Strangled Trust

Year 765 Hippocampus Rush

Rhea breathes in the very air around her, its salty from Chemuk's waves seasoning the air it creates. She inhales and exhales in repetition, because it is the only way to calm the burning rage in her.

This man by the name Connor, around twenty-four birth moons, must have practiced all night to know how to agitate her so well. She is push to the edge when he showed up at the orphanage unannounced. The vicar had long been gone in the market so there is no convenient buffer between Connor and her. Grace and the children are too awestruck to say anything to help her.

It made sense why people gawk at this sailor. Connor is a remarkable sight. Walking tall with undeserved confidence, face constructed with a lot of care by Chemuk. A strong angular jawline and gifted prominent cheekbones had skin dealt by the brunt of the sun, but it only added color to his prominently lighter cream complexion. She can tell based on his tan line that peaks from the loose shirt collar. Brown straight hair is swept behind his ears. Face completely clean shaven and not shrouding the lips that seem to always set either straight or downturn, broad eyebrows angle down to maximize his constant scowl. Then the copper color of his irises drew her in and set her in her place. The shade isn't exactly common, but she can only think of the piercing eyes of a Starpecco when she is underneath his gaze. Intense and unforgiving. He keeps walking around as if he owns the ground beneath everyone. The strange posh saunter didn’t match the civilians that live in this town, nor the profession he claims to have. It is like he had a straight posture since birth.

There is almost no primitiveness in him, even the way he speaks is a man of high articulation, which confuses Rhea. A normal 'thief' will have what is endearingly termed as “Moarin slurs.”

He had nothing like that and his lack of compassion in his tone unsettles her, how could I ever deal with a person like that? He gave her no choice but to learn right away.

Rhea shows him the way to the gang's border fence and hid behind a few boxes to keep herself from being seen. Connor did not try to hide; in fact, he studies the fence. She made all the trouble keeping pace with him and yet he won’t even humor her for that.

"PSST....Mister Connor...HIDE" Rhea pokes her hooded head from behind the crates, nervously alert for any guards that may pass by.

"No need." Connor didn't elaborate. Apparently, he is at his max for words today and had yet to explain the next steps for his plans. He is doing that thing where he crosses his arms and just stands there.

I really cannot understand you. "Can you give me more than just two words?" Rhea hisses. Last time she was there she had to run for her life. Now she had enough time to really look at the property. The fence is just tall enough to reach Connor's chin and made of wood planks of varied colors and cut. It is a terrible attempt to ward off people since she can easily hop over it. The gang's property is this abandoned mansion tuck in by other buildings. The gang tried to fence it off and decorate it with sigils and graffiti to ward off locals by the sight alone, not reinforce the integrity of the structure. The mansion is three stories with the head of the gang living furthest up. The height of the building did give the leader the protection he needs, although Rhea has proven that didn't work last night.

"Hmph." Rhea must have struck a nerve since he didn't obey her request. Changing the subject, or at least she thought so. "How's the security last night?"

"Um...they rotate shifts. Move from down here to-" Rhea got up from behind the crate, craning her neck to look for them. Her silver eyes aren't just for show; she can see distances that a normal person can't. The eyes she inherited could easily see the cracks in the walls and the moss that started to eat away at the foundation. She saw no guards on this side. "The guards are not here..."

"I applaud you." He isn’t doing any applauding, begging the question that he purposely ridicule her with a straight face.

Rude. "It is completely irregular to have no guards around." She pouts, choosing to stand beside him, cussing under her breath in Krax. At least she can have some reprieve by getting away with just that.

Connor flicks his attention at her. For a split second she thought he is going to respond to her cussing. Instead, he stays very neutral. "It's IRREGULAR that one woman managed the Glittering Stampede."

Point taken. "Fine. What are we to do then?"

"Hmph." He is making that noise grunt of reluctance, a sign that he didn't feel the need to elaborate again. What a terrible habit it is. One I am ready to smite him for.

"By the GODS. I should not have even asked. Chemuk just forgot to give me my mind reading..." Rhea is beyond irk by his behavior. She starts to believe that she had better social skills than this sailor. What happened to all that chatter earlier?

Connor's brow twitches at her comment. A new sign, a reaction she needs to prove he acknowledges her. His scowl deepens, "Save your energy for later. Hand me your bow."

Rhea's jaw drops, taking two steps away from him while playing with the string cross-sectioning her chest. Not her weapon, she is willing to do anything else but part from it. "What if...I say no?"

"I've asked for your compliance. You're not going to be a convincing hostage with it on. You can keep your dagger..." Connor held his hand out, waiting for her to give in.

He saw my dagger!? Her attention absorbs the callous, covered hand of his. It is huge in comparison to her hands, with scars along the side of his fingers. She finally saw something that she can slightly relate to. He had the hands of a hard laborer. His fingernails are kept short, but they had tinting of some gray powder. It is hard to say what causes the coloration on his fingertips, perhaps it had something to do with the phials on his utility belt.

That is something she can ask about later, though why she even grew more curious begs a lot of questions. He’s rude. He's not compassionate. He treats her like a dumb person nearly the whole time. Yet, she can’t ignore how he took his time to warn her about the gang's intentions. Even though he plays an impassive individual lacking a heart.

"...my recommendation is to move the orphanage. You owe those children at least that."

These words circle her mind, reminding her that he had some form of dignity beneath the scoundrel's attitude. It softens her attitude towards him, something in her nags that she needs to compromise with him while another part of her wants to be more difficult.

"Why just the bow then?" Rhea removes her bow despite her probing, handing it to him without hesitation.

"Consider it my compromise." Connor did not smile nor frown, his brow ticks up a tad from the probing. He is particularly good at keeping his emotions in check, his voice the only inflection that he is losing patience for her. He took her bow and sling it on himself, which looks very awkward on his broad stature.

Oh...why thank you... for your boundless generosity.

Rhea grumbles beneath her breath, watching his every move, then after. He didn't say anything while peering over the fence line, and for a while she starts to think he had forgotten she is there. Then he lowers himself, pressing his shoulder against the fence, and snuck beneath the height line of the fence. She wonders why he starts to stealth. That question had an answer when she can hear a few voices close to the mansion.

It sounded like Ranko!

"Boy. Our boss is not gonna be happy to see ya mug without the lass. Are ya okay with what he's gonna do the Vicar?"

"Shud up already. I know. She's not that easy to catch...ya can't even catch her with the three yesterday."

"Whose fault is dat!? Ya ran off the gods knows where! Now Vicar will pay for ya dumb move-"

Their voices grew distant, as if they are entering the building.

They have Vicar! Rhea's hand shook, temptation to scale the fence and confront the gang had created tension in her frame. Connor is not wrong... Her stunt last time places her pseudo family in danger one by one. The fire burns within her, whirling this rage and seeping into her chest. Her shaking hand shot up to her mouth and nose to cover the smoke. No matter how enraged, she can't lose herself in the fire again. The last time that happened seared in her mind forever, all the screams of both the innocent and the evil visit her in her dreams.

Not again...

Connor notices her at some point, scanning her body language. Her shaking shoulders and hands covering her face must've hinted that she is on edge, which he won’t be in the wrong. Quietly, he reassures her out of nowhere and his words serves more to agitate her. "Save your tears. Vicar Jal and Ranko won't be staying here for long."

"Not tears..." Rhea moves her heated stare from the ground, then at him to show him exactly that: dried eyes. Frustrated was an understatement, she craves to set the whole mansion on fire. "Mister...?"

She stops herself short of questioning, he isn’t too keen to answer many of those anyway. So, she will give him an ultimatum instead. "I cannot wait a moment longer."

Connor locks eyes, playing some dominance game that she had no intention of losing. The promise to work for him hung by a strained thread. If she loses, there will be no partnership. However, she fails to realize that his goals are already align with her own before she needs to be frustrated.

"We begin our charade now. Come closer." Connor beckons her and for some strange reason she listens to him. Getting any closer will just have them bump arms, too close for her taste. After all, he is a criminal and a man...Those two facts make an individual worse than any mortal kind, the same type of evil that tainted her years prior.

"I...am not seeing...this thing you call charade."

Then she felt it, his strong-arm rope around her waist and carry her like a recently hunted carcass. Leaving her leg and arms hanging, embarrassingly sensing every tone of muscle underneath his sleeve. The panic fills her quickly, constricting her lungs and any words that came out next are panicked squeals. "W-what are you doing!?"

"Shush...play dead.”

Her brow twitches, balling her fists and contemplating punching at a certain unprotected area. In her head she had to chant the sanctity of their partnership. This is the hardest thing for her to follow, and yet she must believe that this man is going to keep his promise. She is still so angry; the anger will have made her ramble. Even her threats sound strange, resembling those of her father's rambles. "Remember Chemuk's intention of mortal kind?"

"There is no time for that." Connor tries to reprimand her with his hushed tone, not understanding where she is leading this question to. Or he isn’t going to try to humor her.

Thy created a man and a woman with tools to create new life. Those tools are exceptionally vulnerable for a man... Those thoughts stay that way, trying to relax her body enough to play dead. Connor is already on the move. To keep calm, she focuses on his footfalls, counting each time his right foot led the other. She never notices before how worn out his boots are really, with patchwork to keep them all together. Although he is a high articulate man with a gait just as posh, it seems she is proven that he is the opposite of rich Moarin folk. He is quite the enigma of a man. She can tell by the shadows on the ground that they are at the door of the mansion, and two more shadows of what must be the guards that step forward. Rhea weakens the tension of her muscles to look more convincing.

"Hey!? Who are yer-"

"Derrell!? Isn't that the lass we've been looking for?"

"By the Gods!? Those locks were unique, I'd say."

"Are you...finished talking amongst yourselves? I'd like to offer your boss a trade." Rhea is starting to get better at recognizing Connor's impatience in his tone. He's quite an impatient individual when crossed, nearly walked out on her when she asked too many questions earlier.

"Um...who are ya to demand-"

"The captain of the Nightmare Maiden...docked in the harbor as we speak."

Nightmare Maiden? Rhea isn't good with stories about the sea. And her father only really told her one story of the Thieves of the Angoran Isles. The self-identification didn’t translate well to her brain. These guards are well educated on the matter.

"Ya the capt'? The very same that snatched the Drake Jewel? The same that broke out of Alabast Prison?"

"I dun't buy it. Too yung, with enuf fingers attached."

"If you have heard of my accomplishments, you must understand that my skills are above average. No matter age and intact appendages thereof." Rhea would have snort at the unbridled confidence; too bad she promised to play 'dead' . Connor wastes no time, dropping his salesman approach. "Take me to your boss. Or perhaps you're implying your boss doesn't want this Krax? I can find plenty of buyers that would easily pay triple for my inconvenience, you will lose your jobs by the end of the day."

Not if I scorch you to ashes...sea-thief.

"Boss'll be mad if he knows we turned him away with the lass."

"Alright, young capt'. Follow."

She can feel Connor start moving, recognizing the shift of weight as he had to accommodate her added weight. Although a normal person might struggle, he did not indicate so and moves around as if he isn’t at all carrying Rhea in one arm. It proves to her that this man had training that weathered his body to an extraordinary example of a mortal kind. She imagined he hid more than he shown beneath the layers of clothing. Do not even dare imagine it!

Connor follows the lackeys, more adds on to the two. With her hearing, she counts about fourteen prowling around them, excluding possibly the gang leader.

"The capt of the Nightmare Maiden requests a trade!"

"...Is this needed?" Connor questions the method of security right out, as if he had any say to it in the first place. This man had no filter.

Confrontational as a Starpecco...

"Ya have no idea what I've been through thanks to that damn Krax bitch!?" There is the booming voice of the gang leader, Death Twisters Kang. From what she recalls, he fit the description of a criminal leader. Death Twisters markings litter on his lanky frame, dark eyes, and a sneer as sick as his thoughts and the actions that follow suit. There are numerous earrings on each ear, necklaces of silver wrap around his protruding gullet. A shiver ran up her spine, the memory of his sick dark eyes glossing over her frame as if she is some meal to have. The promise of what he will do to her if ever caught pimples her skin...