Alaia looks at the address book in her hand, and looks up blankly at the spot on the street where her address is supposed to be.
Daimon flies through the night on silent wings, navigating the city as he knows it best — from above. He is not one hundred percent certain where he is supposed to be going, but figures that the scent of blood and sweat should suffice as a guide once he’s in the vicinity.
Alaia fumes silently to herself. She hates this stupid lane in this stupid street. Money trap lane, indeed. She meanders onto Vagabond street again and looks at one of the houses there.
Daimon spots a couple of big, burly fellows that keep to the shadows. They seem to be either following some girl or walking in the same direction. He’s curious enough to watch.
Alaia pushes her fringe out of her face, her gold bangles glinting in the pale light from the street lamps, and puts her hands on her hips. Nobody around to even ASK.
Daimon watches the big fellows overtake the girl and descend down a staircase. As the door opens and closes, a distinctive smell of sweat, fear, and blood greets his senses. He swoops around and alights on booted feet in a passage nearby.
Alaia chooses that particular moment to wander past a particularly dank and airless passage; she’s not too bothered by whatever lurks inside there. She fears nothing. NOTHING.
Daimon does not quite lurk as he steps out, shrouded in shadow and his long black cloak that seems to drink up the moonlight rather than reflect it. He whistles goodnaturedly as he walks towards the basement stair.
Alaia turns around at the sound of cheerful whistling. At last, someone she can ask. Her eyes narrow as she sees who it is and then she rolls her eyes expressively. “Great.”
Daimon catches the glance. “Oh hey.” He pauses in mid-stride. “You’re out late.”
Alaia folds her arms. “I can be out at whatever time I want.” She sneers. “Did Ari let you go out to play by yourself tonight?”
Daimon flashes a white grin. “Ain’t saying you can’t be. I’m a big boy too, Ari lets me out without a leash when I done been good.”
Alaia unscrambles the sentence in her mind. “I don’t think you’d know what good is if you met it and it kicked you in the throat unless you mean not good enough.”
Daimon’s grin lingers. “Yeah, yeah. This ain’t a good hood for someone to go around being young, pretty and alone, though, you know that?”
It’s probably really hard to flatter Alaia. She waves you aside with a wave of her hand. “If you must know, and I don’t know why you should, I’m looking for an address.” (Alaia)
Daimon nods goodnaturedly. “Weren’t asking. Just observing. Mostly ’cause some blokes up the street look like they’re looking for someone as to mug.”
Alaia looks smug. “Well I’d like to see them try to mug me.”
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: I wouldn’t.
Alaia wanders away from you pointedly, looking at the book she’s holding, and looking up to read house numbers at the same time. She mutters under her breath about people who would choose to live in this hell hole.
Daimon wanders after since he’s heading for that staircase. “Don’t reckon they -chose- it exactly, sweets.”
Alaia turns around like a whip and sticks her finger in your face. “No sweets. No babe. No dear. No lovely. NO NOTHING.” She wags her finger about and hisses, “You hear me?”
Daimon grins. “Yeah, I hear you, Sharpie.”
Alaia bristles and turns around, jumping as some stones dislodge from above and scatter around you both. She looks up. “What the?”
Daimon simply says with an Uberwaldean accent: Thieves. Anyway, that stair’s my turn.
Alaia nods as she looks up and walks some more. “Right, see you.”
Daimon takes a step down towards the staircase before glancing over his shoulder. “Where -are- you going anyway, sharps?”
Alaia reads over her shoulder: 33/1 Money Trap Lane, but I’ve been down there and there IS no 33/1.
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: … That’s here.
Daimon asks with an Uberwaldean accent: You sure you want to go in there?
Alaia stalks back to you. “Well, I think so? My old music teacher lives here.”
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: Chick, it’s a bloody fighting pit. That’s why as I am going there.
Alaia blinks as the door opens and a groaning man is heaved out on a stretcher; he looks like he’s been through the wars. “Wait. What?”
Daimon steps aside; do not want blood on boots.
Daimon asks you with an Uberwaldean accent: Place down there. Can’t you smell it?
Alaia sniffs delicately. “A bouquet of blood.”
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: And sweat and piss and other stuff I don’t care as to think about, yeah.
Alaia stamps a foot in frustration. “It must be wrong then.” She huffs irritably. “I’d better head back to the city centre.”
Daimon nods and brushes a shaggy lock of raven hair out of his eyes. “Yeah, you better. No offense but this ain’t no place to be a pretty little thing like you.”
Alaia glares at you. “Oh you think so, do you?” She stalks past you and tries to push past a stern-looking mountain of a man who looks down at her. “Nobody gets in miss, pay yer fee first.”
Daimon rolls his lavender eyes. “Yeah, fine.” He walks after her.
Alaia reluctantly hands over her three dollars; this better be good. She’s admitted into a smoke-filled heaving mass of men (mostly drunk), women (mostly seamstresses), and a few assorted trolls, dwarves, and non-human creatures. She blinks for a second, adjusting to the heat and the noise and the overwhelming smell.
Daimon too hands over three dollars, but gets stopped all the same as one of the doormen wants to know where his ribbon is. A small debate ensues.
Alaia pushes away men who want to take her bets and steps up to a small bench which is vacant except for a couple making out on the end of it. It seems to be the only vacant spot in the entire place and so she sits on it, leaving room for Daimon, who is still at the door. She looks around at the heaving mass of mostly men to the spotlit pit in the centre, where a fight is just ending, and a man is being declared victorious. A huge roar erupts accompanied by some boos and jeers for the loser.
Daimon seems to finally end the little talk about ribbons and vampires and house rules and drifts over to stand behind Alaia, rather than sit on the bench. To others, he might look somewhat ominous, cloak billowing, pale ivory skin against utter darkness. The girl is likely well left alone.
Alaia huffs irritably again and screams to you to SIT DOWN, above the din of the crowd. Hey, she’d rather he sat down next to her than someone else. Good logic, that. She shakes her head as someone tries to sell her beer and/or peanuts and waves away someone else who tries to sell her a packet of smokes.
Daimon shrugs and steps over the bench to sit down upon it. “You ain’t dressed for a place like this, sharps. You got either too much on or too little.”
Alaia looks down at her gold-edged skirt and her embroidered blouse, not to mention her golden slippers and assorted jewellery, bangles, chandelier earrings, necklace at her throat. “I know.” She looks at you. “Do you come here a lot?”
Daimon shakes his head. “First time as I been here since I came back. Used to come here for the fights and the chicks.
Alaia manages to stop herself from rolling her eyes as an expectant hush falls over the crowd. There appears to be some sort of contraption being set up in the pit. “What’s that then?”
Daimon simply says with an Uberwaldean accent: Two man enter, one man leaves. My kinda fight, back in the day.
You ask: Isn’t this against the rules?
Daimon looks around. “What rules?”
Alaia shrugs. “City rules. Fighting pits like this. Unhygienic. Don’t see any doctors around in case of emergency. People are betting.” She uses her elbow as the man sitting next to her with the girl on his lap falls against her and he moves, giving her room. “Seamstresses”
Daimon quietly says with an Uberwaldean accent: Don’t reckon Mister Vimes’ lot’s gotta lot of say down here.
Alaia is used to a city with rules; she was born into a changed city, not the Ankh-Morpork of back in the day. She wraps her skirt around her neatly and looks around with her dark eyes. An announcer booms into a microphone and announces that it’s the moment everyone’s been waiting for, and the crowd erupts once again.
Daimon lights a cheap cigarette on a flame that springs from his thumb. “This oughta be good. You sure you want to watch it? One of those guys are gonna die.”
Alaia looks uncomfortable; she may be an assassin but she’s never witnessed death so far. “And that’s definitely against the rules.” She listens as the man works the crowd up into a frenzy, pretending to announce the name and keeping them waiting. Finally the man screams ‘THE RED ZEALOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT!’ and the spotlight moves to a cave on the other end of the room, where a tall muscular man in a red robe walks out; he has a small head and a squat nose but large shoulders and a trim waist, with tree trunks for legs.
Daimon quietly says with an Uberwaldean accent: Don’t know why as your people need this. I know why I do, but I ain’t human.
Alaia asks: Need to fight?
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: I get that. I were meaning, the need to watch other humans die.
Alaia doesn’t seem to get it either. She shrugs. “I don’t know, I really don’t.” She’s gone a bit quiet and is managing to look pale, despite the Klatchian thing.
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: And you wanna watch it too.
Alaia shrugs. “Maybe he won’t die.”
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: One of them is gonna die.
Daimon speaks with certainty. “If the other fighter wusses out, the crowd’s gonna tear the loser apart.”
Alaia shifts uncomfortably in her seat.
Raleigh Montague waits in the shadows as his opponent is cheered; every nerve ending is taut. He can’t hear the crowd; silence fills his ears as his focus is inward, on himself. He stills his breathing; he is calm and controlled. A hand at the small of his back as the announcer screams “The Lone Woooooooooooooolf” and he steps out of the cave into the light, wearing nothing but white linen pants, his trademark plait whipping behind him as he stalks in.
Daimon gapes quietly.
Alaia blinks; there’s no doubt who that is. She gasps, she can’t help it.
Daimon softly says with an Uberwaldean accent: But he’s dead…
Alaia urgently asks: Can you save him? Can you save him? Can you save him?
Daimon blinks and refocuses. “That ain’t… What? Who?”
Raleigh Montague barely touches hands with his opponents as he chalks his hands, and stalks around the ring, keeping an eye on his opponent for the most part, but also on a section of the crowd who are clearly fans of the Red Zealot. It’s also painfully obvious that he has no attendants, no seconds.
Alaia says to Daimon: Oh my god that is my house master! It’s Doctor Raleigh Montague.
Daimon surprisedly says with an Uberwaldean accent: Yeah, I thought it were… somebody else.
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: Huh. This oughta be good.
Alaia has a quiet panic attack. “Oh gods!”
Raleigh Montague listens to a referee, but it’s pointless; the whole point of this is that there are no rules. He nods, and steps into the cage-like contraption in the pit, following the Red Zealot in. The door is slammed shut and locked, and the crowd goes mad.
The crowd goes wild.
Daimon studies the man. “He’s an assassin. Reckon he knows what he’s doing.”
Alaia says: But we fight – with knives.
Daimon quietly says with an Uberwaldean accent: If that Doctor of yours has anything in common with the bloke he looks like, he ain’t gonna need nothing but his hands.
Alaia wrings her handkerchief in her hands. “Whom does he look like?”
Daimon shakes his head. “Guy as I had a scrap with once. Gotta be what, two hundred years ago? Humans don’t live that long.”
The fight starts, such as it is, and there is immediate pandemonium, as people get to their feet; the noise is probably deafening, but Raleigh Montague can’t hear anything anyway. He never does when he’s here. He immediately goes into offensive mode, and kicks the Zealot’s legs out from under him, spin-kicking so he’s on his feet in a second. (Raleigh)
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: He’s fast.
Alaia also gets to her feet; she wants to see this. “200 years?” She shakes her head. “That’s mental.”
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: I’m a vampire, sharps.
Alaia cranes her neck. “I know.”
Raleigh Montague is working pretty easily around the Zealot, because he’s fast, but the Zealot is not. A few more sweeps and kicks, a few more takedowns. The Zealot is clearly starting to lose his temper, and his footing.
Alaia relaxes slightly.
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: I hadn’t worked out as that you’re from the school of posh and deadly. You don’t dress like the lot of them.
Raleigh Montague is grabbed roughly by the shoulder, but he grabs back and places his foot behind his opponent’s foot as he then pushes him down towards the ground. The Zealot trips and comes crashing down.
Alaia watches the fight unfold, amazed at how relaxed her house master is looking. She glances at you. “I’m Klatchian. I like the clothes.” She looks down at herself. “Lovely colours.”
Daimon asks with an Uberwaldean accent: Yeah, looks good on you. Just don’t scream killer for money, you know?
Raleigh Montague dances around the Zealot in the ring, getting in his punches and kicks; he’s definitely sweating now, but there’s not a single scratch on him, as opposed to the Zealot, who is looking worse for wear. He slaps the Zealot smartly, cupping his hand slightly and catching his ear, as the Zealot shakes his head, a little disoriented.
Daimon watches the fight, but mostly the audience. His eyes are taking on a faint, red sheen.
Alaia considers standing on the bench to see better as people scream wildly, mostly calling Lone Wolf! Lone Wolf!.
Daimon quietly says with an Uberwaldean accent: I may be the only vampire in here right now but I sure ain’t the only one aching for a taste of the red.
Raleigh Montague has completely tuned the crowd out as he grapples with his opponent; the referee quickly breaks them up. A spinning roundhouse kick brings his opponent down, but the Zealot stands up again and comes at him. He brings his knee up to the Zealot’s chin, and there is a sickening and very audible crunch of bone.
Daimon’s eyes flare bright red.
Alaia has her hand balled up and in her mouth. This is – this is – she can’t watch. She closes her eyes.
Daimon matter-of-factly asks with an Uberwaldean accent: This is murder for money. It’s what assassins do, ain’t it?
Raleigh Montague kicks out again, one long leg to the Zealot’s head, and dances around as he falls. Amazingly, the man gets up again. He shrugs, and goes for the death strike, foot to throat. There is a silence, and the Zealot falls.
Alaia gets to her feet and leaves, stumbling out of the Pit, as the crowd erupts, screaming ‘Lone Wolf! Lone Wolf!’; the Zealot lies where he has fallen, and Raleigh, face expressionless, faces the crowd for a moment before he turns to leave.
Daimon follows Alaia to make sure she gets to safety.
Daimon flies quickly back to the illegal fighting pit after seeing Alaia safely delivered to a more well lit part of town. Remaining a bat, he waits for the next fights to be well underway so that he might flit into the changing rooms unseen.
Daimon attempts to make his way, unseen, into whatever little changing room slash dump Raleigh may be dressing up his injuries and getting clothed in.
Raleigh Montague leaves the fighting pit by the simple process of climbing out of an upstairs window, and then hauling himself up to the roof. The men there recognise him, and he’s given a respectful distance. He draws his cloak up over his head and sets off across the rooftops.
Daimon follows the man’s scent. Left through the window, eh? Yeah, he’s a sasswot all right. Well, it’s pretty easy to follow when you can fly.
Raleigh Montague runs across a rooftop and leaps the distance to the next roof easily, his mind on the fight, uncomfortably aware of the prize money he’s won which is concealed in a leather bag and hanging around his belt, under his cloak. That goes to the guild tomorrow; he has no interest in keeping it, and he never does. He has no knowledge of anything following him; his senses can pick up humans, but they let him down when it comes to bats.
Daimon overtakes his prey and allows himself to enjoy the chase for a few minutes before stepping out from behind a chimney as the other man approaches. “Wouldn’t of taken you for the fighting type, Doctor.”
Raleigh Montague’s senses are too alert now and he whips an arm up defensively. He narrows his eyes. “You – were there?”
Daimon stands hand in jean pockets, relaxed, definitely not an attacking posture. He glances back towards the fighting pit. “Yeah. Used to go there now and then. Went to see as if I still liked it. One of your kids were there too.”
Raleigh Montague’s face falls. “One of my students? Who?” He drops his arm, but he’s not relaxing. Not yet.
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: Cute little prickly pear as goes by Alaia.
Raleigh Montague groans and shakes his head.
Daimon sticks a cigarette between his teeth and lights it with a spark of his thumb. “That ain’t why I followed you, though.”
Raleigh Montague looks back to where he came from. “Nobody from my part of town ever goes there. Certainly not assassins; they’re not allowed through the door.”
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: Don’t reckon anyone thought sharps one, she don’t wear black.
Daimon wanders closer.
Raleigh Montague whips his cloak off his head, revealing his hair, which is not dishevelled, indicating he had time to clean up before he left. The Zealot did pull his hair once – a dick move, but anything goes in the pit. He looks at you.
Daimon studies his face, closely, eyes still having a trace of red.
Raleigh Montague’s eyes don’t drop away, but there’s a tiredness there, an awareness, that wasn’t there in the pit, showing that things have caught up to him now.
Daimon murmurs, with perhaps just a tiny hint of Suggestion, “Relax. I ain’t gonna hurt you. You just remind me of somebody I ain’t seen in a long time.”
Raleigh Montague’s eyes are a stormy icy grey, with no hint of those warm green flecks they usually contain. “I’m not afraid of you hurting me, no. Who do I remind you of?”
Daimon looks past the assassin a moment, looking down memory lane and clearly not feeling particularly threatened, either. “Bloke named Vadim.”
A sharp intake of breath that Raleigh Montague can’t quite stop, and he looks away this time. He says nothing. (Raleigh)
Daimon quietly says with an Uberwaldean accent: Last time I saw him he were bleeding out on the ground.
Raleigh Montague says in an odd voice: And you killed him?
Daimon half-turns to look at the assassin. “No.”
Raleigh Montague gazes out at the skyline of Ankh-Morpork, city of secrets, which can no longer contain his. “He was my great-great-great-great grandfather.”
Daimon throws the finished cigarette away. “You’re a spitting image. Except the eyes. He had all green eyes. I knew you reminded of somebody but I didn’t put it together until as I saw you fight.”
Raleigh Montague looks at you, half-defiant now. “I know. I’ve been told that ever since I could walk.”
Raleigh Montague murmurs, “That I look like him.”
Daimon asks with an Uberwaldean accent: Sucks, does it?
Raleigh Montague crouches down on his haunches and gets a cigarette case out of his cloak. He cups his hand and lights one, settling down finally, legs hanging over the side of the building, completely at ease in this unusual surround. “Little bit.”
Daimon wanders over to sit next him, also a creature of the night and the high places. “I ain’t about to go lighting up a feud as is two hundred years done. Just thinking, there’s folks in this city as would.”
Raleigh Montague passes you the case and matches. “Not just this city.”
Daimon lights one and returns it. “Yeah well. You were gonna help me with this Diadamia stuff. I return favours. Besides, my family were wrapped up so tight in that shit that as I reckon I got first dibs on you anyway.”
Raleigh Montague pulls his cloak right off; it’s a warm night, and he’s still hot from his hour and a bit in the pit, not to mention the two hours waiting for the other fights to be done. “Or I have first dibs on you.”
Daimon flashes the other man a grin full of fangs. “Yeah, that too. Like I were saying — I ain’t gonna blow on the embers if you don’t.”
Raleigh Montague glances at the vampire. “Do you remember what you told me about leaving Uberwald?”
Daimon asks with an Uberwaldean accent: That it fucking sucks ’cause it don’t stay in the past?
Raleigh Montague nods. “I face that certainty every day.” He turns back to look at the skyline spread out before him. “Every day I wake up and I know what my family left behind.” He shrugs. “Don’t get me wrong. My father would like it back, I think. I’m aware of who we are. But it’s not enough to be proud of.”
Daimon nods in turn. “Yeah. I know that feeling. Ain’t worth it. There’s gotta be more to life than fighting over titles.”
Raleigh Montague smokes his cigarette quietly for a while. “I’m not a king. I could never be a king. I wouldn’t know how. I could never ask people to die for me. I would hate for people to bow and scrape to me. I wouldn’t know what to do with any of it.”
Daimon quietly says with an Uberwaldean accent: Uberwald don’t want no king anyways.
Raleigh Montague shakes his head. “It’d be impossible, although I know the throne exists still.”
Raleigh Montague says: People have looked for me since the day I was born.
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: Fortunately as for you, there ain’t that many in this city who actually has seen the guy.
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: However, Diadamia’s one as has.
Raleigh Montague stubs his cigarette out. “With more vampires coming to this city, I’ve felt increasingly uneasy.” He glances at you. “Ah.”
Daimon can’t help a small grin. “Yeah? Start hanging around a few, there’s something as that the human heir to Uberwald fucking sure wouldn’t do.”
Raleigh Montague shakes his head. “You’re the only one I know, and frankly, the only one I’d be comfortable enough to be around.”
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: I musta made a good impression, then.
Raleigh Montague quietly says: You were with Aell.
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: Red learned to trust me after a while. As much as Red trusts anybody
Raleigh Montague nods. “That’s why I trusted you.”
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: Might sound like something no one’s gonna believe at first, but it’s true. All I want here is to not get in anyone’s way
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: Just live nice and quiet with my girl.
Raleigh Montague says: Nice and quiet.
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: Yeah. Nice and quiet.
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: Of course, I ain’t gone become a professor at the school of posh and deadly.
Raleigh Montague is painfully aware that what he just did in the pit was anything but nice or quiet, but he offers no explanations.
Daimon watches a lone man walk past far below. “Everybody’s got some needs. Fighting’s what get you off, well. They sign up for it.”
Raleigh Montague shakes his head wearily. “My sister married a farmer. He owns almost an entire county, but he’s a farmer. I guess I wanted more, but I just don’t really fit anywhere.” He glances at you. “I want them to stay down. Towards the end. But they never do.”
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: I never signed on for the death matches. ‘Cause I know I’d kill. And I’d like it. A lot.
Raleigh Montague leans back on his own hands. “I can only sign up for the death ones now. I got too good, and the odds on me winning went through the roof.”
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: For me, there’s always some asshole as wants to prove to his buds that he can go toe to toe with a fanger.
Raleigh Montague says: Ha, yes.
Raleigh Montague says: It is possible, but I’d never take one on in the pit.
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: I don’t fight ’em to the death. Just kick them down and leave ’em. I like it too much.
Raleigh Montague nods. “I know.” He looks at a lone light flickering in a building in the distance. “I still my mind before a fight, the way I was taught. But it’s impossible to do it after.”
Daimon quietly says with an Uberwaldean accent: Maybe you should take it out on someone as can take it in quiet, instead of announcing it like that in a place like that.
Raleigh Montague says: I tried that. It didn’t work.
Raleigh Montague simply says: There’s no risk when you’re sure you won’t die.
Daimon nods, understanding. “Yeah, I get that. Ain’t no pleasure or satisfaction for me, killing deer or buying blood off butchers.”
Raleigh Montague gets another cigarette out. “You get it.”
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: Hell yeah.
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: Price I gotta pay to be with my chick. If it weren’t for her blood I’d go nuts.
Raleigh Montague lights his cigarette expertly, cupping the palm of his hand to keep out the wind. “The things we do.”
Daimon leans back and looks at the stars. “Helps as to be not be alone, though.”
Raleigh Montague shrugs. “I wouldn’t know about that.”
Daimon studies the other man a moment. “Yeah? You ain’t alone now.”
Raleigh Montague glances at you. “Right now? No, of course not. You’re here.” His tone is amused.
Daimon asks with an Uberwaldean accent: Birds of a feather. So, how about it?
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: Got the same enemies already.
Raleigh Montague puts his hand out, but not to shake; it’s in a fist.
Daimon bumps it with his own, colder counterpart.
Daimon asks with an Uberwaldean accent: Reckon if Uberwald’s gonna come here, then Uberwald’s gonna find that some parts of Uberwald got here early and we dug in, eh?
Raleigh Montague chuckles. “Uh huh.” He glances at you. “You can’t tell Aell.”
Daimon asks with an Uberwaldean accent: Yeah?
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: Oh, about who you are. Right.
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: Reckon the fewer people as I tell anything to, the fewer people’s gonna end up talking to some vampire.
Raleigh Montague shakes his head. “I want her kept out of it. All of it. Not what I do, not who I am, nothing. There’s a price on my head; there has been for years. I’m not having her get involved.”
Daimon thoughtfully says with an Uberwaldean accent: Whoever put that price there kept it real quiet that as old Vadim had kids in the first place.
Raleigh Montague smokes his cigarette. “I can tell you who it is.”
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: Sure. I’m nosy enough as to ask.
Raleigh Montague quietly says: Margolotta Amaya Katerina Assumpta Crassina Von Uberwald.
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: Ouch.
Raleigh Montague says: You know what happens to the people she wants to find.
Daimon stretches his legs. “Gotta say, I’m curious as to why you let me in at your house.”
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: And yeah, yeah. Wearing a ribbon don’t mean you can’t kill.
Raleigh Montague matter-of-factly says: Told you. Aell.
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: I’m all as is left of my line. Apart as from teasing Aell we both gotta claim on the same place, I don’t want nothing from it.
Raleigh Montague nods fervently; he gets that. “I know we still have lands back home. I don’t want it either.”
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: Winding Red up’s good for a laugh. The rest can go fuck itself.
Raleigh Montague finishes his second cigarette, feeling himself uncoil finally. “I – yes. I concur.”
Daimon asks with an Uberwaldean accent: Let me know if you want to go a few rounds for practise sometime, though. Right?
Raleigh Montague gets to his feet and grins. “No rules, right?”
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: Just one.
Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: Gotta be able to walk home and pretend nothing happened after.
Raleigh Montague grins, as he holds his hand out to you. “Deal.”
Daimon takes it and gets up. “It’s a date. But not when as you’re exhausted already.”
Raleigh Montague dons his cloak again, covering up his head. “I’ll talk to you soon.” He hesitates. “Thanks.”
Daimon nods at the assassin before stepping off the ledge and disappearing on silent wings.