Now Elednor saw some of the strangers advance on him. "Great" he thought "one of the things I need". He had his hat put up its wings and aimed them at the mysterious people. "I don't want any trouble. I just want to talk to man right there" and soon enough, Elednor pointed at Tyr.

Sera flinched as the man fell from the roof. It was a rather awkward situation for her, but apparently the stranger had some issues with Tyr. She turned to face him, still taking note of the strange man's actions.
"Tyr, do you know him?"

He shrugged in response to her question.
"Never met this guy," he replied.
He then turned to the stranger and questioned him,
"What's your beef with me?"

"What's your beef with me?" Tyr ask the question to Elednor. Elednor replied to him in a voice that made himself feel small< "well let me introduce myself at first> my name happens to be Elednor". He thought of his next words as he said them, "I noticed that you have yellow colored eyes. It told me that there is something special about you and a great tale follows. I wanted to know everything by then."

Quozr Mashan knelt at the side of his mother’s bed. The twelfth-story room was small, no more than eight feet across either way. The only other pieces of furniture present were a small round table, a three-legged stool and a mostly empty cupboard hanging on one of the walls. It was relatively clean space for this city, though, which was good. His mother’s health was precarious enough without having to breath in the fumes from the refuse that littered the streets. Besides, it was all he could afford.

Quozr’s metal finger brushed against the woman’s cheek. It was hollow, as were her closed eyes. Good food was hard to come by, and getting his mother to eat it was even harder. He moved not an inch from where he knelt, head bowed, for several minutes. The words he spoke just before rising were something of a ritual, uttered to the frail figure every morning before Quozr set out. “I’m sorry, mother. But I have to do this. For you.” He would have been crying at that point, but empty eye sockets aren’t much for producing tears. The man was blind, having lost both eyes to cruel soldiers many years before. And yet, he was not without vision. Two circular devices, one where each of his ears should have been, allowed him a “sound-image” of the world around him. These weren’t the only “upgrades” he sported. His right arm was a mechanical marvel of engineering, at least considering the technology available at the time. It moved just as well as his normal left arm, even better. Such devices came at a price, of course. Kringnik, head of one of the largest underground crime organizations in the city, had agreed to pay for them, on the conditions that Quozr would work for him until the debt was payed. The jobs he was asked to do were more often than not of the illegal variety, as was to be expected. “It was the only way,” Quozr would often remind himself. If he couldn’t work, he couldn’t feed his mother, or ever hope to find a cure for the illness that had kept her bed-ridden these past five years. He couldn’t work if he didn’t have two arms to use, much less if he couldn’t see. It was a sacrifice that had to be made.

Today’s “assignment” was particularly distasteful. His mission was to assassinate one of the city’s chief officials, one that had been of particular annoyance to Kringnik lately. Aranida was her name. She lived in a well guarded house some miles to the north of Quozr’s small apartment. Getting in would be the easy part. Getting out... not so much. Quozr had no doubts about the fate that awaited him if he failed to escape after completing the task. Death, slow and painful. His mother would fare no better.

After applying the black make-up that helped to disguise his face, he grabbed the cloak that was laying on the table, slipping it on as he had done countless times before. Gloves adorned his hands, helping to hide the fact that one of them wasn’t human. He wore boots that looked heavy, but they allowed for light, agile movements. Wrapping the customary bandage around his eye sockets and pulling a hood over his dirty shoulder-length hair, he reached for the weapons that waited on the stool. They were a wonderful fusion of old and new, ancient and modern. They were pistols, but with foot long blades reaching out from under the barrel. Wielding such weapons took practice, but they were deadly once mastered. Quozr slipped them into the holsters hidden in the folds of his robe, concealing them from view. As he neared the doorway, he turned back to where his mother lay and whispered, “Maybe, one day, I can find a way to bring magic back. Then you’ll never be sick again.” A moment later he was gone, on his way to Aranida’s house.


((By the way, what exactly is Aranida's rank? Is she a governor, head of police, military officer?))

Tyr rubbed his face and inhaled deeply, illustrating his distaste towards the stranger for the question he bore.
"That is of no interest to anyone. It is a recessive trait in all of us." he answered, stretching the truth slightly so he would believe the explanation. When it came down to the eyes, questions bothered him, merely because the special reason was to be kept secret, but also because he was asked what they meant wherever he traversed. At least outside of the Black Market, where a glance on the street rarely evolved into a conversation, there was too little faith in the congeniality of passerby in that section of the city.

Sera turned back to the other stranger, who was speaking just before the newcomer dropped in.
"What were you talking about? Knowing I was coming?" she inquired, nerves overcoming her. There was no chance he could have figured anything out. There was a scan before the operation was enacted and it clearly stated that there was no written lore available to the surface dwellers that could explain her appearance or justify that she was a messenger.
_____

A peon stepped beside Dhejuti and whispered into his ear. Once he was dismissed Dhejuti turned to Aranida one final time.
"Mistress, the reason we now know this information is because one of the yellow eyes from the North actually traveled to the capital to tell the king about the genocide. The yellow eyes was given permission to journey through our land and come to this city to tell us personally. It was judged that because we control the largest city next to the capital that the yellow eye would visit. And now the aforementioned yellow eye has arrived in the main hallway. If you do not mind, we must head there immediately."

OOC: Hey Kiki, I bet you have tons of work at the moment, but when you get a chance, just make a post <3
Brikmaethor: Don't take my word as complete truth, but I believe she is a commander or somewhere similar to that rank.

Sailing through the air, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, Quozr set his mind adrift, trying to recall happier times. No need to focus on the job to be done until it was time to do it, after all. He thought of the blades that hid beneath his cloak. Moktrel-fa, they were called, though people more commonly referred to them as “pistol-blades” or “dagger-guns”. Neither name did these arms justice. Quozr’s Moktrel-fa were of excellent quality, worth a small fortune, in fact. The handles were expertly carved, with rubies inset in the wood. The blades were sharp and well balanced, with red interweaving patterns along the sides. Of his few worldly possessions, these were Quozr’s most precious. They had been a parting gift from his father, given many years ago. He had only vague memories of the man, for they had been separated when Quozr was but eight years old, and neither had seen or heard from the other since then. His father, Hutmyr was his name, had ventured forth with several others on some sort of expedition. He had not shared the details with anyone outside the group. Rumors said that the party was comprised only of people that the government wanted to get rid of. Thus, they had sent them on a quest from which none of them were to return. Others proposed that they had been sent to rediscover the source of magic. They had either died in the attempt or had found their way to Urbel, depending on who told the story. Whatever you chose to believe, one thing was certain. They weren’t coming back.

Despite this, he and his mother had lived well. His mother worked as a seamstress, and they were aided now and again by Quozr’s wealthy aunt and uncle. The uncle taught him the art of the Moktrel-fa, and eventually the young lad became quite proficient with them. His aunt and mother made sure that he received an education. Such a good life could not last, however. At the age of 23, Quozr was framed for his aunt and uncle’s murder. He lost his right arm as punishment for his supposed crimes, his eyes to soldiers that wanted to make sure he wouldn’t do it again. For three years he was reduced to begging in the filthy streets, he and his mother barely scrapping by. Then the illness came. Quozr went to Kringnik for help, and the rest was history. “How ironic,” he thought as he ran up a shingled roof, “that I should earn my living doing the very thing that ruined my life in the first place. What a sad world we live in.” With that, he came to rest on the roof’s peak.

The devices on his ears picked up a commotion in the alley below. “Looking” down, he identified two shapes. The bigger one was holding the smaller one against the wall, holding what appeared to be a knife, but he couldn’t be sure at this distance. Without nary a moment’s hesitation, he was in the air, falling towards the pair on the ground.

CRUNCH.

The big man’s back gave way with an unnerving sound as Quozr landed on his shoulders. The knife that had been in his hand dropped to the ground, hitting a rock and producing a sharp sound. As he tried to lift his head, his chin encountered a blade held by a figure standing above him with one foot atop his midsection. “I apologize for the hasty entrance, good sir, but I felt it was my duty to inform you that it is considered bad etiquette to relieve an individual of their money without their prior consent”, said Quozr. “I somehow doubt that this was the case just now. As compensation for the trauma you must have cause this individual, I believe that you should instead give him your purse. You have no objection to that, do you?”, he chuckled, pressing the tip of the blade into the man’s neck just enough to draw a tiny drop of blood. The man only grunted. “I’ll take that as a no,” Quozr said lightly. With these words, he unsheathed his other Moktrel, cut loose the straps that held the man’s moneybag in place and flipped it into the air. Another moment and the blade was back in it’s hiding place, the purse resting in Quozr’s palm. “I will require only a small protection fee,” he said, removing three silver coins from the bag. “The rest is yours.” And with that, he tossed the small bag to the figure standing behind him. As he prepared to leave, however, he felt the nuzzle of a rifle against his back. He straightened, angry with himself that he had failed to notice the presence of another weapon before now. Trying to make light of the situation, he forced another chuckle. “Now, now. That’s no way to treat a friend, is it?”


((The person with the gun can be Tsuru, if Deciton_Reven wishes it so. If not, I will simply continue.))

His mouth opened then shut quickly, taking a moment to think he crossed his arms.

"I would prefer to talk about this in a less, public place.."

His head motioned towards an exit.

"This is private property," Qalim spoke with irritation, "I just do not take well to trepassers who don't use the front door like Elednor here."

He wanted to slit the bandit's throat right here but it would serve no purpose but to attract the authorities.

"Elednor, or whoever you are, I suggest you leave, as you are not welcome here," he spoke before turning back to the man who mentioned privacy, "And you, will have a bit to explain."

Qalim urged Sera back inside. Things were moving far too quickly at the moment.

"Then I guess it must be done" Elednor reluctantly left the room with one line, "and like the cheshire cat, I will dissapear". He appeared again outside the building waiting for Tyr and Sera. "This time I will follow just unnoticed" Elednor muttered.

Sera answered Qalim's beckoning and pulled herself away from the man, gripping Qalim's hand in the process. If he was unsure of the situation, she worried about what was going to occur.

Tyr ignored Elednor's closing speech and focused on the conflict at hand. Again he held his right arm at his waist, sword at ready.
"As my friend explained, this building is private. We could increase the privacy further in here, but we shall speak nowhere else but in this store."

With a sarcastically patient sigh the stranger looked up towards the opening in the roof.

"I believe making the area more secure would be within all of our best interests."

His eyes slowly fell from the opening to Sera's face, a look of deep curiosity fell upon him.

Elednor now held his head to the wall trying to listen. "I believe making the area more secure"someone had said. "Great now how am I supposed to get back in?" he grumbled. Elednor went back to the now sealed opening in the roof and watched the meeting from there. "This time" he thought "I will not be caught".

Tyr stood up from his position next to the wall and, nodded to Qalim, pointing to the back room they were in before.
It was about as private as they could get in the general vicinity of the storefront.

Qalim roused Bahaa to get to mending the roof, leaving his father to oversee the work whilst he finally asked important questions to the Messenger and Tyr.

"I remember you wished to save us sister," he started, "It is a monumental undertaking that I would gladly assist in. But first of all, what are we to do with the one who sought you outside? Shall we hear him out?"

Awaiting a response the stranger stood silent and his face cold, it was now within his best interests to hold a dire guise.