Crows and Coins » Places

         

Gildan Lodes and Makava

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Korrigan's marketplace was often a bustle of activity, regardless of the time of day. The only thing that changed between the sun coming up and going down was the wares you could expect to find. During the day, it was a gleaming jewel of trade between several nations, bringing everything from fine silks and honed weapons to sturdy slaves and amazing food. During the night was where the more pleasurable items could be procured. Drugs, illegal liquor, prostitutes and even assassins were known to display their talents for sale if you knew where to look. Luckily, or unluckily depending on how you viewed it, it was early morning and all the legitimate traders were out hocking their wares with all the fervor of a blood crazed berserker. Among them was an actual berserker, as Makava stood over a table with dozens of parchments laid over it, some covering others and most looking as if someone had been part way through ripping them.

Beside her, Brock pointed to some of the words, speaking slowly so that Makava could clearly understand what was being said even as she appeared to either be extremely bored or extremely agitated. It was sometimes hard to tell with the woman. Behind her stood ten slaves, all male, and all of them in peak physical condition. They were naked save for a loin cloth that left nothing to the imagination and a rather prominent collar around their neck that identified them as Makava's property. Unlike the other slavers in the market though, Makava's merchandise had a distinct lack of chains or other restrictive items that would prevent them from running off. Yet none of them showed the slightest inkling of darting for the nearest crowd and escaping into the throng of potential customers. Makava rubbed a hand down her face, grabbing her jaw and yanking open her mouth before finally dropping her limb to her side once again.

"This one wants to give us 300 gold pieces to train several of his slaves in gladiatorial combat." Brock stated, tracing the words on the paper with his finger more for Makava's benefit than anything else. He spoke in the Free Tongue, it was simply easier this way most days. Makava rose an eyebrow before picking up the parchment and ripping it to shreds, throwing the bits into the air and watching the wind send them scattering all over the market place.

"Train them? I don't train slaves that aren't mine! Idiot." Makava stated, her free tongue speech coming out guttural and almost barbarian like. Brock gave a nod moving onto the next piece of paper detailing yet another deal as Makava took a step back, grabbed a chair and spun it around into a sitting position. She sat down in it, leaned back and just as it was starting to fall over, one of the slaves behind her caught it and held it up. She must have planned for that because she didn't move through the entire thing. Instead her arms hung limply at her sides as she stared up at the sky. Brock continued reading the parchments, and it took him several moments to realize that Makava was no longer paying attention. He glanced back at her, seeing her posture and noticing that her eyes were closed.

"Do you wish to do something else for the moment ma'am?" Brock stated, his voice respectful and light, almost soft. Makava raised her arms, flailing them slightly as the slave behind her didn't move from his position, holding up her chair as if that was his sole job in life.

"I'm tired of listening to this...I want to go to the fighting pits." Brock looked down at the ground for a moment.

"With what happened yesterday, the Oskannan pit is off limits to you until you pay them recompense for interrupting a fight." Makava's head shot up, a glare very evident on her face. Brock looked over at the table, sorting through a few papers before pulling up a smaller one. Brock gave a quick cough and was about to read it when Makava shot up, grabbing the piece of paper from his hand and reading it as fast as her nearly illiterate mind would allow her. It took a few minutes longer than it would have if Brock had just read it, but when she was done she placed it on the table, drew an axe and drove it clear through the wooden surface. Brock didn't respond, preferring to stand still with his hands clasped behind his back. Makava gave a frustrated yell, wandering over and tossing the chair off to the side.

"Gildan Lodes, a pleasure to see you again." Brock stated in Free Tongue.

“As always, Brock,” Gil reflected back in the Free Tongue, swaggering through the throes of hockers and slaves alike. His pale eyes reflected the baubles and chains hanging from the nearby wagons, as if he were sparing them the briefest of glances. Old habits died hard. His eyes traveled to the toppled chair, and the axe jutting out of the table like Makava had meant to cleave the damned thing in half, “Little bear seems agitated. Who pissed her off this time?” Even if he’d acclimatized to Korrigan’s bastardized way of living… his accent certainly hadn’t lost any of its guttural edge, rolling over his tongue as if he’d come fresh off the plains.

He already knew the answer. Everyone—probably. There was no end to the things that pissed her off. Usually it teetered between tossing furniture around, destroying things, and drawing blood and toppling heads from shoulders; there wasn’t much of an in-between. Her lack of hesitation to do anything was admirable, if he tilted his head just right and stayed on the sidelines. Much like the Madame of the Aviary, if he didn’t tread on her toes, and avoided her business in the pits, they had no problems.

Friends, almost. Bastards who tossed back ale like they needed it to breathe.

Comrades in booze, more like. Makava had a way of looking straight through you, reading your intentions clear as day and while he doubted she knew the extent of his night-time business, he didn't think she’d even care. They both washed their hands clean of blood at the end of the day. Frequently. Neither of them regretted their choices, either. Not from what he could tell, anyhow. He rubbed at the scruff on his chin and rocked back on his heels, watching Maka’s retreating form with interest.

A shame, really. She’d cut his balls off before he had the chance to lavish her with sweet words. Gil had known that the first time he’d met her. Luckily enough for him, it was a lesson he’d learned quickly before facing any real consequences. She bore scars he didn’t understand. Perhaps, never would. Loose-lipped? Hardly. Even when drunk, she hadn’t shed light on anything to do with her past. In retrospect, neither had he.

He waggled his eyebrows, and frowned at the pinned paperwork. All work and no play obviously didn’t suit Makava very well, "Business. Paperwork. No fun at all."

"It would seem that way." Brock stated, peering down at a couple papers and making it quite evident he was trying to see if there was anything sensitive that Gil shouldn't see, but after a moment seemed to give up his search. Brock stared back at Makava, who at this point had literally destroyed the chair with her own bare hands in a blind rage over what Brock would consider a minor inconvenience. "Makava, you have company." Makava whipped around, her eyes frantic and a piece of wood torn from the chair hefted in her hand like a club. When she saw Gil, it was like a switch was flipped as a broad smile covered her face and she threw the makeshift weapon into the crowd of would be buyers. There was a loud thunk followed by a couple of quiet gasps and even a bit of laughter as the beam found its mark on someone's head. She strode forward, slamming her hands on the table and revealing that her smile was more of the predatory nature.

"Gil face!" She stated, her eyes looking him over for a moment before narrowing her eyes. "I'm noticing a distinct lack of booze on your person."

"The sun has barely risen Makava." Brock stated, which earned a hearty rip as Makava tore the axe from the table and replaced it on her belt, a large chunk of the surface now missing.

"I'm awake, which means I can get drunk, and I'm better at making deals when I'm drunk."

"Well, better at not lopping a man's arm off anyways." Brock stated quietly, earning a sharp glare from Makava.

"I need another chair and table, make it happen!" Makava took a coin purse and tossed it to Brock. "And make it sturdy! The last one crumpled like that slave merchant yesterday."

"Because you tore it apart." Brock stated, the resignation heavy in his face. Makava grabbed him by the collar and dragged him down to eye level.

"Sturdy." She seethed through her teeth, which earned a slight nod as Brock disappeared into the throng of people to find some new furniture for her stall. With that business out of the way, she looked back to Gil, the same predatory smile seeping onto her face. "Now, Gil face, what brings you here? You want to buy a slave? I brought out my prime stock this morning."

Bad luck for anyone who did—seeing how vicious Makava could be with inanimate objects, Gil imagined that the only reason she was this pissed off was because she couldn’t let loose on the person who’d inflicted her ire. Probably something to do with her business in the pits; try to tear her away from that and… it was best not to think of the consequences, though he wouldn’t mind seeing someone else at the receiving end of her anger. It reminded him of his days in the Wastes. On the plains, where feats of strength and flaring nostrils were as common as hocking oysters and fish at the docks. A way of life that Makava had taken with her, more like than not.

A grin broke out across his face, as he dropped his hand away from his chin. Quick as a whip, she was. Or as brutal as a storm, sweeping across poor Korrigan with the force of an axe, cleaved into its wooden heart. He often wondered what she thought of all this—the politics, and the fact that the council treated her people like shit. Did she seethe at the bit? Froth at the idea of slitting their throats? He did. At night, during the day. Whenever he shuttered his eyes closed. It was enough to get his blood boiling. He held out his hands, palms facing upward, and shrugged his shoulders, “Had a bit of business at the Aviary. Didn’t need any at the time.”

Business, indeed.

Better deals. Gil wasn’t sure about that. Maka had the habit of scaring someone so badly into accepting a deal… that booze was entirely unrequired. Unless it was for the potential customer’s sake—grow enough balls on them to stare down the sharp end of an axe, and the wild eyes that spun on the woman’s predatory face. Houndish as he was, coupled with his unquenchable appetite, Makava was the only one who seemed capable of toppling him. Sometimes, he felt more like a rat being chased by beast in her presence. He didn’t mind at all.

How Brock mouthed off to her without being on the receiving end of her annoyance was anyone’s guess. Their history must’ve ran deeper than he thought. A curious relationship that he often wondered about. Though he’d never wondered aloud. Big man serving a small, big woman.

“Never for that,” he allowed his hawkish gaze to sweep across the mostly nude slaves, standing solidly behind them. There was a look to his eye that spoke volumes, though his words always read between the lines, “they’d be wasted on me.” Unless he was buying them for unrelated… purposes, he’d never have any need for them. His rats fought for the freedom of Korrigan. Nothing more, nothing less. He never owned anyone or anything. He wanted to keep it that way.

“I would like to buy information, little bear. Some that only you’d know. Care for a drink? Several?”

Makava's eyes narrowed at Gil, his familiar tone and smile a welcome sight as far as Makava was concerned but she had learned to be careful around this man. She kept him in her sights at all times, like an eagle hunting a mouse even if she didn't mind sharing a drink with her kinsmen. With a quick dash of speed, she slid across the table to stand in front of Gil. Papers were sent flying in every which direction, but a quick snap of the fingers had three of the slaves behind her quickly moving to gather them up. "Information? You always want information. You never once come see me just to see me anymore." Makava gave a slight pouty face, or at least the best one she could muster. To be honest it came across more as a snarl than anything, but she thought the point was made. Almost as quickly as the expression formed, it was replaced with a hearty 'Hah!' before she slapped both of Gil's shoulders. "Good, I ain't one for sob shit. You want info, I want booze, money and violence, not necessarily in that order! Where's the bottle?"

Gil’s grin hadn’t faltered even as she vaulted over the table, standing in front of him as if she were ready to tear him down. A weaker man would’ve been shaking in his boots. Someone not of the Free Folk would’ve faltered under her gaze, let alone her dominating presence. If the circumstances would’ve been different, he wouldn’t have minded the tussle. She was not, however, one for warm brushes, and poetic dissertations. He spared no sweet words for her—no lies, no deceits. Nearly all Free Folk operated under the motto of no bullshit. She was no exception. Nobles, and the easily offended would’ve wanted his head immediately for the things he said. Though, he was sure, if she’d wanted him dead, he would’ve been rotting in the gutter ages ago.

“Do you miss me that much?” The grin wobbled into a wolfish expression, though it tempered itself into an innocent smile just as quickly. True enough. He didn’t mind wasting his time if Makava was around. She was good fun. Had a strong stomach, and no manners to speak of. Just the type of person he liked having around. It was a shame that she was on the council, representing something he wanted utterly destroyed. If she wasn’t all about her business; the pits, her slaves… she would’ve made a fine ally against his many enemies. He faltered back a step when she slapped both his arms, clearly not expecting it. A bark of laughter still snaked its way out.

“Fair price. That, I can do,” he glanced over her shoulder, deeper into the marketplace, and looked back down at Makava, “The Pig’s Head is nearby. Sinder owes me a bottle of dragon’s piss.” He paused briefly and grinned again, “Y’know what they say about the walls having ears. I’d rather not lop any more off than’s needed.”

"If anyone bothers us, or tries to listen in on our dealings, heads will roll." Whenever someone said that, it usually translated to 'someone will be getting into a lot of trouble'. Whenever Makava said it, it was to be taken as literally as possible. Makava held up a singular finger, walking over to the table and grabbing one of the quills that had miraculously managed to stay on the table despite everything happening to the piece of furniture. She read as quickly as she could through a couple of sheets before finding one that was unimportant enough to not miss. She flipped it over, and in the worst writing one has probably ever seen, spelled 'WAIT' on it in Darini. She then walked around the table, grabbing the closest slave by the arm and shoving the written article into his hands. She guided them into a position so that the paper was visible to everyone who wandered nearby before she stared into the slave's eyes. "I'm grabbing a drink. What do you do in the meantime?"

"We wait ma'am." The slaves replied in unison in a mix of Free Speech and Darini. Makava gave a nod.

"And if anyone gives you any trouble?"

"We kill them ma'am." Once again in unison, resulting in yet another predatory grin from Makava before she backhanded the slave in front of her on the stomach.

"Good, Brock will be back soon, don't do anything else until then." Makava turned back to Gil, her steps almost prancing at the thought of getting more liquor into her system. Makava grabbed Gil, flipping him around and giving him a slight push as she reached him. "What are you waiting for, drinks won't be drunk by themselves!"

That was something Gil had no doubt of. Heads would roll. Several, if necessary. Makava’s smile was anything but innocent when she made statements like that. She’d have no qualms bloodying the streets if he were to say that they’d heard something they shouldn’t have. In many cases, he was no different. Killing his own people, however? No. He’d do anything in his power to avoid that. If they stepped on his toes, and betrayed his cause—they were his people no longer. Fair game, in a sense. Even so, he didn’t like the idea of striking anyone on his side. Who’d willingly grovel at the council’s feet? Who’d accept the hand they were given? Fuck that.

He watched as Makava stalked back towards the table. A predator on a mission; even more, a domineering presence that towered above them all, even if she physically did not. His lidded eyes watched her snatch up a quill and turn back towards the remaining parchments still on the table. He hadn’t seen what she’d written down but assumed it was important. Orders, maybe. He rocked back on his heels and swallowed down the laughter blooming in his chest. Seeing a quill in her hands was possibly the strangest thing he’d seen all day. An axe, a sword… a scalp might’ve been better suited. A small, tempered smile tugged up the corner of his lips as he watched the slaves’ well-rehearsed reactions. Yes ma'am. No ma'am.

Well-trained. Well-mannered. Good fighters. A stack of wolves in a marketplace of sheep.

A hum sounded in the back of his throat as he allowed her to spin him around in the opposite direction. Gil leaned back slightly against her hand, and laughed. “Time waits for no one,” he mused and stepped into the push, hands held up in front of him, “When’s the last time you had any fun? Seems like it’s been awhile. All business lately, eh?” The answer he received was a grunt that was somewhere along the lines of 'yep' and 'fuck off'. He led them through the throng of merchant’s, and other, less successful slave-owners tapping striped backs and peeling lips back to reveal teeth to potential buyers. He ignored them and weaved between people, occasionally tipping his head into a nod when passing some of his eyes, his rats.

It didn’t take them long to reach the Pig’s Head. A grungy tavern with no door to speak of, full of piss and vinegar if you asked anyone in Korrigan. Renown for rough-housing mercenaries and an unsavory crowd of individuals. Perfect company, in his opinion. From the looks of it, there were already drunkards seated outside, slobbering all over themselves or grappling onto their companions, voices risen to drunken babbles. Gil inclined his head and swept a hand ahead of him. Not that Makava ever needed an invitation. She’d probably push ahead of him, anyway.

Makava didn't really need the gesture from Gil in order to continue into the inebriating heaven that was the Pig's Head. She pushed through the door, and was greeted first with the smell of piss, liquor, sweat, and possibly some kind of spice. Honestly, she had never figured that last one out, and to some degree it bothered her but ultimately the entire combination spelled 'home' far more than any merchant's stall or hovel. A few of the patrons stopped to stare at the newcomers as they strode through the bar, but there was no need to even register their presence as Makava led them to a table off to the side and less populated than the other sections of the bar. She grabbed one of the chairs, and oddly enough pressed down on the seat with her hand first. She had had a couple of these dive bar chairs collapse under her weight, and she would be damned if she went through that embarrassment again. With the chair passing her made up inspection, she finally sat and stared at Gil as he took the opposing seat from her. For a moment, nothing was said as she took a brief few moments to size him up once more, this time trying to glean any inward knowledge as to what kind of information he would want. Normally she would just assume something on the Merchant Council since he had asked a couple times about them, but she doubted that was the case this time. He was a sly one, a man who constantly tried and sometimes succeeded at keeping Makava on her toes despite them never actually crossing blades.

Within a minute, a lowly wench with more dirt and grime on her features than colors on her dress stopped at their table. A simple round pan was held flat against her waist as she looked the two over. "What can I get you?" She asked in Darini, either not cluing in to the nationality of the people she was serving or simply not being able to speak Free Tongue. Makava looked up at the woman, her mind taking a moment to grasp the words as it always seemed to do whenever it came to a language that wasn't her native one.

"Strong." Was all Makava answered back in Darini, and even then the accent was incredibly thick. The woman raised an eyebrow at her.

"I'm sorry...Strong?"

"Don't care drink. Strong." Makava sputtered. The woman just gave a brief nod before looking to Gil.

"And for you?"

“Tell Growley the rats are in. He’ll know what to give you. Two cups.” A wry wink accompanied Gil’s words, as he nodded his head towards Makava. Her piss-poor attempt at speaking Darini only widened the grin on his face. His own came out smoothly. As if he’d lived on the streets his whole life. The notion wasn’t completely wrong. The grungy barmaid only rolled her eyes, swaggering away back towards the bar.

He tapped two fingers across one of the knots gnarled into the table, and waited until their cups and bottles were placed in front of them before speaking again. Who’d willingly talk without swill warming their bellies? Not many. Especially not with the subject at hand. There was a good chance that Makava would keep tight-lipped about what he was planning to ask—he’d planned around that too. Planned around everything. Usually. It was what kept him alive for so long. He’d cut straight to the heart of things, as usual.

After pouring himself, and Makava, a glassful of amber liquid, Gil set it to his lips and took a long dredge. It immediately warmed his gullet. Felt more like fire than anything else, which was why he liked it. Reminded him of his homeland. Of the hunting brew they made from whatever it was they used in the Hills. “Heard Doran came back through the gates. Looked like shit too,” a sigh sifted past his lips as he studied Makava’s face, “I lost track of him.” His rats had, at least. Where he’d gone was anyone’s guess, but if he was dragging his haunches like a wounded dog… it was a perfect opportunity.

“Thought you might know where he is, if he was planning to come back. Maybe there was one of your fancy meetings planned.” Honestly, he wasn’t even sure if Makava ever bothered with them. Though, it was worth a shot. She wouldn’t help him directly, but any information at this point was valuable.

Makava stared at the liquid filling her cup, giving it a good long sniff, almost as if she planned to snort the alcohol instead of drink it like any normal person would. It reminded her of her homeland, a bittersweet aroma that filled her with memories both happy and miserable. She took a sip of it, a jarring view against her otherwise 'jump first' personality and mentality, before she downed the entire cup in one go. She let loose a long sigh of contentment after it was done, followed by a small burp that she only partially tried to cover up before grabbing the bottle and pouring herself another cup. She was so concerned with getting her early morning buzz on that she almost didn't register Gil's statement and followup non-question. He was prying, although his goal was unknown. She looked up, a smirk on her face as she did so. She wasn't one for hiding anything, even when it came to giving indications of when she knew when she was trying to be used. She didn't mind it from Gil though, mainly because this wasn't always the case and she rarely found someone who could keep up to her tolerance levels.

"You mean the Inquisi-fucker thing? Yeah, people been talking about him coming through the gates, not really common knowledge yet though." Makava stated in a surprising amount of clarity to her words, considering she didn't really pay much attention to anything that was outside her particular bubble of the world. What she was failing to tell him was the fact that the Merchant Council had known about his appearance for nearly a week ahead of time. The rest of the council had been running scared, plans upon plans being implemented to make sure their fortunes would be safe. The only reason Makava remembered that meeting is because she told at least three of the other merchants to shove her axe up their asses blade first. They were annoying to deal with normally, with the added stress it was making her itch to kill something. Makava stopped for a second, glancing over at Gil between taking swigs of the liquor to weigh her options. As stated previously, she didn't know his end goal, but she didn't think that him knowing the Inquisitor's current location was going to do anything that would annoy her way of life. If it did, he would answer to her, and by all that was unholy he would answer in broken bones if she got a hold of him in a bad mood.

"Last I heard, he was at the Top of the Hill." A slang term for Lady Marinne's castle. A bit of information passed down from one of the other merchant council members just the other day, the meeting where Makava had snored halfway through the discussion. Once again, what she was failing to tell him were the details surrounding his appearance and his path that was taken from the gate to the castle, something he would undoubtedly be interested in if he was searching for the man in the first place. "Why so concerned with the Inquisi Gil face? You a witch or somethin'?" She joked, leaning across the table slightly with yet another one of her sharp toothed smiles.

Gil finished his own cup in one, swift gulp. He paused for a moment and cocked his head to the side. Though his attention quickly pulled away from her face and back towards the bottle. As if he were mulling her words through his head, which he was. He tumbled them around like dice, weighed them against whatever information he did know. This game, however, wasn’t one of chance. It never was. No, she didn’t operate like that. She’d share only what he wanted to share, when she wanted to share it. He poured himself another glass. He’d pace himself.

“Yeah. The Inquisi-fucker.” If someone asked him what was wrong with that bloody religion… he could’ve gone on for days—years, almost. Bloody awful, it was. Given the chance, he’d tear the whole thing sect down. Set it on fire, chew them up and spit them out. How much damage had they already caused in Korrigan? Too much. They poisoned everything they touched. His smirk was all teeth; bared against something that left a bitter taste in his mouth. He tapped the side of his temple, and shrugged his shoulders, “I’ve got eyes. Though apparently, not enough.”

Top of the Hill. With that she-devil of a woman. Sitting pretty in her fancy estate, no doubt lounging on a throne. He didn’t know much about her. From all the whispers on the streets, he’d heard that the women on the council were three times as frightening as the men. If they were anything like Makava and the Madame, he supposed it was probably true. If he was there, he was out of reach. On the streets? That was a different matter. He owned them. The slums, and the grimier parts, at least.

“I’d like to see ‘em dead,” the statement was said with a stern face, though it wobbled away into a grin and broke out into laughter. He snickered into his glass and tipped it back to his lips, choosing to take a longer swig this time. The word witch earned little more than an incredulous eyebrow, as if it were a ridiculous comment to make, “Got business with him, is all. Slew-eyed bastard wouldn’t dirty his pretty boots in the slums. What’s a man to do when the council’s too good to hear its people out?” A pause, and a heartbeat late, “No offense.”

A lie wasn’t exactly a lie if it was dressed up in truths; however casual they appeared.

"Stop bullshitting me." Makava almost immediately responded, taking another swig. "You want to kill the fucker, no need to dress it up and make it look pretty. Corpses tend to not look that way." She seemed to blow past the half-way insult from Gil about the Merchant council, mainly because he wasn't wrong. The council was formed to help the people who were actually in it, not the common folk or other would be traders. Makava had been asked to join awhile ago because she took the slave trade by storm, or to put it a bit more specifically, she cornered the gladiatorial market with her slaves and by extension started pushing other slavers out of the area. When they had first approached her, she had come very close to caving their skulls in and getting rid of the problem, luckily or unluckily, she had Brock by that point who had warned her against such actions and given her the upside to actually joining them. She would be the first to admit that she wasn't an advocate of the people, they were a bonus on her road to better her own way of life and those of her slaves. Free trade released her from the shackles that the council had arbitrarily placed on her, if it benefited other people in the long run, all the power to them but that wasn't her goal.

Makava gave a small smirk. She wasn't one for playing the 'game' as some were, but her intuition had gotten her this far and so long as she relied on it she seemed to get by just fine. "Going to be pretty hard to get to him for that Gil Face, especially with what's following in his wake." Makava gave a small laugh, she loved it when she knew something that Gil didn't if only because it gave her a small sense of victory that usually only came with blood.

Gil’s snort was far more honest this time. As expected, Makava had read straight through him. He didn’t particularly mind. Not with her, at least. It wasn’t likely that she’d try severing his head from his shoulders for… heretical, blasphemous notions. Sometimes, just saying so in Korrigan, in front of the wrong people, would send you straight to the block or ropes; neither options he fancied. He’d rather die bleeding in the streets, where he belonged. “Fine, fine. You’re right,” his smile only wavered a fraction, “I do want him dead.” This, however, was stated with a straight face; an expression tempered with countless sacrifices, those already made, and those to come.

“Don’t suppose you’d be willing to part with any information for free,” his eyebrows raised inquiringly. He’d come into this with low expectations—though they were there all the same, idling in the background like a hound feverishly pulling at its reigns. He wanted it. Badly. Makava was as flighty as she was violent. If she didn’t feel like giving him anything… she simply wouldn’t. “Didn’t think you liked the bastard either. Wouldn’t I be doing you a favor? Maybe someone better will take his place. Maybe, it wouldn’t need filling at all.”

"Don't pretend to know my intentions Gil Face, you're better than that." Makava stated, her smile gone and her eyes piercing through his for a moment before she waved the bar wench over, who did so with somewhat of an eye roll. Something that Makava had to physically hold herself back from decking her in the face for. As she approached the table, she pointed at the bottle. "One more." she stated in Darini before pointing at Gil. "His tab." The wench gave a nod before walking away. Makave returned her full attention to the man in front of her, placing her chin in her hand as if she was completely bored of the conversation already.

"Killing him doesn't affect me in the slightest, unless I started praising some blasphemous god or shooting fire out of my hands." Makava traced a circle in the table surface. "Really, he just doesn't concern me... nor does his small army he'll be bringing in a week's time." Makava let the info slip pretty easily, her reasons for doing so having been stated pretty clearly. Alive or dead, the Inquisitor wasn't her problem and she couldn't care less about what happened to him or his dogs. "Rumor has it that he's going to be performing some sort of operation here in Korrigan, the likes of which haven't been touched upon by anyone I talk to, but chances are it won't be nice for anyone of the magical persuasion." The wench came back, placing another bottle on the table before leaving to help some other customers. Makava grabbed both bottles, what was left of the first one anyways, before standing from her position.

"End of the day, what you do with this information is your own choice, but you'll have a week before you have the full force of the Inquisition present in the city. So good luck with that Gil Face." Makava wandered around the table, holding both bottles in one hand as she stood before him. "Do your best to not die, I don't often get free booze without some drunk assholes hitting on me... Dumb fucks." Makava took the last drink out of the previously opened bottle before tossing it carelessly onto the table and watching it roll onto the floor on the opposite side. She gave a shrug, before leaving with a simple wave and exiting the bar. She had been away from the stall for long enough, plus she had a bottle of liquor. She could make it through the rest of the day now... maybe... probably not.

Gil watched her swagger out the door without so much as a goodbye, as if telling him not to die was something of the same fashion. He lifted his hand in a small wave, even if she was gone by the time he'd done so. A small smile twisted on his lips, pulling back to bear his teeth. That was enough to go on. It wouldn't elude his rats if he was planning something in Korrigan. These things always happened in public. Why do something in secret when it was far more effective to strike fear in their wretched, corrupted hearts? No. He'd see him soon enough. Like Makava said, he'd do his best not to die.