[ Live long enough, and you'll see almost everything, at least once, in one form or another. She has yet to gather the dust that comes with the centuries the Knights of the Order have. But she is harder to catch the interest on trivial things, anymore. Her body is old, her mind had aged older still. So she takes everything she ears with a grain of salt. Devi and Finley bring her things, whispers, gossips, where they are in the places she is not. In turn she directs them from there. Almost, she thought to dismiss it until she heard the particular turn of it - struck twice by lightning. It peaks her interest. There is plenty miraculous in the world outside even the Blackwater. Not something she acts on immediately, but something she keeps an ear to the ground of - which is how the word reaches her, of solid work, that had rumor attached to it. Almost as much as she did. ( Tiger-hearted woman, blood drenched queen, fire fueled rebel ).
So she doesn't so much intercept, as puts herself to be in the way of. Devi is close by, hidden, as are the few others she trusts when she finds - not a legend about a boy with lightning skin, but someone running hard, and running fast. maybe not scared, but too early to know that.
There were after all, only so many things worth truly running from in London, and she met them all with blade in hand most days. So she waits until he turns a corner, too far into whitechapel, all blockades and dead ends unless someone knew where they going. Someone like her for instance that in the moment, he runs into that dead end, there she is, stepped out of the shadows. ]
[ For his age, Minho has seen much of the world. From his first home in Hanseong all the way to the vast former colonies of America, and now, London. Such is their network. Thomas and Newt and Teresa and a long list of more names, spread far out and thin across the map these days. Minho, at least, grew up knowing about the monsters in the dark (and sometimes hiding so well in the light). They are not "the" rebellion, and this is their advantage, not drawing eyes so much quite yet. But they're young and too bright, with their eyes too open to sit quietly and watch what happens to the world. Too restless (and many of them too angry) to share the resignation, acceptance, indifference, or disbelief of their elders.
The rebels, as all organized groups, are suspect as far as they're concerned. They're all of them slow to trust, each for their own reasons. But maybe, maybe they'll have to find more allies. Ressources don't appear from thin air, after all. Not all of them are from well-off backgrounds.
London, though. To Minho, London is a cesspool as well as a powderkeg. He sticks out as much as he expected. "Go to Newt," they'd said, "he'll help you wait this mess out" and here he is, but-- things got complicated and too close too many times. He's spent as much time trying to find out the city's secrets, peeling away at it layer by layer, as he's found himself becoming one of them. And from there, it's only a matter of time until someone else seeks him out. Or something. And Whitechapel? That place is a maze if he's ever known one. It draws him in, more than most places in this city do, like a riddle to solve, to learn every detail of. If he can't go find his friend yet, once he knows this place enough, he could lose anyone in here. Maybe if he can get away without having to put down his pursuers, they'll actually lose interest. Wouldn't that be something.
Not yet, though. He hasn't had the time to master this maze. Evidently. Even as he turns around, he draws himself up to stand a little straighter, his head cocked, all easy confidence. In the darkness of the narrow streets it isn't obvious, but the thin, sprawling scars the lightning has left him with reach up the side of his neck. He's tall, broad-shouldered, and though he doesn't quite hold himself like a soldier, it comes close. Suspicion in his narrowed eyes and a ready tension in his stance as he musters her and the shadows past her - he doubts she is alone. Or maybe she is, but then she's likely to be more of a problem rather than less. Either way, there is a long knife under his jacket, even if he's not reaching for it yet.
His tone is flat as he responds. ] You could say I'm new to the area.
[ Sarcastic, perhaps, pointing out the already obvious. By the sound of him, he most certainly isn't English. He might not even be American, either, where his native language colors his pronounciation just a little, but not so much as to be glaring. He does not dash or cower, and his eyes do not dart in search of an escape route. If he is scared, he has learned to forge his fear into something different. ]
[ She watches him, in the half light, the bent and broken buildings of whitechapel hang over itself like a bent and crippled old woman. There's something endless about this place, that seems it could be in almost any city. There was always places twisted over with their own misery, crumbling with the weight of it's sorrows.
She steps forward a little, it's a measure of trust, to show herself in the light, her head tilting up and the gold catches the light as she moves, all dulled glitter. Reminiscence of a life - and a marriage - from a long time before. When her station had begot such things, but now she clings to them in a live sort of defiance of who she was, what she'd done. Like she didn't bare the markings in a hundred other ways, in the grim line of her mouth when she speaks, the cautious was she holds herself, even now. Because even this? Is too open. ]
Do not worry, even those that are ancient to it, do not know it so well.
[ She would say it was hers ( torn it apart with her teeth and nails ) but the truth was that it belonged to the people here more than anyone. She might have planned much, but they were the ones that rose up to take it for themselves again.
For a second, she takes her eyes off him to look beside her, to one of the men that had hidden themselves into the crooks and corners, and with a light curling gesture of her fingers, draws him out. Knew their place, a noble might scoff, but she knew it had nothing to do with that, more that she had earned this kind of loyalty. A sharp jerk of her wrist he seemed to understand and he unholstered a pistol from his waist. Easily given with the Falchion strapped his back. Too pretty to have come from here - but well, that was the point, wasn't it? She didn't need it either, armed as she already was.
Instead she weighed it in her hand, a comfortable weight to grip. ]
The real question is if you want to survive it? [ She's looking to his reaction, her eyes quick to look back up at him again. The gun still set in her hand. It's an offer, if he wanted it, but she might just see what he had to say. ]
[ His eyes catch on the details, the glint of light on gold, so out of place here. Brazen to wear in an area such as this, a bright and shining target on anyone's back safe for those who have made and earned their place. He can see she has. Knows something of that kind of expression, the grimness and defiance, knows determination, knows the kind of heart it takes to stand up to the odds, any odds, anywhere-- feels, oddly, smaller for it. She has been at this longer than him. Longer than any of his friends. Because he knows just the beginnings and the first touch of those things and what they'll readily shape a person into, but her... he may not recognize the things her gold and bearing signify, not precisely, but the fact they are heavy with meaning is obvious, all the same. One small bit of relief - she's not yet another monster, not another one of They Who Cause Grief. He had thought she might not be, but this is almost confirmation. Enough for him to believe, for the time being.
The words of reassurance ring hollow to him. Don't feel bad about being cornered? He doesn't. That doesn't mean he can afford it any more. The greater yet display of trust is when she shifts her focus to a figure in her shadow - takes her eyes off him, period - Minho would be lying if this didn't tempt him to try, to flee, to cut his way through, but he knows his first instinct is not always the best one to listen to. Running scared won't serve him here. So he waits, watching and considering. Paying careful attention to the wordless exchange between her and this shadow of hers - he's been that, before. Silent figure at someone's side, ready to strike at the barest hint of a threat, armed with weapons and with five senses to notice more than those negotiating. He knows what it takes to earn that kind of loyalty. At least, what it took to earn it from him.
There's too much detail on the weapons. Not the plain and ugly kind one might get more or less easily. Those serve their purpose too, if not too well and not too long, but this is something different. Well-equipped, then, are they? His eyes linger on the weapons before they return to her face. ]
I'm planning on it. [ Without your offer, he's saying, standing right where he started out. He doesn't need to be sharp about it. Confidence, even now, as he holds himself steady and sure of where his loyalties lie and that he has no desire to compromise them. Not quite the same tension as before, because the situation is changing already. ] What do you want from me?
[ Why corner him, if she doesn't at least know something of him? ]
[ In all things, she aims to be measured - and she hides it, but a protectiveness for could have been, for things that might have been different, if the Gods were kinder. He hasn't quite learned to yet. He would soon, so far from his home, twitching to little things, watching her not like predator, but from someone ready to bolt. Still ... just young. Learning, but the young were the best at that, after all.
She has seen much, lost it all again. To watch a boy - and no doubt more like him. Get lost and devoured to this city. ]
To live through the night.
[ Yes, he could survive the amazing, so the stories had said that - but so could she. She rode off battlements, she fought for fives day, fell on the last and rose again when the smoke cleared. That didn't mean they would survive forever. She looked again - another test, to watch his reaction, but over the short distance, she tosses the gun. The Dragoon is a good weapon, heavy kick but it was worth it. It took a steady hand, a good eye, and a solid grip. A good weapon to have when stalking through these streets.
It might not save him against everything ( it would not, not when men weren't the worst thing on the streets ), but it would give him a chance that apparently he needed. ]
But you won't do that alone for very long -
[ Something pulls, deep in the corners of her, yes, still has her cracks. Not quite all gone yet. Who knows what she will be in the next hundred years for right now? ]
- and I am sick of pulling the bodies of boys off these streets.
[ He is young, and he knows it. Many times he has been condescended to because of it, but there's never a need to prove himself, to prove anything, just for the sake of it. Let them be wrong.
To think that all she wants is for him to survive just makes him narrow his eyes again, the beginning of a sneer tugging at his lips. He cannot believe it, will not trust so easily, but he does catch the heavy revolver easily anyway. Turns it over in his hand, surprised, frowning as he examines it while listening for anyone move, before he turns that frown on her. What do you get out of this? Waiting for the catch, for the other shoe to drop. There must be something. People, his life has taught him, are not charitable for charity's sake, not generous, not good, not kind, not helpful if there is nothing for them to gain.
That doesn't mean their help is any less valuable, though. With a sharp exhale through his nose, he forces some of the tension out of his posture, lowering the weapon to his side. Fine. He doesn't contradict her assumption that he's alone. ] Now what?
[ Good, is what she thinks, all firm and savage. He has reflexes at all, he knows how to grip the weapon without being afraid of what it might do. What sort of woman was she becoming? That even as she says one things, all she can think, is that this fight will never end. That hands are needed to fight it.
Her eyes flick him over again, and gives a brief nod to him. Then she turns and this is far more direct. She gesturing at those hidden away. A nod to one alley, another to another corner where Devi stood back. A flick of her fingers to show dismissal. ]
Come, it is not safe to linger here, I am sure you know that already.
[ Then she beckons with a step back, into those shadows she wears well enough as anything else. Changeable, but the gold still glitters. ]
[ She looks... satisfied. With his reaction, perhaps? With something. Files it away to examine again later, watches as she orders her people as she needs without even a word. Scoffs, then. ]
Yeah, I noticed. [ Difficult not to. He follows as she beckons, uprooting his feet from where he planted them, once more ignoring the ache of still moving despite fatigue, despite too little rest and too little food. Falls into step with her, but not without making note of her shadows, where they were, where they might be now. How quiet her steps are, as well. The gun he stows away, it vanishes under his jacket with barely a trace. Names haven't been exchanged, but that much might be to be expected.
He doesn't ask where they're going. At least, not yet. ]
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no subject
So she doesn't so much intercept, as puts herself to be in the way of. Devi is close by, hidden, as are the few others she trusts when she finds - not a legend about a boy with lightning skin, but someone running hard, and running fast. maybe not scared, but too early to know that.
There were after all, only so many things worth truly running from in London, and she met them all with blade in hand most days. So she waits until he turns a corner, too far into whitechapel, all blockades and dead ends unless someone knew where they going. Someone like her for instance that in the moment, he runs into that dead end, there she is, stepped out of the shadows. ]
Lost, boy?
no subject
The rebels, as all organized groups, are suspect as far as they're concerned. They're all of them slow to trust, each for their own reasons. But maybe, maybe they'll have to find more allies. Ressources don't appear from thin air, after all. Not all of them are from well-off backgrounds.
London, though. To Minho, London is a cesspool as well as a powderkeg. He sticks out as much as he expected. "Go to Newt," they'd said, "he'll help you wait this mess out" and here he is, but-- things got complicated and too close too many times. He's spent as much time trying to find out the city's secrets, peeling away at it layer by layer, as he's found himself becoming one of them. And from there, it's only a matter of time until someone else seeks him out. Or something. And Whitechapel? That place is a maze if he's ever known one. It draws him in, more than most places in this city do, like a riddle to solve, to learn every detail of. If he can't go find his friend yet, once he knows this place enough, he could lose anyone in here. Maybe if he can get away without having to put down his pursuers, they'll actually lose interest. Wouldn't that be something.
Not yet, though. He hasn't had the time to master this maze. Evidently. Even as he turns around, he draws himself up to stand a little straighter, his head cocked, all easy confidence. In the darkness of the narrow streets it isn't obvious, but the thin, sprawling scars the lightning has left him with reach up the side of his neck. He's tall, broad-shouldered, and though he doesn't quite hold himself like a soldier, it comes close. Suspicion in his narrowed eyes and a ready tension in his stance as he musters her and the shadows past her - he doubts she is alone. Or maybe she is, but then she's likely to be more of a problem rather than less. Either way, there is a long knife under his jacket, even if he's not reaching for it yet.
His tone is flat as he responds. ] You could say I'm new to the area.
[ Sarcastic, perhaps, pointing out the already obvious. By the sound of him, he most certainly isn't English. He might not even be American, either, where his native language colors his pronounciation just a little, but not so much as to be glaring. He does not dash or cower, and his eyes do not dart in search of an escape route. If he is scared, he has learned to forge his fear into something different. ]
no subject
She steps forward a little, it's a measure of trust, to show herself in the light, her head tilting up and the gold catches the light as she moves, all dulled glitter. Reminiscence of a life - and a marriage - from a long time before. When her station had begot such things, but now she clings to them in a live sort of defiance of who she was, what she'd done. Like she didn't bare the markings in a hundred other ways, in the grim line of her mouth when she speaks, the cautious was she holds herself, even now. Because even this? Is too open. ]
Do not worry, even those that are ancient to it, do not know it so well.
[ She would say it was hers ( torn it apart with her teeth and nails ) but the truth was that it belonged to the people here more than anyone. She might have planned much, but they were the ones that rose up to take it for themselves again.
For a second, she takes her eyes off him to look beside her, to one of the men that had hidden themselves into the crooks and corners, and with a light curling gesture of her fingers, draws him out. Knew their place, a noble might scoff, but she knew it had nothing to do with that, more that she had earned this kind of loyalty. A sharp jerk of her wrist he seemed to understand and he unholstered a pistol from his waist. Easily given with the Falchion strapped his back. Too pretty to have come from here - but well, that was the point, wasn't it? She didn't need it either, armed as she already was.
Instead she weighed it in her hand, a comfortable weight to grip. ]
The real question is if you want to survive it? [ She's looking to his reaction, her eyes quick to look back up at him again. The gun still set in her hand. It's an offer, if he wanted it, but she might just see what he had to say. ]
no subject
The words of reassurance ring hollow to him. Don't feel bad about being cornered? He doesn't. That doesn't mean he can afford it any more. The greater yet display of trust is when she shifts her focus to a figure in her shadow - takes her eyes off him, period - Minho would be lying if this didn't tempt him to try, to flee, to cut his way through, but he knows his first instinct is not always the best one to listen to. Running scared won't serve him here. So he waits, watching and considering. Paying careful attention to the wordless exchange between her and this shadow of hers - he's been that, before. Silent figure at someone's side, ready to strike at the barest hint of a threat, armed with weapons and with five senses to notice more than those negotiating. He knows what it takes to earn that kind of loyalty. At least, what it took to earn it from him.
There's too much detail on the weapons. Not the plain and ugly kind one might get more or less easily. Those serve their purpose too, if not too well and not too long, but this is something different. Well-equipped, then, are they? His eyes linger on the weapons before they return to her face. ]
I'm planning on it. [ Without your offer, he's saying, standing right where he started out. He doesn't need to be sharp about it. Confidence, even now, as he holds himself steady and sure of where his loyalties lie and that he has no desire to compromise them. Not quite the same tension as before, because the situation is changing already. ] What do you want from me?
[ Why corner him, if she doesn't at least know something of him? ]
no subject
She has seen much, lost it all again. To watch a boy - and no doubt more like him. Get lost and devoured to this city. ]
To live through the night.
[ Yes, he could survive the amazing, so the stories had said that - but so could she. She rode off battlements, she fought for fives day, fell on the last and rose again when the smoke cleared. That didn't mean they would survive forever. She looked again - another test, to watch his reaction, but over the short distance, she tosses the gun. The Dragoon is a good weapon, heavy kick but it was worth it. It took a steady hand, a good eye, and a solid grip. A good weapon to have when stalking through these streets.
It might not save him against everything ( it would not, not when men weren't the worst thing on the streets ), but it would give him a chance that apparently he needed. ]
But you won't do that alone for very long -
[ Something pulls, deep in the corners of her, yes, still has her cracks. Not quite all gone yet. Who knows what she will be in the next hundred years for right now? ]
- and I am sick of pulling the bodies of boys off these streets.
no subject
To think that all she wants is for him to survive just makes him narrow his eyes again, the beginning of a sneer tugging at his lips. He cannot believe it, will not trust so easily, but he does catch the heavy revolver easily anyway. Turns it over in his hand, surprised, frowning as he examines it while listening for anyone move, before he turns that frown on her. What do you get out of this? Waiting for the catch, for the other shoe to drop. There must be something. People, his life has taught him, are not charitable for charity's sake, not generous, not good, not kind, not helpful if there is nothing for them to gain.
That doesn't mean their help is any less valuable, though. With a sharp exhale through his nose, he forces some of the tension out of his posture, lowering the weapon to his side. Fine. He doesn't contradict her assumption that he's alone. ] Now what?
no subject
Her eyes flick him over again, and gives a brief nod to him. Then she turns and this is far more direct. She gesturing at those hidden away. A nod to one alley, another to another corner where Devi stood back. A flick of her fingers to show dismissal. ]
Come, it is not safe to linger here, I am sure you know that already.
[ Then she beckons with a step back, into those shadows she wears well enough as anything else. Changeable, but the gold still glitters. ]
no subject
Yeah, I noticed. [ Difficult not to. He follows as she beckons, uprooting his feet from where he planted them, once more ignoring the ache of still moving despite fatigue, despite too little rest and too little food. Falls into step with her, but not without making note of her shadows, where they were, where they might be now. How quiet her steps are, as well. The gun he stows away, it vanishes under his jacket with barely a trace. Names haven't been exchanged, but that much might be to be expected.
He doesn't ask where they're going. At least, not yet. ]