<blockquote><div align="right">out of character ; 39° Dyo, 81382. back in character ;</div> <div align="justify">"This heroin is green." Knilah Muibara raised an eyebrow. «Yes, Jyan. The heroin is green.» So what? she grumbled inwardly. It's better green. Who she called Jyan, a seven-foot Anubi dressed almost entirely in chains, bared his fangs in annoyance. He waved the square baggie in front of her eyes, and she flinched backwards. "Green and chunky," he snapped. «You can crush the chunks out with a pestle, or a hammer—» "I don't want to pay for chunky green heroin," the Anubi yelled, eyes wide and frantic and red with anger. His voice echoed above the hub-bub of the market, though not one creature turned to look. "Not when I can get nice, normal drugs on every second corner. You can keep your bathtub shit, 'Bara." He tossed the drugs hard at her chest, which she caught startled, and turned around to stalk off, muttering hatefully to himself. Niley hissed at his back and stuffed her merchandise back into her pouch, where Charl nibbled consolingly at her fingertips. Her next scheduled meeting was not for hours, and so she had officially nothing to do and—thanks to Jyan—no money to do it with. Her hands twitched against her sides uncomfortably. She didn't wear a shirt but faded, torn, and flora-scarred jeans hanging low on her hips. They looked on the verge of falling apart, dragging in the dry dirt and picking up the oddest colours on the way. They matched the sky, however: mostly grey but streaked with a copper sunset, as if it wasn't sure it would be raining water or blood. Adjusting her shoulder strap, Niley began to trek slowly through the dense crowd, pacifically ignoring the swooning voices which managed to make their way into her mind—wanting a number of things, her money or her body being only a couple requests—to stare vaguely at the kiosks around her. She seemed to have entered the "food" district (the word was loosely used), unsurprising considering its nearness to her "flora" realm (again, loosely used). A myriad of warm smells drifted into her nostrils, not all of them pleasant. Her stomach turned. She grimaced a little, feeling suddenly very satiated. How could anyone stand to come here willingly?</div>
<blockquote><div align="justify">“Are you sure that's what it's called?" The vendor looked on doubtfully as Tully consulted the scrap of paper in her hand once more, squinting down at the scribbly black slashes across its whitish surface. These marks were supposed to make sense, supposed to spell something out for Tully to retrieve, but so far, all they'd done was confuse seven of the black market's top “food vendors" and make Tully want to hide incendiary beetles in Ayres' bed during the night. She glared at the paper through her orange-tinted glasses and sighed, running one hand through her hair. “Sorry, but I have no. Fucking. Idea. Does that look like a q or an s to you?" She couldn't prevent a trace of a frustrated growl from entering her words, and she noticed the 'dragon flinch when she moved to offer the paper to him. But she was used to that sort of thing. At eight feet, three and a half inches, and currently sporting a scowl that could melt plastic, Tully was rather intimidating. “It looks like... g?" A beat passed. “No. No it doesn't," Tully said finally, and her eyes narrowed in irritation as she turned away from the booth and stalked off. Why did Ayres need these crazy ingredients anyway? They were illegal for a reason, Tully assumed, and she was more than mildly worried about his motives for including them in his patrons' food. It was hardly a secret that he hated the “swine" who frequented his shop – Tully's only reassurance was the knowledge that Ayres valued the integrity of his baked goods more than anything in the world. Tully was fairly certain that Ayres cared too much about his cupcakes to taint them with poisons. The crowds of the market thronged about her, the average 'dragon around two and a half feet shorter than her. They split off around her awkwardly, creating a Red Sea effect as she cut through the crowd like a colorful shark. But she hardly noticed them. With a look of unwavering disgust on her face, she crumpled the shopping list and shoved it into her jacket pocket.</div>
<blockquote><div align="justify">It was hard not to notice her. When noticeability was a disadvantage in the clandestine line of work, a thill standing like a lighthouse above the crowd was sure to draw some uncomfortable glances, Niley's among them. She did not look accustomed to the area, and yet—was obviously sure of herself. The white female could not help wondering if she was right in being so confident, if she wasn't aware of the—she glanced around quickly—three shadowed `dragons whose eyes were fixed on her pockets, at least one of them armed. She couldn't help but wonder if the thill shouldn't be shown an exit, and quickly. She grinned suddenly, her canines showing. Or, perhaps, shown her way around. Or even offered up-front what she needed, what she didn't know she needed. If only she was interested, of course. There were certainly not many others (that the stranger might have known of) who could assist her better ... for a fee. One she might not knowingly give, exactly. Nile wasn't exactly prone to stealing, but perhaps she could convince her to have a drink. She licked her lips, and after carefully wiping her countenance clean of emotion stepped into the crowd. Like a fish among its school, she allowed herself to be pulled by the current towards the colourful female. The latter's confidence was definitely something to be taken into consideration, and Niley felt that, while she couldn't be (and wouldn't be, naturally) self-conscious, she had to make the effort to not surpass her in confidence. That might be perceived as threatening. Well, we'll see how long that lasts. Once nearer to the thill, she stepped slightly out of line of the flow, and allowed herself to bump her shoulder into the taller one's ... lower rib, as it were. The piece of paper she was carrying "accidentally" happened to fall out of her pocket. «Oh,» she thought-spoke, «oops. Sorry.» Her voice did not sound terribly convincing, but she wasn't exactly making an effort. As long as a deal was struck, she didn't mind whether or not she was a little suspicious. It was almost a given in the Black Market, anyhow, almost inevitable by association. She stopped—the current rushing around them like wind—and bent down to pick the paper up, her eyes dancing over it before she handed it over. There was a slight pause before she said, bluntly, «You look annoyed.» Smile. «Need help finding something?»
<blockquote><div align="justify">Tully loped through the crowds, completely oblivious to the several stalkers that trailed after her sweeping, flamed tail. In situations like this, irritated and more than a little lost, Tully had the odd habit of becoming much more internal, introverted even -- she no longer made eye contact with the people passing her, no longer walked in a conscious sort of way that kept her long limbs close to herself for the safety of others. She tightened and loosened, personality pulled in and limbs let out. Her eyes flashed with a glower aimed at walls, ceilings, patches of sky, anything but the people around her. Stupid Ayres. Stupid Ayres and his stupid pastries. A sigh, a blink -- Something seemed to nudge her ribs, bumping lightly. And then her eye caught the flutter of white as her list spiraled to the floor. Just as she turned to see who had run into her, words seemed to explode into her mind. Foreign words, like someone with cold fingers touching the back of her arm from behind -- unexpected, not her words. They formed an apology, but there was an undertone of insincerity to them that made her fur bristled slightly. "Yeah? Me, too. Gimme the list back," she said, more demanding than she'd be under better circumstances. Her hand hovered, outstretched expectantly. But the strange thill who seemed somewhat untrustworthy (especially considering the shady location of their meeting) instead glanced over it quickly before returning it. Tully glared, and more strange, cold words were tapped into her head: this time, a polite inquiry. Need help? "Could you stop doing that?" Tully snapped. "It's kind of rude. I'd rather not have your thoughts in my head -- OR vice-versa, mmkay?" She paused, then, and actually considered what the thill had offered. It certainly would be helpful to have someone who seemed to know the market around. No one else had been particularly kind to her so far. Although, this could be a trap; Ayres had warned her about that sort of thing. She glowered down at the fragile-looking white thill, considering. "Yeah, though," she said finally. "The ingredients. On the list you've already acquainted yourself with. Where can I get them?"</div>
<blockquote><div align=justify>If Niley had bothered to attune herself in an empathetic manner to the actions of others with any sort of consistency, she would have recognized that this new thill was being exceptionally rude. If she bothered to be affected by these things, she may even have been offended. Of course, if she were to do that, she would have probably also had to not have tempted the rudeness in the first place. Ah, such was not life. In any case, she neither recognized nor reacted to the rudeness, intentional or not, and continued smiling. Obscenely. Unconvincingly. Two or three thoughts whirred through her mind, obvious in her eyes darting to and fro over the stranger's tall body. She allowed the list to be taken from her lax hand. Could you stop doing that? Her attention drew outwards and Niley's eyebrows darted upwards, sharp triangles. It wasn't often she got requests—well, demands, really—to speak regularly. It wasn't often she got so uncomfortable, as presently, to almost seize up. Then was not the time nor place to speak in public, even if she could do it without embarrassing herself, let alone cede to another's wishes. Her smile dropped, only for a second, before perking back up. «No, I can't. You'll get used to it.» A promise, a threat? The chicken-scratched items rolled over in her mind. Although pastries weren't her area of expertise, she had certainly experimented with food ingredients in order to make her drugs tastier, more appealing to her customers, to future customers. Not to mention to make her poisons less obvious. She wasn't unfamiliar with the territory. She licked her lips, recalling a woman whose memory had settled in the back of her mind, and nodded. «I know someone,» she said as lightly as possible, «who takes, ah, difficult requests. Complicated ones, ones that may need some fine-tuning. She's got ... well, a paramour with a hand in graphology, too, who probably decipher some of your scratches.» A smirk, which quickly disintegrated into a serious line. The matter at hand. What was always the matter at hand. Niley wasn't terribly surprised that her offer to help had been taken up, but wondered if she would be wise enough to agree to a settlement. «Of course, I'd like something in return.» Of course. It was said as off-handedly as possible. «First, I'd like your name, and ... well, some entertainment.» She shrugged. «I've a few hours until my next meeting, and it's not entirely safe to be seen loitering. We could ... hang out.» The colloquial tasted acid on her tongue, and she was plainly not the type to instigate "hanging out", but the other female had her choices: accept the terms, or find this rather back-alley woman herself. «We'd, uh, both benefit from it.»
