<div class="floatright">(https://i.postimg.cc/xqrY1dmL/IMG-3638.jpg)</div><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 12pt;"><strong>With Friends Like These</strong></span><br/><strong>Tagging: Oloven, Dahlya<br/>Location: "Rare Finds" Trouble Contracting (Orzhov Affiliated)</strong><br/><br/>Urakis Rare rapped the corked bottle of dried ink against his desk sharply five times to uncake the indigo powder. It was the first noise he had made in the five minutes since his “guests” had arrived. He had yet to even acknowledge them, but then Rare was not known for being a particularly gracious host. At just under four feet tall and pale as a corpse, what the tiefling WAS best known for were creative interrogation techniques and his skill at accountancy.<br/><br/>Obviously at some point the undead bastard had to have been a child, but he had long since lost the ability to hide the centuries behind his eyes. He uncorked his little bottle and deftly tapped the side with his forefinger until a pile the size of a thumbnail of the rich blue dust had gathered on his ledger.<br/><br/>It was only as he corked it once more that he even bothered to lift his eyes to acknowledge his guests. This gesture was accompanied by a disdainful snort as he spat on the ink, “Oloven. Dahyla. Did you two know that there are primitive places elsewhere that they worship unseen deities?“<br/><br/>Like a magic trick, Urakis produced an age stained coin from the palm of his hand. He toyed with it idly, in one hand while the other began scribbling viciously across the parchment, “Here, our God is one you can touch and see. And his flesh can be traded for any fucking thing you want. I do not trust this much “divinity” in the hands of anyone. That is why there are two of you. Keep each other honest.”<br/><br/>The coin was either silver or blessed (possibly both) because it sizzled and smoked between his fingertips as he lifted it close to his ear. He bobbed his head slightly as if he were agreeing with someone as they whispered something saucy to him, “From God’s mouth to my ear, and your mouth to my arsehole... That is the chain of command. So where do we find God Money wanting us tonight? Bureaucrat Radu has an item of interest to the guild. I have haggled, signed papers and done all of the heavy lifting for you. You just have to go to pick it up. Easy peasey, lemon squeezy! You bring me the box... or you bring me back my case with my money plus one of your right hands for my disappointment and emotional distress.”<br/><br/>“As you two know, I don’t much care which one of you gives up the hand, if it comes to that... BUT obviously it won’t! I am being silly! Why did I even bring it up? Claret! Case!” His secretary came from behind a thick tapestry behind him carrying a slim black lacquered case. Her features were sharp enough to draw blood, too delicately crafted to be sculpted by the fumbling hands of chance. Angelic... or at least she used to be. Dressed sharply in a grey suit that hugged her form, the back of her blazer was cut open to show the stitches where she had once owned wings. Her skirt was as expensive as it was short and offered her the barest amount of modesty. It seemed Rare was as miserly with his decency as he was with sharing his "god".<br/><br/>The fallen secretary rested the case on the desk in front of Oloven without a word and turned to leave. She either assumed he might be the gentleman and carry it or she thought it prudent to keep the assassin's hands free. Urakis reached out, catching her slender arm above the elbow. Like the coin, something about her essense made his own skin sizzle softly at the contact. It was on the one hand relieving to know that there was something that could actually hurt the little bastard, but decidedly less so once it became apparent he was enjoying the pain. He clacked his teeth together at her playfully before letting her go again, “She haunts me, that one... So it's that time! Any questions, comments, conjectures or dirty limericks?"<br/><br/>Claret was holding the tapestry to the side for her employer, clearly expecting that this was his final client. The wall behind the tapestry was decorated with rows upon rows of right hands, held up by iron spikes driven without ceremony into the masonry.