this place. And like you said, no one else paid attention. That marks you different. Different attracts trouble."
"Look who's talking, greenie."
"Never said I didn't like my share of trouble. Call me Livetta."
"I never bother to learn the names of the harlots around here, sorry."
"They probably don't know yours either, Bishop-- they tend only to learn the names of paying customers."
"I see someone's been asking questions," he kept his tone level.
"It's a magical ability I have-- to put a question mark at the end of a statement. Leads to all sorts of information."
"Some of that information can be dangerous."
"Like you, I suppose?" she smiled. And then the play went out of her face. "You want my honest assessment, and not more word games, then?"
Bishop arched a brow incredulously.
"I don't doubt you're dangerous. And you're obviously someone who knows how to observe. That puts you a cut above others right there, and that set me on edge at first. People usually aren't that aware."
There was an expectant pause.
"So now you want me to go ahead and tell you all the answers to your little questions, just because you decided to tip your hand and shower me with a few compliments?" a smirk tugged at the corners of Bishop's mouth.
"Oh no. You already have answered most of my real questions, and right off the line, too. I just thought I'd return the favor. But I enjoy your wit. I hope we'll get to dance again soon, sometime." She bowed. Cocky bitch! But Bishop couldn't think of a return volley to keep her there. He simply watched her retreating form lift the recorder and then disappear through the hallway door.
"Dance" with me again? She thinks this is a game... and she thinks she can win. Bishop broke into a slow smile. She was good. Maybe even dangerously good. But not that good. Keep your enemies closer... Yeah, we'll dance again-- but with you on arrow point.
