((thread fixed))


Storms in Old Rose were treated as though death himself had payed a visit to the oceanside town; doors were battened down, windows fastened, streets emptied of all life, even if it was only a minor gale. Storms were Hawke's time, when his enforcers took care of business, using the choppy seas to get rid themselves of problems efficiently... and permanently.

Waiting beneath the awning of a shop, out of the rain and weather, a witch waited in the shadows. Her skirt, slit all the way up to her hip and her bare midriff looked out of place in the greyness of the gale, though the coolness of the air didn't seem to bother her. Sighing petulantly, Mirella flipped her hair and adjusted her corset, leaning against the wall in a semblance of boredom. However, this was a mere facade to her real measure. She was terribly focused, eyes darting back and forth, waiting.

The thunder rolled on, waves crashing against the seawalls. Rattling through the alleys, the wind picked up, shrieking loudly into the night.


----


Sidling up to Mirella, an olive-skinned witch with lean-muscled limbs tipped her rain hat. Her thighs sported twin daggers in ornate, exotic sheaths.

"Cor, Mirie, 'ow long's it been since we all met like this?" she asked wryly, staring out defiantly into the rain. "'aven't 'ad a proper amount of blood on my hands since last month. I've been feeling like a real shut-in."

"Yer both late." Came a husky whisper from the shadows.

A pale, wisp of a woman stepped from the darkness she was completely concealed in, black-gloved hands reaching up to lower the hood to her black, mid-drift leather jacket to let the rain fall on the short, dark braids of her hair. Her black dress was little more than a sheath for the slim blade of her body, clinging tightly to her tall but lithe frame above her thigh-high boots.

"As usual."

Yulina grinned, green eyes flashing in a bit of lightning, the deep straight scar that cut across her face making her expression wicked instead of friendly, "Let's give this clocking rain somethin' to wash off, shall we, ladies?"


----

"Who's the first mark?" asked Rinata carelessly, as though inquiring on the time. "Been sharpening my knives all week for that cheeky tailor. 'Want a nice dress, miss? Show off that figure?'" She mimicked his voice cruelly. "His voicebox will be the first thing to go..."

Yulina sneered, "While normally I'd say I'd never follow yer suggestions, Rin, I'll have to admit the tailor sounds like a scrumptious start for this evenin'. I do enjoy watching that poor bastard squirm." Really, she enjoyed watching anyone squirm, but that was far from the point at the moment.

The waif of a witch glanced at Mirella from under her rain-soaked hair, "Unless ye think ye've got a better idea?" By the tone of her voice, it was a rhetorical question. She had obviously already made up her mind.

Mirella giggled, shrugging in the way that best portrayed her large and exposed assets, Grinning at her companions.

"Junta! Too long if ye ask me, beatas." She beamed at the other wtiches, eyes alight. "Dze, I've been bored without ye. He doesn't give us enough to do. I've been waiting for some good fun!" She fingered one of her many necklaces, and with a loving look, caressed the garrotte around her throat. "Ent had a proper cott in awhile!"

"We can deal with that Tailor first, but remember, we have a job t'do tonight." Carefully extracting a paper from the valley of her cleavage, Mirella unfolded it and looked through the list of names. "Some of these laoso natts haven't been paying the proper protection ging, beatas. We're to... encourage them wit words... or riffs." She patted her skirt, which while looking too flimsy to hide much, concealed a skirt knife and a few stiletto blades.

"Let's see if we can't change their mung minds, eh?"

"Ah, Mirrie, I do love it when you talk like that," said Rinata, cackling and leaning forward to kiss her sister on the cheek. "Let's 'it 'im where the sun don't shine, shall we? 'ere we go."

She motioned out into the rain, where the distant yellow glow of a row of windows distinguished the tailor's house. He was sitting awake in his parlor, thought Rinata, waiting for their visit. How lovely.

"Oes, let's make this one count, eh?"

Yulina smiled almost impishly at the two other witches, unmistakable cruel excitement in her emerald eyes. Not bothering to return the hood to her jacket back over her head she stepped out into the street with an entertained swagger to her step. Her air of dark confidence carried her all the way past the sleeping row of houses until the three of them were hovering outside the still-lit building that belonged to their first mark of the evening.

The slim witch winked slyly at Rinata, leaning almost casually against the railing of the steps up to the tailor's door, and whispered, "Yer grand entrances are always so much more ... intimidating than mine." She waved a hand towards the entrance as if indicating the opening act was all hers, letting her other hand rest playfully on Mirella's arm, whispering coyly, "I do love watchin' a good show."

The tailor in question was a Mr. Cranks, a man whose face looked like it had been crocheted from knobbly pink wool. He stood hunched over his sewing machine, trying to focus on his work; the droplets of rain on his patchwork tin roof were distracting him, and each ping and each pong made his left eyelid twitch. His arthritic fingers danced deftly over the fabric, his foot pumping the machine as though he were running away for dear life; the rhythmic sound of the gears cranking would usually have put his mind at ease. But not tonight.

There came a clap of thunder so loud that it vibrated the tin roof, making the metal sing like the strings of a harp. The air stung with force as Rinata pushed the door in with a kick, accompanied by some strange magic fine-tuned to the seaside's ley vibrations. She stood in the threshold, surrounded by her sisters, her blades in her hands and a look of hunger in her eyes.

"Mr. Cranks," she said, smiling like a barracuda.

The tailor didn't move, which must have taken some resolve; he glared coldly at the witches, his mouth twisting into a frown.

"You broke my door," he said, growling. "What is it this time?"

"This time, Mr. Cranks? This time ... Tsssk."

Yulina hissed chidingly, sliding into the house behind her sister like a blade between ribs. She sneered at the man, scar puckering across the length of her face, "Yer in no position for such a statement, are ye now? Ye don't 'ave to play coy for us, I'm sure ye know why we're 'ere ... An' we can promise this'll be the last time."

While she was speaking, the slim witch had removed her gloves, wringing the water out of them onto the floor of his shop. She tightened her grip and wrung the leather pair one final wrenching time for emphasis on the word 'last.' Shaking them off, she slid them back on her hands while glaring with disdainfully restrained violence at the tailor and added, "Ye got two choices: the easy way or the 'ard way. Which will it be?"

Her green eyes flicked briefly to Rinata, grin widening in expectation of his answer. There really wasn't much of a choice. It would be terrible either way, but it was always fun to play a little before the real business began.

Mirella stepped forward, spreading her arms in an appeasingly open motion, suppressing the feral grin that threatened. She did so enjoy her Beatas displays. In stark contrast to their threats, she languidly sauntered into her bit.

"Now, ye see. We're under orders, Cranks. Mr. Hawke's been more'n patient wit ye. He's sent some peaceably, and he's sent some loudly, but ye just... never seem to be home. Now, ye see how that'd be a bit of a fix for Mr. Hawke." She tossed her hair, exposing round, bare shoulders and the delicate curve of her neck, necklaces bringing the eye to her rather vast expanse of naked skin...

"So, here we are, the three of us roshes, sent out ina storm just to collect. Now, I don't mind th'weather..." She motioned to the others with a small shrug. "Well, let'ssay they're not fans. We need yer co-operation now, Cranks. Where's Mr. Hawke's due?"

"I don't have it," snapped Mr. Cranks, and in his voice the witches could hear the faintest tremor of fear. "I can't give you something I ent got. Your King's 'taxes' have driven every honest dealer out of this harbor. I haven't had business in a month."

"Well it isn't our fault if you won't take perfectly good work, Mr. Cranks," said Rinata, repeating his name jeeringly. "Just because you've got your 'igh-and-mighty morality to worry about doesn't mean you're off scot-free. You owe us a debt and that debt will be paid."

She stepped forward. Although she was not overly tall, she towered over him in his hunched position. Her brown fingers came to rest on the sewing machine he was working on. He looked up at her, his yellowed bloodshot eyes wide and his teeth set in a defiant grimace.

"You could always start by working longer hours."

There was a hideous crunching noise and a cry of anguish from the man as the needle ran over his fingers, with Rinata's foot pumping mercilessly on the pedal and her steely grasp holding him still as the thread penetrated his skin.

Yulina chuckled in cold delight at the sounds of the poor man's agony, smile still broad on her face from Mirella's delivery and Rinata's follow-up. It was dreadfully lovely when they all got together. She sidled up to the work table, sitting daintily on its edge next to the tailor's sewing machine and his mangled hand, smile fading into a sinister mocking of a pout.

Swinging her long legs childishly back and forth, she folded her hands in her lap and let her green eyes wander over the tailor's pained expression, drinking it in with a palpable satisfaction, "Well. I guess ye won't be workin' extra 'ours without that 'and anytime soon."

She arched a thin tapered eyebrow at him from under the wet braids of her hair, "Although, if ye want to keep yer other 'and workin', I suggest you cough up what yer 'idin' already."

The slim witch lifted a gloved hand from her lap and ran it down the tailor's arm lightly, starting at his elbow, increasing the pressure of her fingers until she ended at his own under the needle, pout disappearing into another scar-puckering grin. She hissed through her teeth, pressing down against the stitching with obvious pleasure, "I 'ave no patience to be 'oldin' dear Rin 'ere back from takin' a finger or three 'ome as supplemental payment, ye chen?"

Mirella ran a tongue over her lips, watching Yulina and Rinata decimate the man with calculated and ravenous cruelty, face flushing. She did so love their antics; nothin' like a cott to get a girl's blood up. Hand sliding over her collarbone delicately, she came to stand on Crank's free side, draping an arm over him, placing her chin on the top of his head.

"See what I mean, natt? It's this weather, I swear..." She leaned down, and with a slim figer, dipped her finger in some of his welling blood. Sitting up from her perched position, she turned so he could see her clearly. Taking the digit to her face, she stared into the man's eyes as she licked the blood off.

"Now, you'll be tellin' us where ye stashed the ging, Cranks, or there'll be no shortage of red dye for the Brothers if ye catch my meanin'." She sweetly sucked the rest of the crimson liquid from her finger, smiling all the while.

"Argh," yelled Cranks, clearly in mind-numbing pain. "If I had it, ye daft witch, I'd have paid it! I don't have anything! Look if you like!" He tried wrestling his hand away from Rinata, but it was pinned to the table by the needle; his eyes watered and his face was turning white.

Rinata turned her wrathful face to the man, leaning in close so he could smell her hot breath. She seemed to be searching his face for a lie.

"I believe you," she said quietly.

Standing up, she turned to the other witches.

"Get him to talk," she said casually, letting go of the man and stepping towards his couch (hand-upholstered, and very beautiful), where she draped her bloodstained body across the plush velour and turned to watch. "I want to know who his friends are."

"Oh, 'e'll be talking soon enough."

Yulina turned a little from her perch on the work table next to the sewing machine and the tailor. With disturbingly calculated care she put one hand on the man's wrist and turned the knob to withdraw the needle with the other. She took her time with wordless enjoyment, de-threading his hand from the needle with agonizing slowness and tossing his arm aside once he was free.

Languidly sliding from the table top, the slim witch let her eyes fall on Mirella, lips twisting into a teasing sneer, "Do the nice man a favor and unbutton 'is shirt. It might be warm for 'im in 'ere with all these women about. Ye can do me a favor and tie 'is 'ands behind 'is chair while yer at it, dear."

With a strange giggle, Yulina slid a leather-bound roll of tools from behind her, opening it slowly across the bloodied work table in between the tailor and his machine. There were all sorts of very terrible looking instruments in a nice row, shining and well-kept. They were all made into varying shades of painful and unpleasant shapes, and the waif of a witch let the gloved fingers of her right hand run across each of them as if she was caressing a lover.

"So, Mr. Cranks, my dear Rinata believes ye got some friends." Her emerald eyes fell on the man, but her smile didn't seem to want to fade, hand still on her tools, "Why don't ye share 'em with us before I 'ave to go and make a mess of ye and yer shop?" As much as the witch enjoyed all the available ways of gathering information, from scrying to eavesdropping to torture, it was often just the anticipation and threat of terrible things that gave her the most thrill.

Biting her lip adorably, Mirella did as was asked, fingers teasingly slow as she removed the mans shirt. Her longish nails scratched at his skin, and with a final throaty purr, she freed him of his sleeves... only to turn and wrap his wrists with her garrote, binding him none too kindly.

"Oh, Yulina, ye brought yer toys! Boemo!" She giggled happily, ready to watch the show. Mirella might have been the least obviously violent of the three witches, however she was the first to watch violence performed and enjoy every agonizing second of it.

Mr. Cranks could barely speak from the agonizing pain, but he managed to spit at Mirella's feet, glaring up at her. "I don't know anything," he grunted. "You've got it wrong, you stupid witch!"

Rinata, still seated comfortable, tutted.

"That's no way to speak to a lady," she said, giving Yulina a darkly significant glance.

"Ah!"

The slim witch feigned a gasp of surprise, sneer darkening from her delicate perch on the table top in front of the tailor. Crossing her pencil-thin legs and resting a boot on the man's knee, Yulina ran her fingers one more time over the implements neatly aligned in front of the sewing machine, as if trying to make a decision.

Narrowing her eyes, she whispered threateningly to the belligerent tailor, "No one talks to one of us that way and gets away without some scars, Mr. Cranks."

With a satisfied sigh, she selected something wickedly hooked and gleamingly sharp from her impressive collection of terrible objects. Pressing the flat of the blade to her lips, Yulina arched a well-manicured black eyebrow, pink scar across her face puckering upward at the same time, "I didn't ask ye what y'knew, ye snivelin' tailor, but who y'knew. Someone as embarrassingly stupid as ye must 'ave a few friends to look after 'im, eh?"

The witch shifted her weight, foot on the man's leg supporting her tiny frame as she leaned forward, brandishing the curved talon of a blade with a flourish, pressing the blade against the poor man's sternum with the obvious intention of raking it downwards. While the blade was not long enough to rend entirely through thick flesh, it would most certainly dig painfully deep.

Yulina hesitated, grinning in a way that could convincingly cause plants to wither, "Ye got a tick or two to start spoutin' some names before I start givin' ye a more personal sewin' project to deal with."

She emphasized the word personal with a flick of her thin, bony wrist.

A fresh, ruby bead began to swell from underneath the tip of the blade, accompanied by a delicate pinprick of pain. It was but a hint of the possibilities, reflected without emotion in the slim witch's emerald eyes.

Mirella froze, teasing expression gone. Instead, gracing her soft features was a look of blank malice, normally bright, colorful eyes flat and slatey. "Oi, whatcha think yer doin', sayin' things like that t'nice gels like us."


She followed Yulina's sickle with her eyes, the blood flowing from the wound not enough, never enough, to sate her rage at the insult. However, after they got what they wanted from him she would get her revenge. Oh, how she would. He would be screaming her name like all the jonhs had expected their pretty whore to, screaming and screaming and she would be laughing until she cut off the air to his lungs and where'll yer friends be then, ye tseuter bastard?

Tossing her hair, she stood tall and with a glance at Yulina, pretended to simper. "See? Now let's be... reasonable, shall we?" She sat on the edge of the table, exposing her leg to an unseemly degree. "We need to know who it is ye've got siding wit ye." Internally, she swore retribution on all who crossed Mr. Hawke.

The man was panting now, beads of sweat creasing down his face and falling over his jumping neck muscles and clavicle. His skin was beginning to turn red and veined, like putty mixed with jelly.

"I make sails," he sputtered, a wild look in his eyes. "For sailors. That's all! I don't ask questions!"

Yulina leaned further forward, increasing the pressure of her narrow foot on the man's leg. Her face was moving toward the tailor's now, and she grinned like a shark closing in on its prey.

"Sails, y'say ...? Fer sailors, y'say ...? Dze."

The slim witch lowered her hand with practiced slowness, dragging open a clean line in the man's skin barely an inch long. It was deep, and it bled like it was supposed to. It hurt, but it still paled in comparison to what could happen if the man continued to be uncooperative.

Her question was a hiss; and her breath could tickle his face, she was so close, "An' yer tellin' me these sailors ent got names? Are y'sure ...?"

"I don't ask names! I just make the sails!" He seemed desperate now, his voice almost rising to a scream as the blood from several major veins trickled down his legs and onto the woven straw carpet.

Cranks' eyes began to droop.

Yulina exhaled frustratedly, air escaping from between her teeth like so much steam as she glanced down through the short braids of her black hair with a hint of disappointment at the mess that was not producing the desired results. The man really didn't ask questions, and apparently he didn't care much for names.

She hated it when they were honest from the start. It was such a waste of good craftsmanship.

"Ye really are a mung bastard, ent ye? Not askin' yer customers names. Fer shame. Ye just take their coin with that fat smile on yer face, I'm sure." The slim witch sneered and sat up from the tailor, now-bloodied instrument held delicately off to one side in her hand. She narrowed her emerald eyes at the man, recognizing their time was short before he lost his limited consciousness.

"I take it ye don't 'and-deliver yer sails either."

She dug the heel of her boot into the man's leg, reminding him to stay awake, tilting her head at him, "Yer mysterious sailor friends just come an' pick 'em up, eh?"

((Sorry, Mirella. It looked like your post was showing up twice and I thought I was fixing it, but apparently when I deleted it from page 2, it deleted them both. Very strange, so I reposted. If you want to post it again yourself, just let me know. Luckily, I saved it first.))



She couldn't help herself. Leaning forward, she licked the side of the blade, the cooling blood still delicious and coppery on her tongue. She kept her eyes on the man the entire time, smoldering expression a mix of rage and passion.



She waited impatiently for the interview to conclude. This wasn't her part of the game; hers and Rinata's was finished, though at least the athletic witch had uses after the initial 'beat them up' phase was done. If she couldn't seduce them into cooperation, she was through til the final blow was dealt... and even then, all three of them loved that honor.

Glaning at her nails, she sighed exasperatedly. "Damn fool ent runnin' much of a business, is 'e? Whatcha been doing all his time, starin' at yer shoes? We. Want. To. Know. WHO."

His head snapped up on his thin neck, his eyes straining to keep open. A crackling sound came from between his lips, and he dribbled out a wad of blood.

"There was a man," he managed, coughing and shaking. "Black hair. Face... face like he'd been shot. He came to pick up...the sails one time. Him and a....a few others. I only saw him for a moment..."

Rinata's eyebrows raised up, wondering who he might have been talking about.

"And another," he said quietly. "The others...the others called him...Sparrow. He paid me. Paid me in squares."

His other arm rose, shaking, and pointed across the small room. Where his finger led, there was a patch in the wallpaper, almost as though it had been torn away and repapered.

"There."

The slim witch giggled from her perch on the tabletop, following the bleeding man's finger to the wall. Brandishing her implement threateningly at her subject, heel still grinding in his leg, Yulina glanced at Mirella with a sly grin before arching a slim eyebrow at Rinata, "Squares, eh?"

She narrowed her emerald eyes at the tailor, "Y'should know better than to be usin' such things 'ere in th'Arbor."

"Someone check 'is wall while I see if 'e's got a few more names spillin' out of 'is arteries." She grinned wickedly at the man, taunting him with her blade, "Does yer Sparrow got a ship with a name?"