nysalogs | mercenary jobs #3

Entry tags:

mercenary jobs #3 — open to all

Who: Anyone interested in taking some mercenary jobs via Aranea Highwind's offerings. This log is focused on Wyver and can be found on job boards across the city as well as personal handwaved texts.
What: Mercenary posting!
When: N/A
Where: N/A
Warning(s): Possible sex threads based off heat-event for this month. This was posted early for the holidays, btw. Happy Thanksgiving, etc!

Thank you for stopping by to check out this month's job postings for Highwind Hires — a freelance mercenary group!

Aranea Highwind will ICly be contacting characters and offering them jobs based off the assumption she will receive 30% of the cut.

JOB #1 — DOOR TO DOOR

With the abundance of new visitors, it seems there have been ample amounts of donations to the temple. Unfortunately, that is not enough. When you approach, you're stopped by a young woman named Igo who is requesting you help her: please pass out 100 pamphlets to refugees enlisting donations.

OUTCOMES:
- For all pamphlets passed out, the Shaman will pay you 100 Silver.

JOB #2 — DRAGON DERBY

In the West, you hear about this month's Wyver Derby, a small event where dragons are put to race on a track. It seems the fan favorite is Fangface but the newcomer Wingslash ranked high in their first few races. You're hired for body guard duty, keeping the peace and ensuring no riots occur. Enjoy drinks as you watch the show, try to bet for the right one.

OUTCOMES:
- Wingslash wins by a nose, so anyone who votes for that dragon will win double their bet.
- Those who bet on Fangface or any other participant will lose their bet.

JOB #3 — AFTERMATH

Tied to Job #2, the Derby went relatively smoothly... You're enjoying discounted drinks at the bar. It wasn't until you notice one of the ticketers cashing out a suspicious amount of extra money to a small group of people who very vocally complained about losing. As the small group leaves, you can either: report the ticketer or two, track them down.

OUTCOMES:
- If you simply report the ticketer, you'll be rewarded with an additional 125 Silver.
- If you track down the group, you'll find they're all in a small gambling ring, petty crooks that drank too much and most certainly had an inside connection. You must be ready for a fight — all 4 will attack you with fists and small pocket knives.

JOB #4 — VILE LITTLE THINGS

You were contracted directly from Aranea Highwind for a monster hunt. A Vileling that was once kept as a pet grew hostile in the past few weeks before finally escaping its owner in Old City and reeking havoc on pet-owners. Your job is to track it down before more pets are killed. Aranea instructed you to 'take care of it', but upon your journey, the Vileling owner (Bekins) has insisted you save it and bring it back to Murkhollow alive. Of course, they offer a good price.

OUTCOMES:
- Aranea is offering a flat 400 silver to wipe it out.
- You can lie or oppose Aranea's order, you which will gain negative CR from the mercenary leader. Bekins will reward you with 140 silver and you must find a way to return it to Murkhollow.

JOB #5 — RED NIGHT LIGHT

Bodyguard duty seems a bit more... mature tonight. With the week waning on and people acting on lust and emotions, there has been a bit more call for those looking to patrol the more savory areas of Wyver. You'll be paid a flat fee of 450 Silver for a night's worth of work.

There are three areas to watch over: a bordello, a herb shop, and a gang's rumored hide-out.

OUTCOMES:
- If you choose the bordello, you will find yourself playing body guard for one of the establishment's ... best worker and favorite client. You can peek in on the woman and her partner at the risk of being caught or you can escort them out afterwards. The woman offers a tip of 100 Silver and also the chance to have drinks with her...
- If you choose the herb shop, you will find yourself sensitive to the mix of aromas. A contact high ensures your inhibitions are loosened and with the lust in the air? Who knows what that means...
- If you choose the gang's rumored hideout, you will find illegal tusk and scale trading. You'll have to contend with 4 possible gang members all armed with weapons. Fight them or flee to report, you'll earn an additional 150 Silver.

Have fun! If you have any questions, feel free to PM me! These are all loosely based on your choices, so feel free to go wild with them. The outcomes only are indication of what the jobs would offer. If you're interested in having your character offer a job in the future, please let me know!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ it was probably the thrill of the hunt or the adrenaline of being in a fight that didn't allow Bigby to realize who his uninvited guest was. just about anyone who has decided to approach him during a time like this was in for some really bad news, but Rosalind... well. well. she's had the (mis)fortune of seeing this side of him already, so if anyone had to find him in such a state, maybe it should be her.

brows lower and shoulders grow somewhat more lax when he notices who it is. he uses the back of his hand to wipe some residual blood that is dripping from his nose. one of the unfortunate souls must have gotten a good punch in and he hadn't even realized it. when Rosalind steps forward, he instinctively takes a step back. call it a habit to create distance with the people he's grown partial to, especially when he is like this. ]

What the hell are you doing here for, Rosalind.

[ sorry he doesn't sound so happy with your presence at this current moment. the knife in his leg is faintly acknowledged only when she advises for him to not pull it out.

with a sigh, he reaches down and grabs the handle. Bigby doesn't listen too well, so that sure is him pulling it out with a sharp tug of his arm. it's enough discomfort to make him growl once more, but he handles it as well as one might expect when aware of what he is capable of. ]

Appreciate the concern, but this place isn't exactly safe right now. They probably have some friends coming any second now.

What did I just say--

[But that's under her breath, irritated but not surprised. Rosalind comes to a halt, crossing her arms over her chest. She's no fear of him, and maybe she should. Maybe she's being too cocky, but she still hasn't lost that confidence that only comes from being immortal.

Perhaps she ought to soon.]

Let them come. We can show them the amazing disappearing duo-- I can teleport you too. And frankly, Bigby, I'd rather stitch you up in my apartment than in some filthy alley.

[Which assumes she's staying near him. Which assumes he's going to let her treat him at all. And which assumes that he's a lot less durable than he, in fact, is, but that's what you get for not telling the truth.]

You should know by now that I don't listen very well.

[ the knife is inspected briefly, looking at the plentiful amount of blood staining the blade. his blood. he's seen plenty of his own and much, much more of others. the good thing about being a wolf and not a vampire is that such a thing doesn't do much for him. it's the meat on the bones that gets him going, na'mean.

that being said, wolfed out or not, Bigby's lowering his brows at her in a disapproving manner. he has no intention of hurting the damn woman, annoying as she may be, but he's got half a mind to leave her to her own devices if she's to act like being here was just some walk in the park. ]

Sounds like an excuse to get me back at your place. But whatever you say, Ms. Lutece.

[ he isn't doing this with her right now. the good news about not being a sheriff is that he doesn't have to worry about submitting a bunch of paperwork to a useless mayor after beating the crap out of a bunch of thugs. leaving while he can with only Rosalind as a witness sounds as good of a plan as any, and even if he has absolutely no concerns over his new wound, he figures he will humor her. for the time being.

still, though, he walks forward and towards Rosalind, suddenly pulling her into his grasp with little ask and much demand. at least the blood is on his pants and not his shirt? ]

They don't need to put a face to your voice if you're going to be a dumbass about this. I'm not about to be responsible for them trashing your new place.

[It isn't until he emphasizes her last name that Rosalind realizes she'd gotten a bit used to him calling her by her first. It had simply made sense that night at the bar, and when he'd invoked it just now, it had seemed . . .

Fine, really. Almost natural. She certainly hadn't thought to correct him, and the very fact she hadn't is a touch worrying, because that's an instinct almost as natural to her as breathing. Hm. She'll have to think on that later. She has a sneaking suspicion it has something to do with fucking and . . . not friendship, precisely, but something affectionate. Fondness? She's bedded a few people this past week (more, frankly, than she cares to admit), but the only one who has that affection as well is Aranea (and perhaps Henry and Qrow, but she hadn't fucked them). So she'll have to see if she'd be bothered by the thought of Aranea calling her something more formal . . .

In any case: that's food for later thought. Right now, she won't insist on one thing or another; let him call her what he likes, and she'll follow suit as she sees fit.

He demands her attention as he comes in close, yanking her towards him, but though her heartrate suddenly spikes, her expression remains calm.]

I don't fear people. Not anymore. Not--

[He's got a good grip on her, tight and not easily broken. They're touching on any number of points, but just to be safe, she hooks two fingers in a belt loop, ensuring he won't skitter away. And then they're gone, just like that; there's a moment where they appear a block away, standing on the street together, and gone again, blinking and reappearing on a roof, three stories above the streets, until they leave there too, and then they're--

Home. The journey took all of four seconds, which is an eternity compared to what she used to be able to do.]

--when I can surpass them. If they manage to find my apartment on my voice alone, they'll have more waiting for them than they bargained for.

[She tips her head back, regarding him. There's something a little strange in her expression as she adds:]

Believe me: I've no intention of dying again. Nor of suffering, not at any man's hand. And certainly not at the hands of some idiotic gang of thugs.

[A few seconds pass. She releases his trousers and adds far more briskly:]

You're getting blood on my skirt. Kindly sit on the couch, if you please-- I'm certain you remember where that is. Trousers off, and if you can try to keep any fibers from entering the wound, I'd be grateful.

[ the transition is interesting. he's gone through a few portals in his time, and he has been teleported from the space station down to El Nysa enough to have gotten a grasp over how much of a headache that could be. never has he done it with another person, let alone Rosalind, tethered to him so closely. it's a long four seconds for him, too, taking note of the street, the roof and eventually her home. when they're standing still and the world is no longer moving around them, Bigby lets out a sigh and steps back. it's the living room, something he has grown quite familiar with in recent past. ]

Didn't expect to find myself here again so soon. [ his hand is about to rise up to wave her off dismissively when she brings up the possibility of being found, but it's stopped short when she talks of death. he gives her a look, one of much speculation. it takes a moment or three to speak again. ] ... Did we already talk about the "dying again" part when we were interrogating each other? I feel like we glazed over that.

[ there's a glance down when she lets go of his pants — he hadn't even noticed she was touching them in the first place — and he isn't about to fight with her about sitting on the couch. Bigby groans at the idea of taking them off a second time in the exact same place as last time, but, again. one would think he is ready and willing for another fight, but not with Rosalind. she may not have much on him in terms of muscle or strength, but that tongue of hers is destined to give him a headache he doesn't need right now. ]

Yeah, yeah. Can't wait to see how gentle of a touch you don't have.

[ he's walking over as asked, undoing his pants and tugging them down his hips. by the time he is sitting down, the waist is resting just above his knee, revealing the wound that was just short of piercing his underwear. an inch higher and he would have had to remove those too. how "unfortunate". ]

[She doesn't answer him at first, too busy heading into her bathroom to find her first aid kit. She has bandages and antiseptic in her bag (carried around mostly thanks to all that dragon hunting business; she'd had to stop several charming but unmindful young men from just throwing their shirts back on after she'd cut them up), but this will require needle and thread.

By the time she returns, he's done as she asked, which is a pleasant surprise. For a moment she hesitates, caught between the desire to have her work in front of her and reluctance to kneel before him, but eventually compromises by sitting next to him instead. She can at least clean off the wound that way, and they'll see what happens when she starts stitching him up properly.]

If you were too preoccupied with groping me to ask after my death, that's hardly my fault.

[It's not a jab. She murmurs it, really, her gaze focused down on that stab wound. The first step is to clean it, and she soaks a cotton ball with antiseptic. Perhaps to his surprise, she is gentle: her hands dab, not press haphazardly, and though she's thorough, she isn't cruel in her actions. She's done this before, clearly, and often to boot.]

But if you'd like to ask about it, I shan't dodge the question.

[She isn't, however, meeting his gaze.]

There we are . . .

[All cleaned, and now that the blood and gore has been wiped away, it's a fairly neat cut. Long, yes, and she's surprised he's not groaning in pain each time he shifts, but this makes her job all the easier.]

[ Bigby's oddly patient for a man who has just subjected himself to liberal portion of physical violence in such a short period of time. perhaps it's because the moon is no longer fucking with his head like it had been, but he felt in control of himself. his heart was still pumping and adrenaline was still pouring through his veins, but he is oddly... content with lying in the couch awaiting his impromptu medic.

he doesn't have the heart to tell her that he is going to have the wound healed over before the night ends. it may run the risk of pissing her off for wasting her time, but hey. she was the one that is overeager to see him drop trou again. ]

Little unfair, don't you think? You're the one who was trying to choke me by my tie. Besides, it doesn't sound like you can do much to remember it either.

[ he isn't all too surprised of her gentleness, actually. the both of them may have had their moments of getting rough with one another, but he has a hard time imagining Rosalind making it a point to botch her first aid. maybe if he sasses off to her too much, but he'd like to think he's being nice right now... """nice"""... ]

Well, here's me asking. You look pretty healthy for a dead person.

[ there's no denying that the antiseptic is potent enough to make him hiss every now and then with discomfort, but he takes it like a champ (heh). when she's done cleaning him up, he merely lets out a gust of hot air blow through his nose. ]

It's just a knife wound, Rosalind. You don't have to sound like it's attractive on me or something.

[Well, that gets her attention. She shoots him an annoyed glance and straightens up, reaching to thread her needle.]

I'm pleased that the wound is neat. Don't make it sound vulgar.

[She falls silent for a few seconds, taking the time to clean the needle and prick it lightly against her finger to ensure it's sharp enough. Skin is tougher than most people realize, and it takes a fair bit of effort to pierce it again and again. She hasn't any anesthesia; she's hoping he'll be all right with the pain.

(Someday, he'll tell her about how fast he heals, and she'll be quite annoyed. But that's for later).]

. . . it's a bit of a story. But it starts when I was seventeen or so. I haven't any idea if your universe was anything like mine, but where I originally hailed from, a woman in the scientific field wasn't simply unusual, but entirely unheard of. At the time, that didn't bother me. I'd managed to get into Girton University, and what's more, I graduated top of my class. I was eager for a chance to prove myself, and yet the second I left school, I found I couldn't get a lick of funding. No matter that I knew my theories were correct, that I was on to something great . . . at best, I was laughed at, and at worst . . .

Well. In any case. Eventually, I found someone who would listen. A religious man. Comstock was his name, Zachary Hale Comstock. He told me he'd had a vision of a flying city, and that he believed I was sent from God to help him achieve that vision.

[She glances up. All her incredulity and disapproval is clear in her expression; she focuses back on the wound once again. Rosalind slips the needle forward, gritting her teeth as she forces it through his skin.]

But he had money. And as it happened, I could help him achieve his vision. My theory of atomic suspension revolved around making things . . . well, not fly, but simply fail to fall, but it hardly made a difference to his gaze.

And so, with his funding, I gave him his glorious Columbia.

Well. You can well imagine what people thought then. Here was a man who had foreseen the impossible, and somehow, the impossible appeared. They hailed him as a prophet, and he decided the title suited him. He decided he was blessed from God, and I, his dear helper, was a tool to be used continuously. So the funding continued, and soon enough I had enough money to grant him another gift: the ability to play prophet again and again.

I was working on a device, you see, that could open windows into other universes. It took me seven years to even come up with the proper machinery, and even then, they weren't doorways. Just . . . snatches of visions. But they were enough. He could see how the future might go, or had gone in other worlds. Add some vague wording and his own natural charisma, and people believed everything he said, ignoring what inconsistencies might occasionally pop up.

Sixteen years passed in such a fashion.

[A pause. The wound is almost entirely stitched up; she stares at it blankly for a few seconds, then resumes her work. He voice is brisker now, eager to skip past this part of the story.]

There was another man. Jeremiah Fink, who fancied himself an inventor. He was clever enough, but his true talent lay in stealing the work of others and passing it off as his own. He made his fortune that way; by the time sixteen years had passed, he'd become the richest man in the city. But that wasn't enough for him.

He used to--

[A beat. Her lips press tight together, and she shakes her head.]

In any case. Sixteen years on that floating city, and at some point, Comstock realized that we were the only ones who knew his dirty secrets. And he realized the surest way to make sure no one ever found out what we knew was to kill us.

So he hired Fink, who had spent sixteen years coveting us, staring after us in jealousy and, I suspect, lust. He promised him that if he killed us, he'd get our patents. Every invention, every single idea we'd ever had, they'd all be his, and he could make a fortune off just one.

It was barely a choice.

October 31st, 1909. He'd sabotaged our machine . . . the one that tore open windows into other worlds. It exploded, and in the process, tore us apart. And once our bodies were recovered and carried away, the little weasel snuck in, rifling through our drawers and taking it all for himself. And not just that, oh no, that wasn't enough. He went through our personal effects, he stole my diaries, he took a portrait I had of--

[She's getting off topic, but she's never going to stop being angry about Fink. Rosalind shakes her head.]

Anyway. The problem with killing a person in such a fashion is that it's not conventional. It tore us apart, yes, and scattered us among all the worlds. Suddenly we weren't human, not anymore-- we were more. We could see all the worlds, all the choices, all the doors . . . and we could move among them. Fluidly, easily, much like you might move through a house.

[There. The final stitch, and she tugs it tight. She knows she's switched from singular to plural again, but that hadn't been deliberate so much as a natural inclination. It hardly matters. He knows she has a counterpart.]

Edited 2017-11-29 04:54 (UTC)

—He used to what?

[ Bigby's listening to it all, digesting every word and trying to make sense of how a woman like Rosalind walks into her inevitable death and the powers that come from it in turn. he leans back, debating on taking a cigarette out and enjoying the nicotine's natural ability to mellow oneself out. it would be rude to start suddenly blowing smoke in her face in the midst of her story and her fixing him up, so he decides to simply place one in his mouth to chew on thoughtfully as he leans back.

other than his initial question, he's surprisingly quiet. he doesn't pay much attention to the stitching, but his eyes do idly lower themselves to watch her handiwork. Bigby imagines that, even if his tolerance to pain wasn't obscenely high as is, her clean-up would be as painless as can be. he has to remind himself to give her a proper kudos at some point. maybe. can't go and fatten her ego up any further, now can he. ]

So... you're a ghost, in pretty much every sense of the word. A living ghost. [ not that surprising in his world, really. but still, it's one hell of a thing to swallow. ] Can't imagine you took all of that well. And your partner? All else considering, you turned out alright. I can only imagine there's a tragic ending you haven't gotten to yet.

[ Bigby has indeed noticed that she talks in plural tense quite a bit. the transition from "I" to "we" was so natural that he almost didn't notice it, but it gives him a good idea of how said partner must be ingrained in her head. ]

Thanks, by the way. You didn't make me start bleeding again, so that's a plus.

[ that's... that's a way of giving kudos, right. ]

I do know what I'm doing.

[She draws back, offering him a slight smile, and sits back. The bloody needle is set to the side; she'll clean that up later. For now, it's enough to wipe his blood absently off her fingers. Drops linger, but frankly, it's not as if blood bothers her.]

And no, no tragedy, to my great surprise. Robert went through the same process I did. He was torn apart, and then he was put back together. I awoke to him at my side, marveling at what we'd become.

A ghost . . . yes, I suppose that's a decent enough term for us. We're not about to disappear into any supposed afterlife, though. We're-- or we were, at any rate-- perfectly content in our state of being.

[She was, anyway. Robert had wanted a baby, and that meant becoming human again, and god, but she'd balked. Later, he'd assured her, later, once we're done seeing and doing all we want to, but think of it, Rosie . . .

And now here they are, human again, ostensibly caught for good in this world. Will he still want that when he wakes up? It's not a thought she's entirely opposed to, but it makes her stomach flip, it really does. But ah, that's a thought for later. She won't fret herself over it now. Silence reigns for a few seconds, and then she adds:]

He used to take, I was going to say. He used to take everything he wanted, which is why I believe Robert and I became a point of fixation for him, because he couldn't have us, no matter what he tried. We had each other, and frankly, even if we hadn't, I found the man loathsome from the start. So it became sixteen years of . . . [She pulls a face.] Oh, liberties. You must know the sort. Little touches and won't you allow me the pleasure of this dance and words that might be taken innocently, if you were stupid enough to believe it.

Comstock wasn't personal. I loathe the man for a variety of reasons, but he killed us because we were an obstacle, nothing more. But Fink . . . it was vindictive. It was something he took pleasure in, because if he couldn't fuck us, at least he could take something else from us.

Mm. 'Least there's a name for this guy you keep talking about.

[ he's not even going to Go There with Rosalind, because from the way she talks of him, it doesn't take much imagining to realize there is plenty of baggage. Bigby knows a thing or two about feeling connected to someone, for better or worse or even if it wasn't something they may have wanted. neither of those "halves", in a sense, were here for the time being. they were up in space, asleep and hopefully safe. it does him more good to think about it as little as possible, so he doesn't.

he instead listens to her story as it continues. ]

Have you looked to see if he's one of the people that made it? This Fink, I mean. In the pods.

[ his finger runs along the little ridges formed by the stitches in his wound, knowing his hands were already stained with blood as is. he could probably do with a shower and some fresh clothes, but Bigby wasn't prepared to make a stop at Rosalind's. too bad his outfit from the last time he was here wasn't available. slowly but surely, he nudges his pants back up his legs, tightening his belt along his waist with a few grunts. Big Bad Wolf or not, shit still hurts to move after a fight like the one he had gotten in. ]

I'd be worried if you haven't. Like you said, you're not a ghost anymore. You're just as touchable as me now.

Two pods down from Robert.

[Yes, she's checked. She checks on them twice a week, frankly, going up both to stare longingly at her other half and to ensure the others stay where they are. Or, well, no, that's not entirely right: Elizabeth would be welcome, but beyond her . . . no. The rest can stay on ice for eternity for all Rosalind cares.

She shifts back on the couch, giving him room to tug up his trousers. It's for the best Bigby doesn't ask after Robert; she isn't certain she could contain her emotions if they were to talk of him, and she's no desire to burst into tears like some kind of child.

She's always painfully aware of their separation, though. They've never been apart for so long. Even when they were teenagers, they'd had the atom. Slow, yes, but he'd been there. Twenty years of having him at her side, always a word away, and now it's been three months . . . god, she misses him. Her fingers clench in her lap as she thinks of it. She misses him so badly; there's not a conversation that goes by that she doesn't think of him and what he might say, or do, or feel. Her beloved, her guiding light, torn away from their paradise and trapped in some bloody space station--

Enough. Rosalind glances back up at Bigby, inhaling and exhaling slowly. Enough. She won't let her thoughts linger on Robert. Instead, she offers a slight smile. It's teasing and almost genuine.]

You'd be worried?

[ first of all: rude. Booker totally deserves to wake up, too. way to forget the human gerbil. :( :( :(

anyway.

he is happy to avoid any unnecessary tears right now. he's just broken several limbs and left wounds on people that would take weeks, if not months, to fully heal. Bigby doesn't believe he is in a position to be supportive on an emotional level on a good day, let alone one where his clothes are tattered and he's still trying to remain calm. let's not linger on the fact that the moon is still a pain in his ass for completely different reasons. to say he needs a cigarette or five is an understatement. ]

Yeah. You don't remind me of someone that learns to let go of grudges very easily.

[ Bigby lets out a groan of defeat as he leans back, tilting his head onto the back of the couch to look up at the ceiling before closing his eyes. it'd be easy to fall asleep here if it wasn't for the scent of uneasiness coming from Rosalind. his nose scrunches up as he tries to ignore it to the best of his ability, but there's one more groan for the road when he resides himself to accepting something: he likes Rosalind, and it's no longer easy to ignore when she appears to grow upset. ]

I'm worried that you have some bottled up feelings you need to get out there and you're about to use me as your emotional punching bag. You haven't forgotten I can smell much more than just normal scents, right.

You can smell emotions?

[For just a moment, curiosity overtakes anything else. Rosalind straightens up, her gaze sharper.]

I'm not about to use you for an emotional anything, thank you. I was attempting to change the subject, nothing more. What else can you smell? I've never heard stories of a werewolf who could do that.

[(And it's so much easier to ignore her grief and loss when she's got this to focus on. Never mind she's bottling up her feelings; of course she is. She's always done that. She'd never have gotten anywhere if she went around feeling things all the time; she'll repress this until it goes away, just like she does with everything).]

I wouldn't go that far. I'm not fucking omniscient.

[ of course she's still intrigued by what makes him tick. Bigby shouldn't give her curiosity more ammo, but he supposes it's too late now. he lets out a low sigh, rolling his head back to look up at the ceiling as if he is accepting defeat. ]

It's all chemistry. You of all people should be able to appreciate that, little miss scientist. I've just lived long enough to figure out which scent means what.

[ most of the time, anyway. his powers aren't foolproof, and it's more successful picking up on someone's lies than simple discomfort. it just so happens to be that he has gotten to know Rosalind somewhat since they've met, and it isn't all too difficult to pair body language with her scent. ]

There's plenty of things you didn't know a werewolf could do. I think I showed you a few of them already.

[ yes, you can assume he seems quite satisfied with that comment. the half-smile on his face as he continues staring up at her roof indicates that. ]

[He's right, at least, in that she does appreciate the scientific method used here. And it's really quite fascinating (though he needn't act as though she's putting him on the rack; answering a few questions is hardly the worst thing he's faced).

As for that last remark . . . she rolls her eyes, but there's nothing but good humor in the way she shoves his leg with her foot (careful not to jab the place she'd just stitched up).]

You know, I just had a conversation about how every man I know over two thousand thinks he's cleverest when he's patronizing me or trying to fluster me, and here you are, proving me right.

[But hey, give him this: she's not thinking about Robert anymore.]

[ he grunts when she pushes at his bad leg, giving her a good glare for deciding that assaulting the limb holding a fresh wound would be a good idea. big tough guy or not, so long as the damn thing hasn't healed, it hurts. so much as tensing up his leg shoots discomfort through his nerves, and he wants to describe her with some colorful words for a second or three there. ]

Oh, shut the hell up. Don't even pretend I didn't give you a night worth remembering.

[ not implying it wasn't one for him to remember as well, of course, but he isn't talking about himself right now. he just figures it's nice to... remind her every now and again. yeah. ]

Besides, what's wrong with flustering? Who would have thought a redhead blushing would look cute.

[ he called you cute, Ros. sort of. take it or leave it. ]

[Know how much guilt she feels about kicking him? None. Absolutely none. She's rude like that.

But he does manage to, if not fluster her, at least throw her off a little. Sarcasm she can take and spit right back at him; even lewdness is easily dealt with. But she isn't entirely certain how to respond to a compliment like that, because she certainly doesn't want to do something so stupid as smile or laugh, but nor does she want to disparage the compliment entirely (because it was sweet, kind of, in that special Bigby way).

So yes, her cheeks are a bit red now, and she wrinkles her nose again.]

You're ridiculous. No one's called me that since I was sixteen, and for good reason.

And? You might as well be sixteen if you compare ages with me.

[ okay that probably sounds a little wrong when considering the filthy things they have done, but. look. he has a point. Bigby is an old man, so if he wants to call someone cute, however rare that might possibly be, he's going to call them cute. besides, at least he now knows that it gets her going. ]

Oh, is that how you look at me?

[Far better to focus on that than his compliment (which, again, is appreciated, but she really has no idea how to handle it).]

I dread to think what that might mean for any future sexual endeavors we might indulge in.

Maybe I do.

[ as if playing coy on purpose, he's going to choose now of all opportunities to pull out a his cigarettes. the packaging is slightly bloodied, but it doesn't stop him from bringing one to his lips. before proceeding to light it, he tips the box towards her. he hasn't seen her smoke in the past, but he figures he might as well be courteous since she's patched him up. ]

Everyone is young to me, so don't think too much on it. I won't be asking you to wear short skirts and ask you to sit in my lap.

[Hell yes she's going to be taking one, thank you, though she's enough courtesy to do it gracefully instead of snatching. Resting it between her lips, she leans forward, waiting for him to light it.]

Is that what constitutes youth where you're from? And here I thought you might ask me to pretend it was my first time.

[Drawled, then:]

Oh, Bigby, you're ever so large, are you certain you'll fit? Only you're bigger than anything I've ever taken before, oh, I just don't know . . .

[ huh. now it makes sense as to why she's never complained about him smoking in front of her face or in her home. Bigby is pleasantly surprised to see that she partakes in bad habits just like him. he lights his own first (because he is still Bigby, ok) before leaning in to do the same for her own, appreciating for a moment or two how it looks to see a cigarette secured between her lips. ]

I'd be happy to call you an old lady if that suits you better.

[ he just has to hear what she comes up with now. Bigby allows himself to grow relaxed, taking a long drag of his cig before blowing the smoke up towards the ceiling. the man nearly chokes on it when she starts roleplaying, and he waves a hand at her in an attempt to make Rosalind stop. ]

Reserve your best lines for the bedroom. Please. Kind of frightening how quick you come up with material.

Oh, please. As if that required any great wit to come up with.

[Though she looks quite pleased at how alarmed he looks. Rosalind smirks around her cigarette, settling back once more (and it's a sign of how comfortable she is around him that she isn't sitting up perfectly straight, but rather relaxing back).]

Any other preferences I ought to know about, beyond the fact you apparently don't get off on a virginity kink?

[She assumes they're going to tumble into bed again, but really, it's not much of an assumption.]

No? Must mean you have experience delivering that. Lucky guy.

[ or not-so-lucky, depending on if her tone had been dripping with sarcasm like it is currently. Bigby gives her a flat stare when she talks of virginity kinks. it might be hard to tell if he's serious or giving a poker face. ]

Who said I didn't? I'm a wolf, you know. Maybe it's in my genes to go after innocent, supple little virgins.

[ and then another inhale of smoke follows, not budging for a moment. do you believe him or not, Ros. ]

mercenary jobs #3 — open to all

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