The stench of blood & burned soot hangs pungent in the City.
It clings to me, invading both mind and body.
The source of such violent mayhem I sense is at my fingertips, despite the charming mask of good intentions that I continue to wear, the results remain the same.
As hard as I try to coax the information from the informed, no one is talking, especially the overpaid City Official which leads me to believe as I have since the beginning of this is the result of someone local rather than an outsider. It has propelled me to hire outside help.
The renovations to restore my bakery to its illustrious state, are going to be costly.
Higher than my original speculations.
Over a shared bottle of wine would the name of the builder be appropriately forged from the Metal Smith's lips. I feel a bond with him, one that defies explanation, perhaps it is because he seems so decent, so sincere in his actions. In this I am not sure. I have grow so used to seeking out faults within others and using them to my advantage that I am left to feel somewhat conflicted and may I add clumsy in his company.
I should most likely avoid him if not for my own sake rather than his own, yet I feel oddly unable.
It bears further thoughts.
My attempts to barter with the Builder were met with proud resistance, I am however not dismayed. I find him to be a man of interest, the barely veiled implications made during our somewhat intimate meeting, lead me to believe that he is willing to negotiate upon the original bid.
I have sent out discrete feelers as to his character, while I debate upon his ability to maintain a sense of discretion.
Have we all not done worse for far less?
I would be remiss if I didn't make note of the fact that during the course of the conversation with the builder, we were not alone, as hard as the woman attempted to shield the casual cut of her eyes, they would were felt burning a curious hole in my backside. Her actions spurred me onwards, maintaining the illusion that there was more to our meeting than simply business, the sense of cunning satisfaction deliciously savored by her abrupt departure, one that coincided with our own.
To be honest it couldn't have worked out better if I had orchestrated it myself.
Continued relevance to ill conceived illusions maintained, creating a smooth creamy frosting as I purposely followed her towards the arena, emerging thru the side entrance, my actions appeared causal awaiting for her to approach, seldom am I wrong when it comes to something so obvious, this would be no exception. The puppet strings unseen as they would be lifted upwards, provoking the low spoken awaited taste of her feminine venom.
The perfect pause followed by the seemingly confused tip of my chin, would be played out with perfection as I expertly played the part of the humble baker as her name would be offered up.
Zarah.
It would be a name I already knew.
It should be said, I have met but two women in my life that proved to be worthy adversaries, immune to the toxin of my manipulations, naturally they would be embraced as allies, the others simply a means to an end.
The Turian woman fell into the category of the latter.
Such satisfaction would be found as I casually dropped the stale crumbs of information at her feet. The ire she felt concerning me would savored, icing on the cake came when I boldly implied that her company at the estate would be met with objection.
I await her arrival, carrying tales to both her cousin and my former companion, I only hope that I have a ringside seat at the unveiling.
Climate has changed within the City.
The emerging planted seeds, sinuously breaking thru the icy soil. The time for harvest approaches..
It clings to me, invading both mind and body.
The source of such violent mayhem I sense is at my fingertips, despite the charming mask of good intentions that I continue to wear, the results remain the same.
As hard as I try to coax the information from the informed, no one is talking, especially the overpaid City Official which leads me to believe as I have since the beginning of this is the result of someone local rather than an outsider. It has propelled me to hire outside help.
The renovations to restore my bakery to its illustrious state, are going to be costly.
Higher than my original speculations.
Over a shared bottle of wine would the name of the builder be appropriately forged from the Metal Smith's lips. I feel a bond with him, one that defies explanation, perhaps it is because he seems so decent, so sincere in his actions. In this I am not sure. I have grow so used to seeking out faults within others and using them to my advantage that I am left to feel somewhat conflicted and may I add clumsy in his company.
I should most likely avoid him if not for my own sake rather than his own, yet I feel oddly unable.
It bears further thoughts.
My attempts to barter with the Builder were met with proud resistance, I am however not dismayed. I find him to be a man of interest, the barely veiled implications made during our somewhat intimate meeting, lead me to believe that he is willing to negotiate upon the original bid.
I have sent out discrete feelers as to his character, while I debate upon his ability to maintain a sense of discretion.
Have we all not done worse for far less?
I would be remiss if I didn't make note of the fact that during the course of the conversation with the builder, we were not alone, as hard as the woman attempted to shield the casual cut of her eyes, they would were felt burning a curious hole in my backside. Her actions spurred me onwards, maintaining the illusion that there was more to our meeting than simply business, the sense of cunning satisfaction deliciously savored by her abrupt departure, one that coincided with our own.
To be honest it couldn't have worked out better if I had orchestrated it myself.
Continued relevance to ill conceived illusions maintained, creating a smooth creamy frosting as I purposely followed her towards the arena, emerging thru the side entrance, my actions appeared causal awaiting for her to approach, seldom am I wrong when it comes to something so obvious, this would be no exception. The puppet strings unseen as they would be lifted upwards, provoking the low spoken awaited taste of her feminine venom.
The perfect pause followed by the seemingly confused tip of my chin, would be played out with perfection as I expertly played the part of the humble baker as her name would be offered up.
Zarah.
It would be a name I already knew.
It should be said, I have met but two women in my life that proved to be worthy adversaries, immune to the toxin of my manipulations, naturally they would be embraced as allies, the others simply a means to an end.
The Turian woman fell into the category of the latter.
Such satisfaction would be found as I casually dropped the stale crumbs of information at her feet. The ire she felt concerning me would savored, icing on the cake came when I boldly implied that her company at the estate would be met with objection.
I await her arrival, carrying tales to both her cousin and my former companion, I only hope that I have a ringside seat at the unveiling.
Climate has changed within the City.
The emerging planted seeds, sinuously breaking thru the icy soil. The time for harvest approaches..
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