Zaketa presents a carefully crafted mask to the world; one of sharp edges, privilege, and bravado. Only those closest to her, her most loyal guards, know the real Zaketa. And she is so much more than what her warlord father has crafted her to be.
In...
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The strange hooded girl's attention had an avalanche effect, not that Payton could complain. His pockets jangled with coins, yet he couldn't help but grit his teeth. It was the sound of a mugging waiting to happen. Though it was mostly small coins, he still knew he'd have to spend it soon before it could be taken from him.
Food first, new clothes, and then lodgings. He couldn't help but smile at the idea of sleeping in a bed rather than curling up in some corner of an overcrowded hostile, or worse, another dank alley. It wasn't until he'd sat down in a quiet corner of the common room of a bustling inn with a bowl of hearty stew in front of him that he remembered the folded bundle of notes the girl had given him.
He'd slipped it deep into one of his inner pockets, and even now, he was anxious to bring it out in public. The lighting was dim, gas lamps illuminating only the common areas, and as he glanced around, it seemed no one was paying him much mind. The innkeeper had given him a discount with the promise of entertainment later in the night, but for now, he had his dark little corner to himself.
Carefully, he unfolded the notes. He'd only seen such money in glimpses as the wealthy used it to buy items at their posh shops. It was of little value elsewhere. Yet, there was more than just money in his hands, he realized. Nestled in the bundle was a handwritten note. A rarity. So few people could read and write.
"Are you content with the hand this world has dealt you? If not, we ask you to become an agent of change. If you dare to dream of a better future, visit The Skull Speaks. Ask for Izzy. There will be risk in such a venture. Do not make this choice lightly."
Payton furrowed his brow as he considered these words. It rang of rebellion. He'd heard whispers, it was hard not to with the conditions most folks lived in. He hadn't given the talk much thought before. No one could dethrone The Wolf, could they? Yet as he flipped through the bills in his hands, his heart began to pick up its pace at the possibility.
What did he have to lose? He was barely scraping by as it was. This money would get him through for some time, but after that, what then? He'd been given this money as an invitation to the masquerade. Yet this note implied there was even more to that invitation. So much more.
It was the stuff of ballads, and he could have a front-row seat for all of it. He couldn't help but smile at the prospect as he tucked the money deep into his pockets once more. After he'd paid his dues tonight, he'd seek out this place, The Skull Speaks, and see what this note could possibly mean. He tossed the note into the fireplace as he made his way up the stairs to the promise of a hot bath and clean, new clothes. Whistling, he wondered if he finally might have lyrics for the tune that had been haunting him.
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