Chevalier de Sangreal [PRP]

[faustus]

Nickel is a Johannes factotum in this castle. She isn't particularly skilled in anything (unless being a cynical bitch counts, but when a slave, tact reigns supreme), and survives on scraps the dogs leave behind. But what counts is that she is a survivor, and seems to have managed to uphold a sense of pride even after being down time and time again.

She balances a tray carefully on calloused hands, side-stepping the man that sweeps the dungeon stairs, ducking her head as he looks towards her. He could be anyone--dozens of slaves pass through here each day--but being recognized doesn't suit Nickel. The low way through life is the easy way.

There's a constant drip, drip, drip somewhere around the corner. She can hear the guard on duty snort and scratch himself, then let out a resounding ousting of gas. Taking this as her cue, Nickel cocks a hip and shifts the tray to one hand, resting the other on her waist.

"Vittles for the pris'ner," she says, smiling, though it isn't flirtatious. It's more of a hurry-the-fuck-up kind of smirk, a corner of her mouth twitching upwards just a tad, a hint of teeth showing.

He stares at her and his hand twitches. "Y'aren't tha' other wench. Daisy or somethin'."

Nickel is tempted to say 'No shite, ya geck,' but resists. He's holding a spear and has a dagger stuffed haphazardly into his belt, but the way he stands suggests that he's more than a simple farmhand hired to guard a petty thief. Clearly, this particular prisoner did more than steal flour from the milne.

"Dahlia got 'erself a problem, so to say. A nine-month problem." Nickel's grin shifts, showing a little bit more tooth. The guard blanches and withdraws the hand that was slowly creeping forwards.

"Jus' tell me what the fare is an' ya can pass."

"Aye, no need to be het up. Jus' some hot pottage an' a drink 'o some sort." She rattles the tray, nearly dislodging the plate that's keeping the soup warm. Catching it just in time, the girl frowns and holds out the tray for inspection. Scowling guard pokes around the tray, sniffs the soup and then nods quickly. Taking her cue, Nickel strides forwards, moving away from the guard as swiftly as she can manage. She has an idea of where Dahlia's nine-month problem came from, and she isn't liking the source over much at the moment.

Footsteps echo as Nickel moves through the long corridor. There are many rooms down here, but most are empty. Her lord has a habit of...dissuading any wrongdoers before they commit something. She knows him up close and personal, and needless to say, Nickel wasn't impressed, but certainly intimidated.

The shifter slows as she nears the last cell, feeling her shoulders tense and lift. There's a feeling to the area that ruffles her feathers.

"Vittles for the pris'ner," Nickel repeats, lifting the tray. Then, thinking that they may not hear, she steps forwards, tentative. "It's pottage an' stuff."

[Cassus]

(( uhhh.. I dont have a persona for this character yet, so just going to default to Cassus.. 's. ))
--

It smells like rigamortis and death in this cell. How long has she been here? It'd taken less than a downing of wine to know she'd been poisoned. Less than thirty minutes for her strength to deplete almost entirely. Three days later and lucidity had come back but desperation was there too -- she'd down the water the guard gave her without a second thought. Though once that thirst had been quenched she'd cursed her decision.

But now, things run and blur together like blinding sunrise colors. Red and orange and yellow -- fury and rage and doubt -- all boiling like one between her fangs when she rises to bare them.

Nickel is there quietly approaching, hesitation in her voice. "It's pottage an' stuff." And makes to slip the food to her through the buttoned bar. Mikaia makes a hiss in her throat, keeping to the shadow.

It smells wet and damp but her voice is dry. "Poor girl, doesnt know who they've sent her to feed does she?"

Because though the girl looks perfectly human, right down to the nape of her neck. Mikaia can tell by the way she moves. Light heeled, fluttering - like she's got hollow bones and wings.

Slit eyes flash, bright and narrow with recognition. But she does not change, does not move - makes no notion and turns simply in silence. Making some flippant notion with her greasy long fingers. Arms crossed. Nickel was not her server from before, though all birds looked alike to her -- she could see the difference in attitude. In composure. The knight begins to second guess things.

This girl was prideful and indignant. She was what she thought tactful.

Kaia turns, grabs up the plate of food like she's starving and sends the cup of water spilling across the cell's floor. In the light she's got dark skin and dark hair but her eyes are monochrome explosions of stars and night. She opens her mouth to speak and Nickel might notice her snakes tongue.

"No!" She says, frantic. "I - I didnt mean to drop my water.. I didnt.. I'm just so weak.. But so thirsty can you.. "

and leaves it open ended.

[faustus]

There's an echoing his from the cell and Nickel recoils, almost dropping the tray. But mind and body persevere and the tray clatters on the stone floor inside the cell, flesh and blood already retracted and far away. Nickel finds hissing distasteful--it brings to mind lithe scaled bodies and glowing amber eyes. Feathers are rustled all around and the slave might have hooted if her human throat had been able.

"Poor girl, doesnt know who they've sent her to feed does she?"

Shoulders rise and the muscles on Nickel's back knot. "Ain't none'a my business who ya are." And it ain't any of Nickel's business to learn who. She's on a tight schedule run by fear and intimidation--there's no room for conversing with frightening strangers in the dark. "Why don'tcha jus' eat up yer food so I can be off?" A weak reprimand, body language setting a whole other tone.

And just as Nickel speaks, there is a clatter and the sound of rushing liquid, spreading over the mud-clotted floor and soaking into the moulding rushes. "Oi!" the slave yells, but she scuttles back a step or two anyways, feeling her heart flutter in her chest. Eyes twist and try to look away from the prisoner, but inevitably cross those milky-way-orbs and freeze, deer in the headlights.

"No! I - I didnt mean to drop my water.. I didnt.. I'm just so weak.. But so thirsty can you.. "

Nickel loosens just a tad, fingers twitching as she grasps the hem of her shirt. "I ain't no slave to ya, pris'ner. Ya can 'ave water t'morra."

Because as a slave, Nickel knows what it's like to be hungry, and she knows that if she dropped her dinner on the floor, she'd rather lick it off stone than ask the overseer for more. There's a limited amount for the poor and it's never enough.

Nonetheless, words are a pitiful threat that lack any punch. Nickel can't leave without the cup and tray and plate and Nickel wants away as soon as possible. Hips bend as the girl settles down on her haunches, crushing hands under her arms and try to hold the prisoner's eyes.

Arms stretch and Nickel then beckons impatiently. "Please. I 'ave'ta go."

A second and then the shifter gives up, eyelashes fluttering as she glances away.