oneman_onevote | (no subject)

The door opens onto a dark, narrow street. The slight light cast from lanterns reflects off wet cobblestones. The air has that damp, heavy feel brought by mist that is almost but not quite rain.

Havelock's dark grey clothing blends almost perfectly. When the young assassin steps into a shadow, he effectively vanishes apart from the pale skin of his face and hands.

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Puck, sadly, is in worn jeans and a shirt of a most insistent maroon shade. Feeling left out, he promptly vanishes into thin-- or, as it is Ankh-Morpork, thick-- air.

"Where are we?"

"Ankh-Morpork," comes the quiet voice from the shadows. Havelock has pulled his hood up, and his hands are concealed by loose sleeves. It is now nigh-impossible to notice his dark figure unless you already know he is there.

"We're on the outskirts of the Shades."

Puck, however, does know that he is there, and Havelock can assuredly feel the heat from the fae's body and the light brush of fingertips against his shoulder.

"This is your city?" It's not said with nearly the disdain a native to the Disc might expect. Despite the appallingly low property value of the real estate around them, Puck sounds perfectly cheerful about it. And curious too, of course. Always curious.

It is perhaps a mark of trust that Havelock doesn't even twitch at the gentle touch.

"Yes."

Well, it is. It will be.

Puck is not aware of the significance of the reply, but he's pleased that Havelock doesn't start and/or reach for a knife at his touch.

"It is quite dark," he observes.

"It frequently is at night," comes the dry reply.

The assassin begins to move slowly through the shadowy street, sharp eyes watchful underneath his hood.

Puck is right behind him, and at his side-- and, on some occasions, in front of him, though only for a moment. He is busily glancing around at the street, which, cramped with houses (or at least living spaces of some description) and smelling of something that is not immediately identifiable, is a real credit to the city.

It is not as busy as one might expect from a city at night. The hated curfew, triumphantly banned after the previous Patrician's... unfortunate assassination, had been reinstated a few months later as a lauded safety precaution to 'keep our wives and children in the security they deserve.'

Nevertheless there are a few people about, not even noticing the silent dark figure that walks amongst them. A drunk staggers and falls onto a doorstep. A young woman furtively clutches a sewing basket on a street corner, ignoring the scornful laughter of a passing prostitute. Havelock says nothing.

These people are more familiar to Puck than were the rushing, antlike denizens of Gotham City. He's seen hundreds, thousands like them in cities and towns of his own time.

Homey, almost, to see them now.

Havelock keeps on, a very slight smile beneath his hood. Home is home, after all.

He turns down a small alley, glancing behind to note that they may not be alone. He keeps quiet however, and waits as he walks.

Puck notes the same, though more out of a desire to absorb every possible piece of sensory information than out of any cautiousness.

He does so hope that someone tries to mug them.

The footsteps behind them, however, turn out to be those of the young woman they saw before - the Lady of Negotiable Affection who was so amused by the seamstress.

She wanders along quickly, apparently oblivious to Havelock, who stops in a particularly dark shadow to wait for her to catch up.

Puck tilts his head-- first at her, then at Havelock. Why have they stopped?

The young lady walks purposefully, now there is no one to see her (she thinks), very competently considering the impracticality of her footwear.

Havelock looks about as she approaches, eyes flicking up and down the alley, then steps out into the dingy light, pulling down his hood.

"Good evening."

The woman's hand darts, faster than might be thought she could manage, to her side where a weapon is likely concealed. But then she gives a grin that is rather uncharacteristic with her elegantly and dramatically made-up face.

"...Oh! Evening, Master Havelock. Out for a walk, then?"

Puck raises an eyebrow.

In the darkest shadow in the alley, a maroonish-colored shirt materializes. And he waits.

"I am on my way back," he says, keeping his tone carefully low enough not to pass out of the alley.

She beams at him again. "Always were the quiet one, you," she says gaily. "I'm back to my lodgings myself. More or less the same way, isn't it?"

The young lady begins to continue down the narrow street, Havelock in the shadows beside her. It takes a couple of glances into the same shadow before she makes out Puck.

"Oh, I'm sorry- This a friend of yours?" she asks the assassin, blinking at the fae in a cheerful manner. It is plain that if he is, then he's all right by her.

"Quite a friend," Puck replies with brisk cheerfulness, running a slim finger down the length of Havelock's arm.

What? He hasn't had any Talks about Publc Indecency yet.

"Pleasure to meet you, then," she says.

"Indeed," is all she gets from the assassin.

Havelock hasn't either, come to that. Faith's 'get a room' doesn't really count.

The young lady holds out a businesslike hand to the fae. "Miss Anastacia Riley."

With his free hand (the other still somewhat occupied), Puck shakes hers.

"Enchanted, I'm sure," he says. He doesn't let go for a moment-- just a little too long.

He's smiling, but that might not be a reassuring thing.

Still smiling, Anastacia eyes him dubiously. You can't be a lady of negotiable affection for long without picking up some instincts, after all.

Havelock tilts his head. "Do you have the time, Miss Riley?" he asks blandly.

"It's about two-ish," she answers promptly. Accuracy is not given much weight in Ankh-Morpork.

"Shiny," Puck says brightly. "Do you think we ought to be getting on, Havelock?"

"Perhaps we should," Havelock agrees, as he stops at a turning.

Anastacia smiles, and pats the assassin's arm fondly. "Well, thank you for walking me this far. You're both quite the gentlemen."

Because he is feeling kind(ish), the fairy does not laugh in her face. However, he is grinning a bit broadly as he says, "Go well, Anastacia dear."

As she walks away, there is a poke to Havelock's shoulder. It might be asking, Who was *that*?

An acquaintance of mine, comes the unruffled reply.

Havelock continues down a passage so narrow that only one person can comfortably walk it alone. In the blackness, he is momentarily invisible.

Puck follows, of course (though perhaps a little ruffled), eyes glowing like a cat's in the dark. Then again, most cats' eyes don't shine that way unless there is light to reflect off them.

He wonders, now, why they are sneaking, and suspects that Havelock may be doing it for fun. He doesn't mind it in the least even if he is; not counting the daytrip to Gotham, it's been far too long since he's had a whole wide world to explore.

It's partly fun, partly good sense. Ankh-Morpork at night is not exactly the safest of places. In any case, it is Havelock's habit.

After a moment, with a glance around, the assassin begins to climb a wall leading to the roof of the nearest building with as much agility as if he does this every day.

It is a very tall building, and some holds look vaguely precarious. He doesn't seem to mind.

Puck ... well, he could be up and over with no fuss at all, but climbing looks much more fun. With preternatural agility, he scrambles up after him.

After a while, they are at the top of the building, looking down over the city. Havelock gestures to a dark, foreboding looking rooftop in the distance.

"That's the Guild."

Puck beams at the view. Nothing is more bizarre than the cityscape of Ankh-Morpork, and the haphazard architecture delights him. After a moment, he follows Havelock's gesture and spots the Guild.

It looks quite satisfactory.

"Is that where you're leading us?" he asks.

"It is," he says. "It is not as though you will have any trouble getting in."

A grin.

"I should think not."

Havelock nods. "If we can be in unnoticed, so much the better."

He does not sound as though he doubts either of their ability to do so.

Puck nods, glancing back out over the city-- this marvelous, chaotic city.

"Shall we?"

Havelock gives him a slight smile, just visible in the half-light dulled by mist, and pulls his hood back up to head over and across the rooftops to the Guild.

Puck grins, scampering after him like a shadow. He's never had rooftops such as these to traverse, and he almost regrets it as the place draws nearer.

Almost. But after all, he is about to meet Havelock's friends.

... Perhaps "friends" isn't quite the word.

Perhaps not.

Dangling one-armed from the rooftop, Havelock hooks a foot under a window to carefully open it. After waiting in silence a moment and cautiously examining the interior, he swings himself easily through.