Young Writers Society

(He's got pretty characteristic Ash features: angular, narrow face, longish nose, slim stature. He's not very tall at all though, only about 5'7. His hair is almost black and his eyes are bluish gray, one is slightly crossed. His skin is deeply tanned.)

(cool, thanks!)

Pratik wrinkled his nose with disdain, thinking back to his last encounter with Isya. It was going to be hell to fight him again, but there was something feral deep inside him that couldn't wait for the satisfaction of killing the bastard. Or at least die trying.

Pratik regarded Ash a moment, deciding to continue talking so that Ash could take the clearly needed break without feeling embarrassed for it. "He actually looks kind of like you, come to think of it. But he's short, maybe yea high." Pratik gestured. "Has a lazy eye. Is evil incarnate."

Gaius blinked at him. He couldn't possibly mean...
"Arthur Brown," he ventured. "My fifth cousin is a mercenary. I hadn't realized..." He huffed out a chuckle of surprise. "I'll be damned. Arthur Brown." Last he'd heard Arthur had a family and was providing for them quite well. What a small world it was that his new employee was acquainted with him.

"Maybe, yeah." Pratik shrugged. "I haven't heard that name for him, but I wouldn't be surprised. Men like us tend to have many names we cycle through."

He personally preferred the name Pratik Chrenko to any of the others he'd invented, but he'd given the name to himself. The barkeep from his childhood had just spat profanity at Pratik, and he didn't much like answering to "dumbfuck" or "you worthless little bastard"

He tended to think of himself as Pratik, but he had a total of nine that he used, and just expected any mercenary he met didn't actually have the name he called himself by.

"And Arthur sounds dweebier than Isya," he noted, deciding he didn't give a fuck if Ash minded him insulting his cousin or not. His utter loathing of the bastard wasn't something he planned to tone down anytime soon.

Gaius shrugged. "It's a family name. If he's efficient then I wouldn't care what his name is. Funny that he's working with Tomhas." He pushed himself off the wall and started moving again. "I suppose it's too much to ask that you not kill one of my family members, who is happy married with multiple children depending on his income?"

"You might consider not sending me anywhere that I'd be likely to see him," Pratik answered dryly, starting up the stairs again. It was unfortunate that he was married with children -- that was something Pratik had heard rumors of but hadn't been able to confirm. But it didn't change anything. "'Cause that vindictive bastard is getting what's coming to him. He stabbed me with a hot fire poker for no reason whatsoever aside from his over-inflated ego."

Oh, a hot fire poker. How sad.
"I'm so sorry," Gaius said without any sympathy whatsoever. He seemed to remember a hot fire poker from his youth, but that faded into the background compared to the other atrocities. "I'll do my best to keep you away from him. I hope your vendetta won't interfere with your job."

"Yeah," Pratik answered flatly, rubbing his side as he remembered the way his flesh had sizzled when the poker lodged in him. That had not been a quick or a pleasant recovery. "As I mentioned, I came here because I'm not particularly thrilled at the prospects of seeing him again... but that is a score that will be settled when we see each other again. I'm one hundred percent certain that he has the same opinion of me that I have of him. Perhaps he'll tell you about it at the next family reunion."

And Pratik hoped he'd be invited when that day came.

"He rarely attends those," Gaius said dismissively. "I wonder how his orphaned children will feel when you drive a blade through his throat." He glanced at Pratik out of the corner of his eye. The poem the mercenary had written about killing a soldier had stuck to him; he was curious to see if deliberately needling him by making him think of the happiness he was stealing would bring similar emotions to the surface. Either way, it would be an entertaining spectacle.

Pratik twitched.

That wasn't fair. It was hardly his fault that Isya -- Arthur -- whatever his name was had made the poor decision to have children. Mercenaries should know better than that. It was pure selfishness to have other people rely on you when you knew any day might be your last. And sheer stupidity to create pressure points for yourself.

He set his jaw, staring at the stairs instead of looking at Ash, as his conscience prickled at the jab. Of course, he felt guilt for taking fathers from their children. But it wasn't like he could only take contracts to kill bachelors. And it's not like Ash would know that at all if he didn't take his goddamn notebook.

"Perhaps he should have thought of that before he decided he wanted to make an enemy of me," Pratik spat, gaze sharp as he finally turned his glare back towards Ash. "I didn't take offense that he was hired to stop me. But his asset was already dead. The job was over. And he still rammed a fire poker through my guts because he was pissy I beat him. His children aren't my responsibility."

"Aren't they?" Gaius challenged. "It's not as easy as you might think, trying not to have children. And his poor wife would end up juggling a job while raising them. Don't you, as the hypothetical killer, owe that family at least some compensation?"

(Gaius is such a petty, hypocritical bitch I love him so much. Anyway, I gotta get to bed now. Goodnight!)

(ahaha I love him too, these interactions are pure gold. Night!)

Pratik prickled, feeling his rage from the previous night bubbling up in him again. He'd decided Ash was smart, but apparently not smart enough, if he thought it was wise to provoke a mercenary in the middle of an abandoned stairwell. There was nothing at all stopping Pratik from taking Ash's cane from him and beating him to death with it. Nothing to stop him from taking the cane downstairs and killing the rest of the Ashes, too.

But, he wouldn't do that. Because he didn't kill just from personal grudges. Isya was an exception. And if Ash was too stupid to see why he deserved to die -- for free -- then that was his own problem. If Isya wanted his children to have a father, then he should have refrained from being a petty bastard.

Pratik might have felt more inclined towards forgiveness had Isya only stabbed him with a blade. He'd had that happen plenty of times before, and for less than the shit-show that the two of them had been through in the week leading up to Pratik executing Isya's asset. But the fire poker had been deliberate. The sheer amount of force Isya had had to use to drive a blunted iron rod into Pratik's stomach wasn't something he intended to forget any time soon.

"Do you feel the need to compensate the families of the men you sent me to kill?" Pratik countered, making no effort to keep the venom out of his voice. "Your hands are no cleaner than mine, just because you use your purse instead of a dagger to kill the men you want dead."

Let Ash fire him if he wanted to, see if Pratik cared. Maybe he would go pay Isya a visit, if Ash decided to send him away. His children be damned. And Ash be damned, too. Maybe he'd go write a poem about that.

Gaius thought about that for a moment. Pratik made a good point. It was all true from his point of view.
"I know my brother will compensate them well," he said finally. "And someone without a Lord to watch over them isn't going to have that. As for using my purse..." He drew out his longsword. It was a beautiful blade, ceremonial more than anything but still sharp. The blade was made of a pale, light metal so that it almost felt weightless in Gaius's hands, and the hilt was forged out of gold. An emerald was set in the pommel.
Gaius stopped walking as he drew out the sword and held it in his hands, gazing at it for a moment before sliding it carefully down so the very tip could be seen with ease. It was dented ever so slightly.
"I ran this straight through one of my own cousins several years ago," he said quietly. "It hit the wall and bent, and I never bothered to have it fixed. And the soldier I told you about. My captain took his tongue but I took his cock and cut off his arms and legs." His pale eyes were steady as he looked at Pratik. "I've killed others. I will be in the thick of battle when the war requires it. I don't shy away from getting my hands bloody. To say I only use my purse to kill people is to accuse a man of being unable to move mountains. I can't be everywhere at once, can I, Pratik?"

Pratik eyed Ash as he drew the sword, tensing ever so slightly so that he’d be ready to dodge if he needed to, but not bothering to step out of Ash’s reach. He wouldn't cower. And the slight edge of danger dissipated some of Pratik’s rage, giving him surreal clarity. Anger didn’t keep you alive when men were swinging swords at you, focus did. And it helped ground him.

“No, sir, I suppose you can’t,” Pratik agreed after a too-long silence with his eyes still locked on Ash’s. There was no more point in provoking him than there’d been for him riling Pratik. He should have left it there. He tried to leave it there. But his mouth kept running. “Just as I can’t be bothered to care about who is a father or a son or a husband, if I’m to be any use at all to you... sir.”

"It's a good thing the people you're targeting have connections to Tomhas Loquitur, then." Gaius sheathed the sword and kept walking. "Reading your poetry I thought you might be different from other mercenaries. I suppose you are, but even so I'm a bit disappointed. Taking a life is no simple thing, as I know you're aware."