nestingdevil | (no subject)

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The Crusader's eyes flicked toward the gunmetal spurs adorning Greed's heels. His lip twitched with a barely disguised sneer of distaste. The right to wear spurs was reserved only for those knights who had sworn their oaths before the Light, who successfully completed their holy vigil within a church dedicated to the Flame.

To see such sacred regalia adorning the mud-spattered boots of a lowly charnel man, unearned and most likely stolen from the remains of a fallen knight, sparked a flame of righteous fury within the Crusader's breast. Had these been any other circumstances, he would have drawn his blade and cut the boots from this preying vulture's feet and bade him seek forgiveness from the Light for his transgressions.

But these were unusual circumstances, to say the least, and he had need of the Grave Robber's skills in order to serve a higher purpose.

He watched as Greed unfolded himself from his seat like a spider stretching languorously toward its wriggling prey, thin and black as the wrought iron railings of a churchyard. The scent of wet earth and decay clung to his garments like the stench of Death itself. Rosch wrinkled his nose but held himself firm, unshakable in his faith and holy purpose.

"The Heir has outlined the next mission," he said sternly. "I've been tasked with scouting out the Ruins in search of sacred icons that had been lost several years ago. The abbot is most anxious to see them returned to their rightful place, and I for one do not relish the thought of these holy symbols being left abandoned to those desecrated halls..."

He gazed deep into the Grave Robber's eyes, and not even Rosch could look unflinching into those dark orbs with their swirling depths; a window to the star-cursed abyss from which no man has ever ventured and returned unscathed.

"Unfortunately, this is not a mission that I can complete on my own, and I find myself in need of a man with your... unique skill set."

His face twisted as though he'd bitten into an apple and found it spoiled. It clearly pained him to ask for assistance from a man so steeped in foulness, who took his name from one of the seven deadly sins and embodied its tenants so proudly.

But even a holy man finds occasion to make deals with the Devil, so long as it's for the greater good...

"Have they now," Greed's tongue lolled between his cheeks; its delicate prodding and poking, as if a large wad of tobacco were stuck somewhere and he was trying to pry it loose. One at a time, his scaled-steel fingers wrapped around his hip bones, cutting into them. His choice of armor was one both of practicality and flair. The joints of his gloves were separated and woven together with nuts and bolts - the points of his jacket were nails plucked from the very graves themselves, needled and threaded into cloth. Everything that he represented was laid out cleanly on his sleeves quite literally, giving no second-guesses as to his intentions.

And what, in all honesty, was more pure than sin, anyway?

Greed bowed his head, making his face dip back into shadow. "Sounds like you two have a similar idea, then. So why come to me?" He took a step forward. The thorny backside of his boot skidded across the floorboards. It dragged, scrapped - the noise, more similar to that of gargoyle, ripping itself from the earth. "I image they'd desire anyone else. Let me guess, no takers?"

One the man's hands left his hip to gesture in a display of leather and cool-cut metal. "Must be pretty desperate asking me for help - " A smile spread, then. Something delightful, something coy, something awful. A wolf's hungry jaw, showing its teeth. "-fine. But it'll be double this time. I'll tell him myself, don't worry your pretty little head, lovely."

Greed arched and a stinging whistle cut itself over his lip. "Oi, you - ! Grab my shovel, would ya? I've got business down town." Down town meaning down: the desecrated remains where many ventured and few returned. One of the tavern's workers snatched a shovel off the wall. He tossed it and the 'Robber grabbed it out of the air - his fingers gripping tight, almost too tight.

"Why don't we get this started, hmn?" The Sin purred, hooking the shovel onto his back. "We wouldn't want to keep our dear Heir waiting." Sarcasm flicked off his tongue like a snake. "Anymore joining our merry band, or are you the only poor sucker they could bargain with? Eh - " Greed ushered out the thought with a wave of his hand. "-doesn't matter. Whatever they want, after all. Wouldn't be right for me to deny them."

The leftovers in his pipe went bottom up on the floor and the 'Robber stamped it out thoughtlessly with his boot.

"Lead the way Lionheart."

"Theophrastus is still recovering from injuries sustained during our last mission, and Paracelsus is embroiled in yet another one of her ungodly experiments..." The Crusader rumbled deep in his throat, giving voice to his displeasure. It was no secret he disdained the sort of research that bordered on heresy. "Which leaves you the only remaining mercenary with an intimate understanding of toxicology. Furthermore, your skills at lock-picking and disarming traps are rivaled only by Dismas, but he was... less agreeable to my proposal."

Dismas was, after all, Jackdaw's right hand man, which meant that he bore little love toward Julien and their hirelings. The feeling was certainly mutual on Rosch's part—he personally felt that Lord Beaumont was the rightful Heir to the Darkest Estate, and he was loathe to work with anyone aligned with the impostor Heir.

But desperate times call for desperate measures. And Greed could easily see the desperation in the clench of Rosch's jaw, the armored fingers curled into a tense fist at his side. He already anticipated the hungry grin full of pointed teeth, but that didn't lessen the feeling of disgust toward the obvious delight Greed felt at the prospect of easy pickings.

No matter. Let the charnel man reap his reward of glittering gold, trinkets and baubles. Such earthly treasures paled in comparison to holy relics imbued with divine power.

Rosch bristled at the mocking term of endearment. "I can assure you that Lord Beaumont is well aware of the cost of your services and is prepared to pay a premium to ensure this mission is successful." He watched as the Grave Robber made an unnecessarily theatrical show of retrieving his trusted shovel. "He's already enlisted the aid of the Vestal, and the final member of our party will be determined shortly."

Even now, Julien was negotiating with the Antiquarian, who was the leading expert on priceless artifacts and rare antiquities. Though his prowess in combat was subpar, what he lacked in raw strength he made up for in cunning. His keen eyes would surely make their search for the holy relics far easier.

The Crusader's eyes narrowed. Lionheart—it was the epithet he earned after completing his tour of duty to reclaim the Holy Land. But somehow, when Greed spoke, his viper's tongue poisoned the word, causing it to ring false within Rosch's ears. His mocking tone made the title sound false and hollow.

You think yourself brave, little lion man? Have you forgotten the taste of fear, like bitter bile in the back of your throat?

Rosch shook his head, banishing those thoughts to the back of his mind. He pivoted on one heel and marched toward the door, his golden spurs clinking with each heavy footfall.

The barkeep spared Rosch a curious look before glancing toward Greed in acknowledgement. Whenever the Grave Robber went "down town," he always returned with plenty of gold to grease dirty palms.

Hopefully, this mission would be as fruitful as the others.

While Rosch rambled on, the 'Robber kept his quiet. A pinch of tobacco squeezed between his fingers into the open bowl of his pipe, his nails scurried about aimlessly in his coat like a thousand, baby spiders searching the world for the first time. Greed closed his eyes and a festering sneer spread across his face under the brim of his hat.

"What you're saying is that no one else is going to take the job, so come to the source. Is that right?" He puckered his lips around the button of his pipe, making his teeth chitter briskly across the reed. "They know I don't belong to either of them - ha! That's pretty bold, I'll give 'em that." A match appeared, clenched between his middle and fore-knuckles as rigid as a cross. Greed swept it across the metal guards clasping his wrist and as the tip ignited, a wicked glow erupted under his chin.

He wasn't stupid to the goings-on inside the Estate: everyone knew it. Two heirs, two figureheads, fighting for the rightful title. But the rightful title of what. Decay? Blasphemy? Destruction? Death? There wasn't much to gain from owning a place already damned.

But, then again -

The Sinnerman inhaled, dragging a deep cloud of tobacco down into his lungs. "Another one, then. Got someone in mind?" A perk of interest twitched on his face and one of his eyes lazily opened, revealing a point-pricked inclination. There were numerous names, faces, and all else throughout the Estate. From the highest of the mighty to the lowest of the low, the masses stuck in the proverbial tar pit were a variety pack and he didn't know all of them. The excursion could be worth it, if not to find more. More to have, to claim, to enjoy in every sense of the word.

"You could show me numbers, I'll show you more -"

The Graverobber shrugged off a silent weight and followed after the Crusader as low and shallow as a shadow, following a wall. He kept his head bent at a particular angle, so that the brim of his hat crested over his face in a looming, hard-cut swoop. "Don't take it so personally, friend. This is just business, after all. What, are you still upset about before?" Another curtain of smoke disappeared between his teeth - the look of it, as pale and fleeting as a ghost evaporating under the coming sun. "Whatever you're thinking, you've got the wrong idea. What I want - " He trailed off, forcing the pipe do to the rest of the talking. What he wanted, what he needed, what he craved: no one could possibly know how deep it went. It was a disease; a disease for him and him alone to bear.

And he relished every moment of it.

Greed pocketed his hands. "Let's change the subject, then. Why are you so loyal to Their Highness, anyway? What makes them better than the other choice? Feels like the two of 'em are the same to me. Right, wrong. Good, bad. I've never believed in that." He tilted his head back and the bump of his throat exposed, showing the barest hint of something black underneath the choke of his collar. "Your kind - you put so much into believing your cause is the righteous one, but have you ever stopped to think if it is?"

The corner of his lip turned up. "Eh, never mind. I don't really feel like pissing you off even more. Would be a pain in the ass for you to go berserk down there." Greed swayed and his head turned on the axis of his neck like a vulture, scoping out a meal. "Mind giving me the name of the others you've got in mind? Or is that off limits?"

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