- Messages
- 19
- Character Biography
- Link
Hazen’s grin was wide enough to be wicked as she spoke of never wanting to be posh.
“You can be whatever the fuck you want to be, love,” he said easily, tugging up his sleeve and showing her the rough scar burned into his forearm, a faded cross, the mark of a former slave. His smirk softened for just a breath. “Hazen Cross,” he said, giving her the whole name, like it actually meant something for once. “I bought my freedom with mine.”
When she finally said she was in, his hazel eyes danced. “Atta girl,” he said, clapping his hands together once and rubbing them together. “Alright then, champ. Tonight at the Crooked Mare,” he reminded her, dipping his chin with a sly look before flipping a coin to the bartender on his way out.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
By the time Suzy approached the Crooked Mare, Hazen was already leaning in the shadows of the street outside, collecting coin from a few lingering patrons before they descended below.
“You're about to lose that smirk for once, Ghost..” one of them muttered as he handed Hazen his stake.
“Ah lads, afraid I'm stuck with it,” Hazen said with a grin, shaking his head and pocketing the coin deep into his jacket before glancing up and spotting her.
“There she is…” he said, stepping out of the gloom into the warm glow of a swinging lantern. He moved to throw an arm around her shoulder like they’d known each other for years, giving her a squeeze before steering her toward the door. “Busy one tonight. Hope you’re ready for it,” he smirked, his tone equal parts teasing and excited.
Inside, the Crooked Mare was almost deceptively quiet - a handful of old drunks nursing tankards, the faint smell of pipe smoke clinging to the air. Hazen strode to the corner, stomped his boot hard twice on the floorboards. The sound echoed. A moment later, a trapdoor creaked open and a burly, fuck ugly man poked his head up, nodding once in recognition.
“Evening gorgeous,” Hazen said with a crooked grin, jerking his head toward Suzy. “Got business.”
The man stepped aside with a roll of his eyes and a muttered "'aven't you always." Hazen motioned for her to follow him down the steep, narrow stairs into the underbelly of the city.
And suddenly, there was chaos.
The sound hit first: the roar of a crowd, the crack of fists against flesh, the clatter of coin as bets were shouted and slammed down. The air was thick with sweat, smoke, spilled drink, and blood. Salacious women laughed and coaxed drunken men into darker corners, coin purses vanished from belts when no one was looking, and the entire place felt alive.
Hazen guided her through the throng to a balcony that overlooked the pit three levels below, a circle of sand stained with old blood, where two hulking men circled one another like wolves. The crowd leaned forward as a blow landed, roaring its approval.
Hazen turned to watch Suzy’s expression, clearly enjoying every second of her reaction.
“Got a fair wager goin’ on you already,” he said, having to raise his voice above the din. The smirk that followed was positively wicked.
“You can be whatever the fuck you want to be, love,” he said easily, tugging up his sleeve and showing her the rough scar burned into his forearm, a faded cross, the mark of a former slave. His smirk softened for just a breath. “Hazen Cross,” he said, giving her the whole name, like it actually meant something for once. “I bought my freedom with mine.”
When she finally said she was in, his hazel eyes danced. “Atta girl,” he said, clapping his hands together once and rubbing them together. “Alright then, champ. Tonight at the Crooked Mare,” he reminded her, dipping his chin with a sly look before flipping a coin to the bartender on his way out.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
By the time Suzy approached the Crooked Mare, Hazen was already leaning in the shadows of the street outside, collecting coin from a few lingering patrons before they descended below.
“You're about to lose that smirk for once, Ghost..” one of them muttered as he handed Hazen his stake.
“Ah lads, afraid I'm stuck with it,” Hazen said with a grin, shaking his head and pocketing the coin deep into his jacket before glancing up and spotting her.
“There she is…” he said, stepping out of the gloom into the warm glow of a swinging lantern. He moved to throw an arm around her shoulder like they’d known each other for years, giving her a squeeze before steering her toward the door. “Busy one tonight. Hope you’re ready for it,” he smirked, his tone equal parts teasing and excited.
Inside, the Crooked Mare was almost deceptively quiet - a handful of old drunks nursing tankards, the faint smell of pipe smoke clinging to the air. Hazen strode to the corner, stomped his boot hard twice on the floorboards. The sound echoed. A moment later, a trapdoor creaked open and a burly, fuck ugly man poked his head up, nodding once in recognition.
“Evening gorgeous,” Hazen said with a crooked grin, jerking his head toward Suzy. “Got business.”
The man stepped aside with a roll of his eyes and a muttered "'aven't you always." Hazen motioned for her to follow him down the steep, narrow stairs into the underbelly of the city.
And suddenly, there was chaos.
The sound hit first: the roar of a crowd, the crack of fists against flesh, the clatter of coin as bets were shouted and slammed down. The air was thick with sweat, smoke, spilled drink, and blood. Salacious women laughed and coaxed drunken men into darker corners, coin purses vanished from belts when no one was looking, and the entire place felt alive.
Hazen guided her through the throng to a balcony that overlooked the pit three levels below, a circle of sand stained with old blood, where two hulking men circled one another like wolves. The crowd leaned forward as a blow landed, roaring its approval.
Hazen turned to watch Suzy’s expression, clearly enjoying every second of her reaction.
“Got a fair wager goin’ on you already,” he said, having to raise his voice above the din. The smirk that followed was positively wicked.