Private Tales Devil Deaings

[Mephistopheles]

Dusk seemed to fall earlier in the city. Tightly packed homes and shops blocked the sun on its evening descent, casting long shadows across narrow streets and alleyways. Sconces were lit by mid-afternoon and flickered beneath the perpetual haze of dusty roads and burning hearths. The shade did little for the heat in a place like this, but it did provide refuge for a night-bound creature. One could traverse the entire expanse of Alliria without ever seeing the sky, if one so chose.

Mephistopheles enjoyed the sky. For most vampires, their mortal life had been but a fraction of their existence. Some could scarcely remember yellow sunlight, or what it felt like to have a beating heart. Elven vampires, on the other hand, had a unique perspective of an already long-lived race. He'd had a good two centuries to enjoy the sunlight before it was taken from him forever, and could still imagine its warmth on his skin.

But memory or not, he did not miss it. The cold and the dark suited him fine. The solitude of night was what he had always preferred. Solitude that was all but impossible to find in one of Arethil's largest cities. For someone who enjoyed being alone, his work almost always involved finding or watching someone.

This time he was seeking connections. Tertiary or, if lucky, secondary relationships to the man he was truly interested in. But that person had proven difficult to pin down, so he had needed to work from the ground up. He had people for this, but this particular investigation was... sensitive in nature. It required a personal touch. It required him.

He had managed to find a landlord in Alliria that owner several properties. Some businesses, a storehouse here and there, but one in particular seemed ripe for probing. A small, frankly shabby establishment with apparently one purveyor, if his sources were to be believed. Much easier, and much safer to start here where he was less likely to be noticed.

The establishment was as described. There was nothing particularly appealing about the shop front, nor was it entirely clear what was being sold. Mephistopheles' black leather boots had been dulled by the dust of the city, and they stepped soundlessly up the few wooden steps to the shop's door. Equally black, exquisitely soft leather gloves rapped at the door.

Bryony

 

[Bryony]

It was a hard thing to admit: Bryony had been struggling for far too long. Since the death of her parents, business had been dwindling. Money, as a consequence, had also become scarce. It seemed more often than not, even the people of Alliria seemed less kind than when her parents were living.

Her gaze fell on the loom in the corner of the room as she gnawed on some stale bread and a hunk of cheese that was certainly past its prime. There was a half-finished tapestry calling to her. She had started working on it weeks ago, but found herself unable to finish it. Every time she attempted to, she found herself sitting in silence and overcome by some deep sadness.

The piece was beautiful. It was intricate and vibrant- a testament to the skills that her parents passed onto her. But that was exactly why she couldn't finish it. She walked over to it, running a hand along the design. It was one that her mother made once, and each time she tried her hand at it, it felt like her mother's gentle voice guided her. Her heart hurt too much to continue.

It seemed this was an issue any time she tried to create tapestries. There were piles of unfinished works spread throughout the room. Many had been sitting so long that a layer of dust had formed over them.

Now she was torn between scrapping the piece and trying something, anything, for some extra coin and leaving it until she could push past her feelings. The former seemed the better option. She had lost her home months ago, and now lived in the back room of the dingy shop. Still, her rent was weeks behind and her landlord's patience was running thin.

There was a knock at the door and Bryony's heart dropped down into her stomach.

"So soon?" She checked her calendar, having marked the date that her landlord had given as his final deadline. She still had time...

She tied her golden hair back with a ribbon and brushed the crumbs from her bread off of her dress before peeking through the curtains. It wasn't her landlord, but she did not know who he was. She hesitated for a moment before creeping to the door. With a deep breath, she opened it. The creaking of the door's aged hinges tainted the stillness of the evening.

"Hello," She greeted the man with the same friendliness that she would have greeted a family member, a bright smile on her face that lit up her pale golden skin. Her freckles, despite having spent very little time outdoors, were still sprinkled across her nose and cheeks. She was every bit of the "little sunshine" people had always referred to her as.

"You must forgive me, I don't typically have visitors to the shop this late. I'm afraid there is very little I can give you unless you were looking for something custom."

 

[Mephistopheles]

The person who opened the door was not what Mephistopheles had been expecting. A shop like this conjured the image of someone equally dirty, disheveled, and mundane. The girl was impoverished, there was no doubt about that, but she was presentable and, he had to recognize, quite beautiful.

Her appearance was enough to give him half a moment’s pause (a lifetime for the spymaster, he was not taken off-guard easily). If his face showed it, however, it was only for an instant before his impassive mask returned.

“Good evening,” he returned the greeting. "I am not here to buy,” he took a look around the dingy interior of the shop, “Though it looks as though I may be able to offer you something instead. I understand you are indebted to a Mr. Porter?"

Mephistopheles clothing was obviously expensive. The black fabrics were shiny and well-fitted, and the leather reinforcements were supple and moved without sound. His boots alone would have cost an Anirian laborer several months' pay, and every clasp and buckle on his person gleamed. The fact that he was well groomed and obviously had the means and time to bathe was an added bonus.

All of this was intentional. Yes, he enjoyed the finer things, but if he was going to convince whomever owned the store that he could assist them, he needed to look the part. If Bryony had any upon first glance, he hoped even a momentary inspection would brush them aside.

"May I come in?"

 

[Bryony]

Her polite smile dropped at the name: Mr. Porter.

"I...yes, I am familiar with him. Yes." Something on the ground seemed to be infinitely more interesting to look at suddenly. "Has he sent you here to collect the coin I owe for rent? I told him...we agreed that I could have some more time. Times have been hard on all of us. But since my parents died I haven't been selling..." She rambled about her troubles for a few minutes before she managed to shut her mouth.

She sighed heavily. "Tell him I don't have the money yet." She tried to sound confident. Tried and failed.

May I come in?

Bryony looked back up at him, eyeing the clothing he wore. He dressed too nicely to have been shopping in her district anyway. He dressed nicer than Mr. Porter, even. She looked out into the street. Guards, while entirely useless half of the time, were still patrolling. Certainly they would hear if something went wrong, so Bryony went against her better judgment and opened the door a little more widely. "Yes, but I apologize for the mess. I was not expecting visitors."

She swiped something from beside the door. A crude blade that looked more appropriate for a child's hand than an adult woman. Her father had given it to her when she was a child. She had never used it, but he had always warned her that she was too trusting. She slipped it into the pocket of her dress and kept one hand on it while she allowed the stranger to enter her home.

 

[Mephistopheles]

Mephistopheles felt an invisible barrier drop from in front of him as he was invited inside. It was always so easy, he mused to himself. Until this moment, Bryony had had immeasurably powerful protection from him. He could not have set foot inside her shop, nor any part of this structure without her permission, and she just gave it to him. Manners were his greatest weapons.

He nodded in thanks to her invitation and stepped across the threshold unimpeded. "I am not here on behalf of Mr. Porter. On the contrary, it is him who owes something to me." A lie, but a very well-delivered lie. "Unfortunately he is a rather difficult man to get ahold of."

He stepped further into the shop and ran his gloved fingers over a small, dusty table, rubbing his fingers together to remove the pale residue. His expression gave a hint of disapproval at the clutter, though it would serve his purposes well.

He took a seat in front of the half-finished tapestry, facing Bryony and folding his hands neatly in his lap. "I need you to make sure he comes to visit you personally. No errand boys, no enforcers, himself. In return, I can make sure you are never indebted to him again." His dark eyes danced over the contours of Bryony's body. He had eaten just recently, it was odd for him to feel a wriggling hunger so soon.

 

[Bryony]

"Mr. Porter owes you?" Bryony closed the door behind the stranger and turned to watch him swiping his hands over her furniture. She hadn't realized how long it had been since she was motivated to clean something, to make the place she once loved back into the home she was proud of. Her cheeks turned a burning pink in embarrassment.

She could feel him staring at her while he waited for an answer. Her face burned brighter. "He stops by every few weeks to ask if I have the money I owe him. In person." She stepped over to the pathetic excuse of a kitchen and picked up a kettle. The place may have looked like a disaster ripped through it, but the least she could do was feed or offer tea to her guest.

She worked as she spoke. "He's never sent anyone to see me. It has always been him. But I couldn't tell you a specific day or time he might come." She set the kettle over the flame. "What is it you need from him? I could ask next time he stops by," she offered, "or I could give him your address so that he might visit you."

 

[Mephistopheles]

Mephistopheles' face dropped just a hair. He didn't like unknowns and variables. "Is there no one who could be contacted to ensure he stops by soon?" Unlikely. If there were, he could have spoken to them instead of this girl. He huffed a short, annoyed sigh.

"What is it you need from him? I could ask next time he stops by,"

"No, if he knows I am here he will not come. If he wished to speak to me I could have arranged something more direct and not imposed upon your..." he cast a dark glance over the shop once more, "...hospitality."

He sat up straighter in the chair and started to pull off the soft leather gloves, folding them neatly in his lap as he did so with pale hands. "But, if that is the case, I will need to impose upon you further. I will need to stay here to await Mr. Porter's arrival."

He said it matter-of-factly, as though it were a logical and normal consequence of the evening's conversation. "I will pay you, of course, and I shan't require meals, just a small room with a chair, preferably a desk or small table, and some candles." He unclasped the front of his leather vest to show fine black fabric beneath. He took another look around the store, making a mental inventory.

He was not particularly awaiting a response from Bryony. He had not asked a question, after all.

 

[Bryony]

"No," Bryony frowned, "Not that I am aware of at least. Like I said, he stops by every few weeks and asks for money. I'm afraid I have no relationship with the man beyond that." She stepped to a cabinet, bracing the door which looked like it might fall off if she pulled the it too roughly, and plucked two chipped teacups. One, she placed in front of an unoccupied chair. The other, in front of the stranger.

Again, she frowned. "I am sorry, really." She turned away once more to prepare bags of tea that she would place in each cup. "My home is not equipped for...visitors," it was not true. Her home had two bedrooms- one, the room she'd spent in childhood, the other belonged to her parents. It, of course, contained each element he'd requested, but she couldn't let him enter. She rarely entered since their death, afraid of disturbing any bit of it.

"And I don't wish to be rude, but I don't know you. You haven't given me your name, nor have you even asked mine." The kettle whistled. Bryony turned her attention towards it. His promise of payment was tempting. Part of her almost accepted on that alone, but she still remained wary as she poured each a cup of spearmint tea.