It's alright to scream, I'm screaming too

The ravenhaired man skulked on the corner of a buzzing Upper Ring-street; his face still blue and battered from a very recent thrashing. He shivered in what seemed to be a woman's coat, murky fur collar included. Those had actually become easier to steal. He had lost his servant jacket along the way anyway - and with it, his identity of the past, it seemed like. He looked his downright worst. Perhaps because the past weeks actually had been the absolute worst. If it weren't for his scheming and his aptitude for magic, he wouldn't have come this far. But if he didn't find some sort of footing quickly.. well, he didn't want to think about that. Poor, odd bird, some would mutter. Helpless, lost soul, may Renestrae have mercy on him. There was one thing to be said about the vagrant, though: he was a mischievous being sticking to his own obscure agenda, a scavenger yearning for bigger carcasses. He'd come out of the woodwork. Again, again and again - until he found his footing at last. When you were merely a hatchling with wings too weak to fly yet, you had to climb. Someone already great had to lift him up to do so. Mend him into something greater. Crawford brought a bandaged hand up to frantically rub the sleep out of his blackened eyes, watching the carriages and locals pass by as he did. Leverage. A more accessible one this time, then.

The crowd passed him in a wide circle as he faltered through the streets in a terrible limping fashion, giving him the familiar looks that silently asked him why he wasn't safely locked away in a mental asylum. Daily business, really. Yet, his grumpy demeanor changed once something caught his eye. A young boy, earning some coin as a crossing sweeper. Now that was some interesting asset. Coughing and snorting the soot out of his lungs, he followed the brat into an alley, deliberately making it sound like he had a dozen little hissing imps up his throat. Just inches away from the child, he came to a halt, placed his hands on his knees and went a bit through his painful legs, bringing his face closer to the boy's eye level. "Y'know.." Ever so gently he lifted the newsboy cap to look down at the young, soiled face, chewing his lips as he seemed to ponder on how to put his thoughts into the right words. A mocking smile then made the corners of his chapped lips curl up. "Your mom's cold and so are you. You're already dead," he simply stated. That (along with his appearance like he was some thrice-resurrected distant family member of the grim reaper himself) did the job. The clattering sound of wood against cobbles resounded against the walls as the boy dropped his broom, scuttling away on his bare feet without looking back once. Shoo. Skedaddle. His turf now.

Crawford proudly pattered around his newly obtained sweeper, like it was the unupgraded version of a fancy cane. This would do nicely. A tad too short for him, true, but it wasn't like he could fully walk upright yet with these bruised ribs anyway. Time to linger in front of the fanciest club he could find around here. If Renestrae had never smiled upon him before, She would be now: it didn't take long before a real aristocrat stepped outside. "A most graceful choice of attire. For such a fair lady, I simply feel compelled to keep it clean," Crawford quickly heeded the lady's attention with humbly lowered head. "Please - allow me." His limp made him awkwardly stumble backwards in front of her, sweeping a clean, horse droppings-free path across the cobblestoned street. Just for her. He squished his cheek against a lamp post as a means of support as he lowered himself to one knee, uttering soft groans of pain. His trembling hands placed one of her shoes on his leg to clean it with a rag. A few coins; an invitation to a warmer place.. honestly, he didn't care anymore. Chances were low the way he looked. But Renestrae knew he had to try.

This posh madame didn't give him one of those haughty nods, nor did she swat him away like he was but an annoying pest. Instead, she swayed in the path he cleaned, and so Crawford took it as wordless acceptance of his services. Keep gown unsoiled of urban dirt. Don't look at them directly; aristocrats didn't like mingling with 'simpletons' if they could avoid the chitchat. Top it with an extra service of polishing her boots. Super-duper. Yet, his gut feeling told him otherwise. She remained remarkably quiet, her intentions unclear. A bad sign. And there it was: fair lady hissed some very noxious words at him. Idly frozen in the knitted half-gloves, his trembling hands stopped abruptly with what they were doing; as if they entirely had lost their function. She drew her face close to his. Right now, he wouldn't dare to look her in the eye. He cowered away in his coat, sucking in shaky breaths while blinking the mist out of his averting eyes.  

For a short moment, he toyed with the idea of taunting her away from the public eye. Overpower her. Slice her tendons. Cut her tongue. Absolutely shatter her wrists in odd angles - make her live a muted life, shackled down to a fancy divan near the window, with maidens pitifully offering her tarts and wine around the clock as a pathetic uphold to her once hedonistic lifestyle. There she would be set to wane with her paralyzed thunderthighs; counting sunrises, burbling empty words and weeping through her miserable days. Such a delight it would be if he applied as a servant to her household then, just to watch her wither away in person. Front row seats and all. Writing anything down unfortunately was no longer an option with crippled hands, but good, hallowed Renestrae: she would frantically point at him, shrieking at her associates that 'E di dih do me, id wah im! Id wah im!' Of course, no one would think much of it with her descending mental state. And he, naturally, would just neatly fold his hands, give a little melancholic smile and nod to the nurses to put her to bed early, for poor Miss had one of her bad days again. Come night? Oh, how he would keep her awake - a shadow slouching around her bed on functioning feet, whispering torments with a functioning tongue and spending her money with his functioning claws.

That brooding vigor shadowed the black-haired man's face for a lingering while. His hands, - now hidden under the rag - reaching for his back pocket where he kept a switchblade. All ire dispersed the moment he raised his head, however, flashing an apologetic smile. Flowers and butterflies. Well complemented by his youthful sounding voice, like Bloomtide's lukewarm sunlight. "My apologies if I might have overreached, my lady, that certainly has never been my intention. I -" But his words were ruthlessly cut off by a wince of pain. He had been looking for some footing. There certainly was some footing. One of her feet moved up, her heel positioning against his bruised breastbone. She pushed. And before he knew it, Crawford toppled over in an unwilling imitation of wet blanket energy, tightly clutching his little broom with squeezed shut eyes. This old song again? He had barely recovered from his last beating, or the next elite eagerly stood waiting in line to mess him up.  "It's only a temporary setback!" he squealed from under his fur collar, already raising his arms over his head for protection as he lay strewn over the pavement. "My wife passed. I.. I drank. Blew my money. Lost the mansion. I'm merely trying to make some coin. Bring food on the table for my son, is all. Is that a crime?" He was willing to scratch some big fat lines under the lowly position the higher-ups so longed to see him falter in whenever it suited him. And suit him it did.

An unnerving knot tightened in his chest once he heard it: that awful clacking sound. Heels.. it was always heels that soon equalled a glove slapping across his cheek, a shriek of fright, an umbrella cracking in half on his spine. Sometimes finalized by a refined gent chasing him down in an attempt to show off his shriveled machismo to the damsel. Didn't these nobles feel high and mighty enough already, up in their ivory tower? Crawford curled up in a ball, muttering a little prayer to the pendant of Renestrae he wore under his coat. Out of excessive experience his hands reached over his head. He crossed his good leg over his bad leg. And then, he waited. The next ordeal of humiliation out of many. But a boot splitting open the recent stitches, or clobbering his ribs? It didn't follow through. Cautiously the disheveled man peeked under his arm. All he saw was umpteen feet of skirt and, shortly after, a perfectly manicured hand grabbing down for - oh hell no, lady!

Immediately he wrapped his full body weight around the wooden handle with a hiss. A short tug of war over the broom followed: she was the triumphant queen of broom-yanking and stomped him down with her dominance once more. Figuratively speaking, this time. Saddened he heard the little sweeper swooshing through the air and plunging in a puddle down the street. A groan escaped his lips as he himself plunged down again too. One of his last-resort-follow-up-plans already started to wire in his weasel-like mind while he scanned his surroundings. Throw rag over her head for diversion. Make a run - or rather, a limp - for it. Jump in the canal before she regained her composure, much faster as the weightlessness of the water made him. Anything to escape her wrath, because by all Deities, she would unleash it upon him now. She was practically standing over him, though; clipping him of his lies, his masks, his wings. The light of lit oil lanterns beamed over her shoulders. And he could only gawk up at her, for it emblazed her graceful contours in some kind of divine light. With his half clenched fists up and next to his head, he truly was but a lowly dog that showed its pink puppy belly. That was very much how he felt right now. Vulnerable. Exposed. Undone.

"A woman like you..." he whispered breathlessly. Almost automatically his gaze tore away from her face, slowly sliding down her figure. "Yes." Stutters halted his breaths as his jerky head movements took the form of nodding gestures to the woman hunching over him. "Yes, miss, by rights.. you deserve that. I- I just find that situations in which one is not being taken too seriously don't necessarily require a flawless lie. Even the city guards don't always bother with -," The latter words were lost in his dawdling as he registered more and more of her details. The elegant flow in her gown was the first thing he depicted. Then her jewelry, her slender neck, down to her décolleté. ".. every bum they spot," he softly finished his sentence at the exact same moment he finally, unintentionally eyed her - well, Gods knew he really didn't mean to. Quickly Crawford turned his head away; his eyes fluttering, his flushed ears burning. Such cravings had never been something that interested him whatsoever. There was not even room for that with the kind of ambition that occupied his mind day and night. Survival. His yearning to rise to power and status. But this lady, she had put some vile spell on him. He was sure of it.

Many women in the Upper Ring presented themselves as prude, delicate flowers. The privilege to be a part of it was not his, but he - nosey little fucker that he was - he watched them closely, alright. Many athings concerning their upper-cruster human behaviour he had studied, with one knee balancing on trash bins and his nose nearly scraping window sills while peeking into fancy estates. What he saw? Teacups held in velvet-gloved hands, as slender fingers traced their rim. A swift glance, subtly cast from under curled eyelashes. And at some point: a smile lingering on plump lips whenever it was expected of the ladyfolk. Yet, not too overdone. Never too overdone. That seemed to be quite important. It wasn't in their line of grace, so most wouldn't even dare. In the coterie of everything gilded, ornate and laced, women should be present only by pose. But this mistress? She was something else. Entirely. Never before had he experienced such fierceness blazing a noblewoman's outline, such presence in a refined lady. He didn't know if he ought to feel intimidated, mesmerized, or both - but Crawford was sure about one thing, though: more of it. He wanted to cloth himself in her bold wake. Pour himself over her as her shadow simultaneously devoured him whole. To follow beaming lights like her was his reason and his rhyme. Hell, how couldn't he if she put some vile spell on him to draw him in?  

Words slandered down on him and she was spitting hexes as she did so, hidden and intertwined in every syllable she hissed. Oh, he knew, because he understood all about hexes and their crude little inner-workings. Crawford fluttered his eyes skittishly at the woman that stood spread-legged and bent over him, as if she spoke just inches away from his face, his almost neurotically trembling hands still held up a bit in yielding submission. A huff of annoyance from her followed. Again, he was being awfully ridiculed. What else was new? Everywhere he went, he was the odd bird in the room, with fading remains of someone too gentle; a fidgety doormat who was already on edge whenever he had to dress himself; who most certainly knew nothing about wives, kids and mansions. But he knew.. well, other things. Foul things.

Perhaps that was the very reason why the raven-haired man suddenly burst out in wheezes. At first, it sounded very much like soft whimpers. Long, deep heaves that shook his chest, like his frail body had to do overwork to push out the snickers that soon followed. Yes, snickers - because it soon became clear that he was actually chuckling through his yellow teeth. With reasonable effort he rolled on his side, crawling out from under her on both his hands and knees. Shamelessly, he then grabbed a random man's trouser leg - who had the bad luck to pass by - as a means of support, so he could work himself back up on his feet. "So- so let me show you!" he chirped gleefully. "I don't know about believable, but I can show you the amount of effort put into my lie that just might satisfy the criteria of a lady of your standards." In what almost seemed like pure euphoria, he frantically nodded at her, shuffling closer on his way too oversized shoes. His hands soon found hers. No thought in his crafty skull was even a second concerned about the gent from before, now angrily yelling at him. To hell with his fragile ego and his pants. He had only eyes for her. Even though he was panting softly, and though even his small freckles were a feverish hue now that he was oppressed by his own nervousness, realizing he stood much closer to her than he meant to be - he was still beaming at her like an overjoyed dog. Renestrae.. in all of her imposing posture, she was even taller than him. Of course she was. "It's not too far. And I'm sure you'll appreciate it, considering you seem to know.. well -" A mischievous sparkle danced in his eyes while he leaned in a bit, sharing a whisper no one in Ashmoor but her was meant to hear: "- a lot about lies."