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"Life is blood and sweat, but tears are not meant for us."

0 · 980 views · located in Terradeth

a character in “Crows and Coins”, originally authored by Quakernuts, as played by RolePlayGateway


Makava (Mah-Kay-Vah)
"Blood for money! Money for blood!"


Long, blonde and rarely in any state of ‘cleanliness’. Often dirty and tangled, sometimes with a speck or two of blood in it.
Facial Hair:
Lean and toned
Skin Tone:
Deeply tanned.
155 lbs
Reminiscent of both a child and a brutish warrior, Makava’s voice rings out with an almost gutteral reverberation to it. It holds no refinement or restriction, instead coming from deep within her and approaching the world like stampeding bulls.
Body Markings:
Scar Tissue:
Multiple spots over her body, too many to count.
Unique Body Features:


‘The Bloody Mistress’, ‘Makkie’, ‘Mak’.

Often called the ‘Crimson Merchant’, she is a seller of slaves meant for the arena or other forms of gladiatorial combat.

Free Folk

Free Folk

Visual Age

Factual Age


Sexual Orientation


”You don’t buy slaves, you buy entertainment!”

Forged from the fires of her homeland, Makava is a woman not to be taken lightly nor is she to be ignored. While not the smartest tool in the shed, what she lacks in intelligence she makes up for in brutal savagery and combat prowess. Rude, boorish, and sometimes cruel, Makava either paints the best picture of her homeland, or represents it in the worst light imaginable depending on how you look at things. She’s a fighter with a surprising wealth of common sense and intuition which has helped get her this far in life and strike out on her own away from the hellscape that she would call her homeland.

While it’s true that, in terms of booksmarts, Makava has a lot to learn, she more than makes up for it in nearly every other department. She’s not necessarily cunning as she is lucky in terms of disrupting plans and strategies. She follows her whims and gut, which has yet to steer her wrong. She fights like there’s no tomorrow, and often acts like it. She rarely thinks ahead farther than a day, and while that may eventually catch up to her, she’s too busy living in the moment to care. While she’s selfish in terms of satisfying her desires above all else, she has been known to show empathy towards her kinsmen if no one else. Even her slaves, while chained and locked up to be sold to the highest bidder, know that she protects them from the harsh realities of the market today. Yes, she owns their lives but she ensures that they’re cared for, well fed and exercised, and only sold to those who intend to put them into an arena or fighting pit.

On the business front, she’s direct and doesn’t tolerate double talk. If you don’t say exactly what you mean, you’re more likely to end up with an axe in the face than a slave chain in your hand. She’s impatient and prefers things to be straight, wanting to get to the heart of things as quickly as possible. She may have a somewhat simplistic nature, she’s savvy enough to recognize when someone is trying to persuade her and is swift in her retribution against those who would try. If you somehow end up on her good side, you’ll find that she’s a stalwart ally willing and able to fight on your behalf, if only because she’ll have a good time doing it. Quick with a laugh, a jug of ale and a story that will make most civilized people throw up their lunches, she’s not exactly the woman you take home to your parents.

If you get on her bad side, you best bar your doors and hope they’ll hold against the onslaught that is this berserker of a woman. Her fury, while short lived, is extreme in its application and common sense rarely if ever seeps into her while she has her eyes set on her target. She will cleave through any and all to get to the person who wronged her, regardless of the target.

Moral Alignment
Chaotic Neutral

-Living life to the fullest
-Promoting blood sport wherever she goes
-Gaining stories and life moments

-Becoming a slave herself

-Fighting: Aside from a conflict of wits, Makava loves to see people go at it in any form or fashion, and loves it even more when she’s directly involved.
-Strong Drinks: The stronger the drink, the more Makava enjoys it. It could taste like warm piss, but if it gets Makava drunk, she’ll love it all the same.
-Good Stories: At her core, Makava enjoys tales both grand and small so long as they’re exciting and contain twists and turns. It was one of the biggest motivations she had for learning to read.

-’Wordsmiths’: Makava calls those who twists and turn their words in order to get something ‘Wordsmiths’. This is not a compliment, and in fact implies that you can’t do anything but talk, signifying your utter lack of strength.
-Abusing Slaves: While Makava is a slave trader, you will not find one that is more caring for those under her ownership. If she sees anyone whipping or otherwise mistreating their slaves, you can bet she will have something to say about it, if she doesn’t punch them in the face first.
-Unearned Power: Makava had to fight to get where she is today, so it irks her when she sees someone who has inherited their position through no action of their own aside from being born.

-Intuition: The driving factor in Makava’s continued survival. She has a deep rooted sense of when danger’s coming, or how to avoid death in several scenarios just from instinct alone.
-Combat Prowess: The Tribelands are a harsh and unforgiving place filled with dangers and war. Makava had to learn to be a warrior first and a merchant second, and she’s more than willing to showcase what she’s capable of.
-Integrity: Makava is a woman of her word, and if she promises something it will be done to the extent she stated it. She doesn’t believe in double crosses or mincing her words, that being said, you won’t get her to promise something if she doesn’t believe she can or will follow through.
-Constitution: Despite her relatively small stature by tribeland standards, Makava is a very hard woman to put down in any sense. She can drink most people under the table, take hits and keep coming, and has even been poisoned on several occasions and beat the poisoner to death while under the intoxicating effects of said poison.

-Intelligence: Makava has no formal education and her level of intelligence could be compared to that of a child. While she has more than enough common sense to go around, separating fact from fiction is a difficult thing for her and it takes her more time to grasp an idea if it’s based in teachings from established doctrines.
-Language Restriction: Makava’s Durini is rudimentary unfortunately. She can have a conversation, but it’s broken and open to misinterpretation. As such, she usually has someone who speaks the language fluently nearby at all times to avoid mishaps.
-Magic: Makava has had little to no experience with actual magic users. Add in the natural superstitious fear that is common among her people and you have a warrior who is hesitant at best and fearful at worst against those who wield arcane power.

Is your character literate? In what languages?
-The Free Tongue: Her native tongue and most fluent form of speech. While she’s nowhere near eloquent with her words, she understands the language as well as she understands combat.
-Darini: While she can have basic conversations in broken Darini with people, she’s nowhere near fluent with the language and often struggles with the words and pronunciation.

C O M B A T || P R O W E S S

”You touch them again and I’ll rip both your arms off right before I cave your skull in with my foot!”

Rating System
[Perfect] - [Excellent] - [Good] - [Above Average] - [Average] - [Below Average] - [Poor] - [Very Poor]

Hand-to-Hand Combat: [Excellent] While Makava has had no formal training from teachers or instructors, you would assume she had. Unpredictable, wild and devastating, Makava exhibits a Berserker’s form with a flurry of blows that is destined to leave you bleeding on the ground if not dead from the impact. What she lacks in strength from her male counterparts, she makes up for in speed, multiple blows hitting in multiple spots all at once.

Melee Combat: [Excellent] From fist to weapon, Makava carries over her skills to that of the bladed instrument of death. Technically speaking, she is fluent in many weapons, including swords, spears, axes, cestuses and maces, but her personal favorites and current outfit are two one-handed axes that she dual wields when the situation calls for it. With these weapons, she swings fast and hard and is capable of sending enough blows to break through blocks and armor alike.

Ranged Combat: [Below Average] While Makava has held a bow a few times in her life, fighting from a range has never been her forte. She’s capable of using a bow with limited success, but most of her ranged ability comes from throwing her axes, which she can do with reliable accuracy.

Magic Combat: [Very Poor] Makava has no training or experience with magic, using it or fighting against it.

Mounted Combat: [Average] Makava can ride a horse, and she can swing her axe from a horse. Again, this isn’t her preferred style of combat, but she can do it adequately enough to be a threat.

Instinctual: [Excellent] Like most of the other Free Folk, Makava has learned to trust her gut in nearly all matters. Unlike the other free folk though, she’s managed to take that instinct usually reserved for combat and applied it to all aspects of life.
Speed:[Good] From a young age, Makava understood that she would never be the strongest of those around her, at least not physically, so she opted to push her body to the limits in the other direction. She’s fast, and in the blink of an eye can catch you off guard and slice your throat.
Physical Measurement: [Good] A good chunk of her life has had to do with gauging strength in a combat sense, mixed with the fact that she often has to appraise slaves that she’ll be purchasing and she has become quite adept at figuring out the combat capabilities of people around her.



Makava has no need for the frivolous jewelry of the nobles or pretentious.

Makava will never be seen wearing earrings, rings or ornate necklaces, but she can sometimes be seen with braided hair holding some sort of homemade-looking ornamentation in her hair.

Weapon Name: Axe
Weapon Type: One handed Axe
Material: Steel and wood
Ammo: N/A
Length: 1 ½ feet
Weight: 6 lbs
Weapon Description/Info: A simple tribal axe, firm in its construction and stalwart in its ability to cleave through Makava’s enemies.

Weapon Name: Axe
Weapon Type: One Handed Axe
Material: Steel and wood
Ammo: N/A
Length: 1 ½ feet
Weight: 6 lbs
Weapon Description/Info: Makava hasn’t found a weapon worth naming yet, and as such this simple piece of death dealing equipment is simple and not noteworthy. It does what it’s meant to do, but Makava could easily replace both weapons at a moment’s notice.

Weapon Name: Dagger
Weapon Type: Dagger
Material: Steel and Iron
Ammo: N/A
Length: 9 inches
Weight: 3 lbs
Weapon Description/Info: Once again, Makava simply uses the weapon and refuses to name it without some sort of story to go along with it. As such, this dagger is useful for as long as it provides a solid back up weapon when she finds her axes failing her.


”You insult, I fight, we drink, good story?”

Group Affiliation
Merchants Council

Marital Status

Parents (Deceased)
Brother (Deceased)
Sister (Deceased)

The TribeLands; The Kurikuri Clan

Social Rank
Merchant, member of the Merchant Council

Slave Merchant specializing in Gladiatorial Slaves

Makava, the woman with one name. At one point in her life Makava Kaskull, youngest daughter to a prominent warrior of a decently sized and formidable clan out in the badlands. Her older brother and sister, not to mention parents were always one to teach strength above all else, often beating the lesson into her when she was but a child. There was no room for weakness out here where everything was out to kill you, including other tribes and the ever present massive steel weapons and constructs of the enemy empires. As the years went by, and she grew older into a more capable woman and fighter, she found laughter and happiness in her somewhat simple life. Sleep, eat, laugh, kill. It was a steady, almost rhythmic tune to live by and one that she didn’t mind. Her brother, while sometimes overbearing and chauvinistic, was loving of his little sister. Her older sister, while somewhat withdrawn and prone to the more caring nature of things and well on her way to becoming a shaman, was always willing to help her out with language and basic survival skills should the need arise. Her parents weren’t overly nurturing or patient, but loved her very much and did everything they could to prepare her for the world at large.

Which is why when she was sold into slavery at the age of 16 it came as a complete shock to her and her siblings. It wasn’t just her that was sold to some rather plump looking merchant with enough hired guards to populate a castle, her brother and sister were also in the wagon with her. Chains wrapped around their appendages, screaming words of hate and scorn at her parents and everyone else around her. Her parents wouldn’t even look at them as they were taken away. It would take over a decade to learn that they had sold their children into slavery to avoid the slaughter that was coming, with the Kingdom of Jerum pushing into the Tribelands. No one from her clan survived, but she and her siblings were spared from the unwinnable battle.

At least for a short time.

Makava was originally sold as a sex slave, her young age and attractive looks for a tribeswoman prompting people to taste the forbidden fruits. Well this would prove unwise for those who tried, as she literally turned a few clients into Eunuchs, causing a ripple effect for her owner as he beat her relentlessly in order to break her down into something more usable. Eventually he went overboard, scarring Makava’s back and creating ugly wounds that would never heal. His clients wanted someone who was pristine and vulnerable, and Makava had refused to break to the point that he had physically ruined her. So instead, seeing as she wanted to fight, he put her up as a gladiator. Naturally people started to laugh at this, after all, she was only a woman. What could she possibly do against the muscle bound juggernauts of the arena? As it turned out, she could do quite a bit.

During her first match she didn’t just kill three full grown gladiators, she dismembered one at the end of the match and used his lopped off arm to cave in the skull of one of the other gladiators. She was covered in blood, giving a scream that was reminiscent of a banshee as she tossed the bloodied limb into the crowd. This is where she excelled, but she hated the fact that it wasn’t on her terms. She became extremely rebellious and brutal in her dealings with her master, which she had simply named ‘Dumpling’ in regards to his appearance and how easy it would be to chew him up and spit him out. Eventually Dumpling got tired of this attitude, and seeing how beating her and starving her wasn’t breaking her will, he went about it a different way.

Makava’s sister was not a fighter, born with a frail frame but strong spiritual connection and healthy mind, she was destined for the Shamans before they were taken. When Dumpling placed her in a ring with several starving lions and and forced Makava to watch, something inside her changed. She cried and pleaded, beating her hands against the bars of her cell until her hands bled, and even going as far as to dislocate her own shoulder trying to ram it open. She could do nothing as her sister was ripped apart by the ravenous beasts, sending blood and gore spewing all through the arena to the cheers of the crowd.

That scene broke Makava, or that’s what she wanted Dumpling to believe. For several years after that she played the obedient slave girl and brought Dumpling much prosperity as his champion. She was thrown against tougher and tougher odds, to the point where she was never expected to survive and she continually pulled through. While she retained a bit of her beauty as she got older, her body was marred in scars and wounds that were poorly healed. She was biding her time, waiting for the right moment to strike, and hoping that Dumpling wouldn’t use her brother as another means of controlling her.

She was 22 when everything came to a head. She had just finished several days worth of grueling battles in a hot and swamped arena against slaves and beasts, yet she looked like she was ready to go again. Dumpling had falsely believed she had been tamed, and was getting cockier with her every second. At one point, the fat pig of a slave trader thought he could have his own way with the girl, after she was tied up of course. Pinned down with Dumpling standing over top of her, she glared up at him with the same ferocity that she viewed her enemies in the arena, yet that wasn’t enough for Dumpling as he wanted her to be somewhat vulnerable, maybe even broken. So he told her the one thing that would end his life.

He explained to her that her brother, a big driving factor as to why she hadn’t killed him yet, had died a few years ago. Apparently he was being rebellious much like his younger sister and Dumpling had him beaten severely. After clinging on painfully for nearly a month, the Tribesman had finally succumbed to his infected wounds. Dumpling said all this with the ease of someone reading the local paper. Her brother wasn’t a headliner to the Dumpling, an expendable asset to be used and tossed away like trash. Despite her limbs being restrained, she somehow found the strength to break the banisters on the bed, gaining freedom and impaling the broken pieces of wood into the fat sack of shit’s chest before literally punching his face for so hard and for so long that it was nothing but paste on the ground when she finally stopped.

After removing her shackles and donning the most bare of clothes, she made her way to the slave pens and started opening them up. She expected a wave of excitement and joy as the people rushed out into the open world, but only a few of them did so. For the most part, a lot of them stood there like cows in a field. They didn’t know what to do, for most of the people there being a slave was all they knew. Some of them were even doing this so their families could eat and be healthy. Makava was at a loss, she was done seeing the mistreatment of the people who had been trapped beside her for so long but she couldn’t just leave them here if that was their choice. Was it even a choice? In the end, she did what she always did when she didn’t know the answer...she followed her gut.

After having a few of the more literate slaves help her comb through the Dumpling’s assets and belongings, they found all the papers for being a merchant, as well as ownership documents. Makava held onto the documents, and became the defacto slave merchant for a group of gladiators. She had no idea what she was doing at first, earning both the ire and laughter of people around her as she got screwed in a deal time and time again. Eventually she stopped trying to play by the Merchant’s rules, and started playing by her own. Every time someone tried to get one up on her, she found them later and made them severely regret ever crossing her. She would destroy them, either physically or financially, as she sometimes would burn entire stalls to the ground in revenge. She was tired of being considered weak and helpless, and while she couldn’t claim to be the smartest tool in the shed, she was a quick learner when it came to the battleground that was trading.

She became known as the ‘Bloody Mistress’, or ‘The Key of Shackles’. She was a slave turned slave trader, an odd story until you realized that her slaves were treated better than some actual paid workers of other merchants. Every single one of her slaves had the opportunity to earn their freedom should they choose to attempt so, and there wasn’t a single one of them that went hungry or cold. Sure, her profits aren’t as high as a result in terms of slave to payment ratio, but she is still one of the more successful slave traders out there because the quality of her fighters were top of the line.

A couple years ago, she was asked to join the Merchant’s Council as a representative of the slave trade to which she hesitantly accepted if only because she preferred to be in the loop as opposed to outside of it. She’s a strong advocate of the fair treatment of slaves, values of said slaves, and free trade between merchants. This has made her popular with some, and irritating to others. Just remember, she got to where she is today not because she was the smartest, but because she was the toughest.

So begins...

Makava's Story


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Early Morning

The smell of blood and sweat filled the air as cheers erupted and filled the senses with excruciating volume and excitement. Pleas for more as life’s liquid flowed into sand, a man’s eyes slowly fading into nothingness as his soul left his body. No one cared about this individual save for one person, and ultimately the slave’s worth came down to a few gold pieces, an acceptable loss. This was the state of affairs at the Crunch Bowl, a smaller gladiator fighting ring for the slums and lower middle class establishment.

Large enough to house over a hundred people, the lines of bleachers all circled back on each other to create an oppressive viewing experience on the fighters below, some of whom were destined to die. Sand mixed with blood, sweat, tears and fecal matter littered the ground as the odd body part could be found deeper in the ground. At the head of the arena, a spot built into an optimal viewing space to create an unofficial ‘head’ of the smaller stadium sat a few people as slaves wearing nothing more than loincloths and several deadly weapons went at each other with all the fury and spite of a God of War.

A rather dapper looking man sat in one of the chairs, his clothes somewhat dirty but of decent value. A long and elegant pipe was held in his hand, puffing out smoke as he chewed on the tip. His beard was cut in such a way as to make his face appear sharp, even as his eyes seemed uninterested in what he was viewing today. Not a single scratch could be seen upon his face or any other visible skin beneath his robes as a couple of earrings marked the only wounds he had ever received in life. Behind him stood a couple of women, barely clothed but clean and rather attractive. Collars around their necks with chains leading to the man’s arm were the only indicators that one needed to know exactly what these women were. Assigned to satisfy his every whim, they stood there with lifeless animation, resigned to their fate like cattle for the slaughter. Beside them stood a couple of stronger looking men, muscle in bulk and intimidating to most who saw them. They too wore collars indicating their status, but lacked the chains of the women. In all, the slave merchant seemed composed and rigid, bored out of his skull but retaining an air of dignity about him.

His sitting companion could not say the same.

The woman beside him, garbed in what could only be classified as barbaric traditional furs slammed a mug of ale on the table in front of her, narrowly avoiding to splash the merchant. She screamed and shouted with each swing of the gladiators, sometimes standing up and cheering with the rest of the crowd as the fight continued. Her long dirty blonde hair swayed with each fist pump, and her bare belly swelled with pride every time one of her gladiators got in a decent blow. Unlike the man, her body was an amalgamation of scar tissue, both old and new that presented a clear picture as to the events the woman had survived through. Her blue eyes surveyed the scene before her, joy and ecstasy at the blood being spilled so clearly evident on her features that they may as well have been painted on.

Below her were four gladiators, all bulky men in their own right and each armed with a weapon of their choice. It was a simple 2 v 2, her gladiators vs the other merchant’s. There was a rather large bet going on as to whose were the best, and she was confident in her decision. After seeing her gladiators nearly pummel one of the opposing slaves to death before his friend pulled him out, it was hard to argue with her. The slave merchant glared at her, giving a sigh before rubbing his goatee. “Ms. Makava, could you please have a seat, you’re blocking my view of your inevitable defeat.”

Makava looked back, confused before spitting on the floor and giving a hearty laugh. She chugged back a good portion of her ale before sitting back down in a very unceremonious fashion. “You dumb? Me win!” She stated, her voice thick with the accent of the free folk as her words came out as blunt as her personality was displayed. She thrust her ale forward, pointing towards the ongoing battle. “You slaves weak as babies. Me teach strength!” The Merchant simply sighed, taking another puff on his pipe.

“Your etiquette leaves much to be desired Ms. Makava, could you please refrain from expressing your desire to win at the top of your lungs? My thanks.” The Merchant’s disdain for the woman was clear, but Makava simply stared at him for a moment before motioning for someone to come out of the shadows of the booth. A man by the name of Brock, tall and slender was dressed in decent peasant gear. He bore the sigil of Makava’s slaves, but lacked any kind of controlling mechanism such as a collar or leash. Brock approached, his short black hair sucking in any light that happened to dawn on him while an empty eye socket caught the gaze of the two female slaves beside him, along with the guards. A large scar slicing across the former eye showcased how it happened, but it didn’t seem to bother him as Makava simply pointed to the merchant.

“Krah?*” Brock gave a cough before talking with emphasis and enunciation, slowly shortening what the merchant had said into a shorter Darini sentence.

“Stop acting stupid.” Brock stated, his voice soft yet easily heard. Makava huffed, red showing up on her face before she sat back down, muttering some other words in free speak before shoving her face back into her mug. Brock took a couple steps backwards, his hands cupped in front of him as he watched the games.

The fight continued for several minutes longer, but it was well known by the halfway mark that Makava’s gladiators were of a stronger breed. This was proven when, together, the gladiators decapitated the other merchant’s slaves and held their heads high for people to see. Makava jumped up and threw her mug into the arena. “Defeat?!” She exclaimed, pointing back at the merchant, slamming her hands on the small table between them. “Vactor!” Brock gave a cough, drawing her attention.

“Victor.” He stated, holding his hand up and enunciating each syllable.

“Vactor.” Makava stated again, her brows furrowed as she looked at him. Brock tapped his chest.



“Victor!” Makava finally yelled having figured out the enunciation of the word properly. Chances are she would mispronounce it yet again, as it was a habit with her to mix up her words with her native language when she was excited. The merchant, however, didn’t seem to particularly angry about the dealing.

“You may have won the battle, my dear Makava, but you haven’t won the war. Those were far from my best gladiators, but you mistakenly put yours in. Now, I show you how we do battle here.” Brock’s one eye got wide as he opted to translate directly into Free Speech to get the message across faster. The merchant clapped his hands, and while the gladiators were celebrating down in the pits, several gates opened up and half a dozen hungry lions wandered in. The gladiators stopped screaming in cheer and huddled up together, staring into the booth wondering what was going on. “It seems you’ve been outplayed this time Makava.” The man stated, a smug smile on his face as he took another puff. Makava stared into the pit, her body rigid as Brock backed away. “Maybe you’ll learn from this the next ti-”

Before he could finish his words, Makava had phased past him in a blur, drawing a dagger from her boot and slashing one of the slave guard’s necks before reversing the blade and burying it in the other’s eye. Releasing the blade and allowing the two bodies to hit the floor, Makava spun back around and gripped the merchant by the hair, using her free hand to punch him in the face repeatedly as all he could do was cry out in surprise and pain. Blood poured from his nose and mouth as she continued, dragging him over to the edge of the booth and repeatedly crushing his head into the concrete foundation until he stopped squirming, bones broken and eyes already swollen shut. Her chest heaved with anger more than exhaustion as she turned to Brock, her eyes wide with rage and bloodlust. “Gan’nas!*”

Brock heaved two axes from his belt and tossed them softly to Makava, who gripped them in each hand. She gave them a quick twirl, stepping over the bleeding and most likely unconscious form of the merchant as she jumped over the booths to the pits below. Several people cried in surprise as she bolted past them, finally getting into the edge as the lions started making their moves on her gladiators and jumped from the edge of the pit directly into the hellscape that was about to unfold.

With a cry akin to that of a dragon, she raised her axes high and landed with all her force onto one of the lions, her axes biting deep as she rolled with the landing, her weapons sharpened to such a degree as to allow a nearly effortless gouge in the beast. Blood sprayed from the wounds, bones and organs visible from the opening as the lion cried out softly before collapsing to the ground. Makava, now covered in the spray of lion’s blood raised her arms and yelled with all the force of a hurricane.

“KUSKA NAY MANNA!*” She screamed as she charged one of the lions on her own, all rational thought having left her at this point as her gladiators took their cue and followed her lead. Cheers erupted from the crowd as Makava dove and slid towards the first lion, using her feet to propel her body upwards when it was time and slashing with the speed of a whirlwind as the lion tried to move away without any results. Blood flew through the air, covering the berserk woman in its glistening glory as the other two Gladiators worked together, back to back to avoid being surrounded.

After a few slashes, the lion was resigned to defeat as it slumped, barely moving before Makava moved in and implanted one of her axes in its skull. She removed it with a hearty laugh, hearing the roar of the next lion before she could see it and diving over the body of the now dead lion to avoid the next one. The lion leaped over both of them, skidding to a halt as it turned to face her. Before it could fully position itself, an axe came flying out of the air, implanting itself in the lion’s eye. With a roar of pain it reared back before the other axe being wielded by Makava was planted in its neck. With axes in both hands, Makava slammed the weapons into the beast's neck time and time again until it stopped moving, her arms covered in gore as she peered back at the gladiator duo to see that they had dealt with the other lions.

She was still ready for a fight naturally, but managed to calm herself long enough to look up and see Brock holding the broken form of the merchant who had tried to screw her out of her slaves. He was holding the barely conscious form of the man at the edge of the pit, displaying a strength that his frame often hid from everyone, Makava included. She made a motion to throw him in, and Brock did so without hesitation. The man landed with a thump and a groan. Makava strode forward, her axes held at her sides as blood dripped freely from the steel tips. A savage smile. She threw her axes into the ground as she approached, imbedding them into the sand as she gripped the man by the collar and threw him against the wall of the pit. She knelt down, slapping his injury riddled face a couple of times to get his attention.

“You fuck up.” She stated, her voice low and filled with menace. “Now you know...No fuck with Makava!” She stood up, raising her hands in the air to the cheers of the crowd as they were absolutely ecstatic with the display. The merchant coughed and attempted to stand before Makava turned around again, running forward and planting her knee into the man’s face and slamming it into the wall behind him. He quickly slumped forward and didn’t move after that. Makava screamed with fury and rage, uncontained at what had transpired before turning back towards the crowd.


The crowd chanted with her as the two gladiators stared at her, wounds still evident and obvious signs of fatigue displayed by their breathing. Makava waved her arms towards the gates. “Pens. Healer, go.” Makava instructed, looking back up at Brock who gave a knowing nod and made his way back to the slave pens.

No one fucked with Makava.

*Krah? = What?
*Gan’nas = Axes
*Kuska Nay Manna = Blood For Money


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Character Portrait: Makava Character Portrait: Gildan Lodes
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Gildan Lodes and Makava

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.