If you happened upon The Everyman's Inn in the later hours of twilight, you might find a particular man. Or in fact, he would likely find you first.

He was a curious gentleman who would easily deceive most perceptions. He existed on the cusp of the ordinary and the remarkable. If you noticed how frequently he attended to the liquor of this establishment, you could safely assume that he was merely the average alcoholic, staying true to his nature.

But linger long enough and you would witness his alluringly natural charm, the ease and deliberate intrigue he possesses when capturing an odd yet consuming conversation. You would see how little there was 'average' about his aura.

Short brown hair that showed signs of wanting to curl into waves was tidily tressed, and a full beard was managed into the confines of a neat stubble. He wore a coat, a particularly fine coat. Expensive, long and of a distinguished navy blue.

He carried the genteel voice of an educated Englishman from the cold, rainy, and introverted capital of London, a city which had undertaken its own unique cultural evolution in recent years, due to the settlement of refugees from the ‘Night Court’ of Eastern Europe.

You could be excused for wondering; what would such a certain high-born be doing, wasting most nights in a tavern quite literally advertised to the everyman?

Although he did also strike a chord of familiarity with every man, and woman of course, that he would choose to dine with. He was versed well enough in the culture and experience of the working class that even if they would seem from a foreign world to him, he could infiltrate when it suited him. 

His dapper appearance was contradicted again by a natural masculinity, a sort of roughness that helped him break down the defences of those who doubted his authenticity.

Though he normally enjoyed the mutual attention and company from other patrons, he too often would be quite literally stalking the inn on his lonesome.

Watching for customers he may find interesting, often he would just sit by and quietly observe. Enjoying detached exposure to the business of others while engaging directly only with his pet raven, a constant companion always seated upon his shoulders.

On some nights like tonight, this gentleman could be found with a troubling spark in his eyes, hinting that a more mischievous part of his nature was active, as if he was looking for confrontation.

He leaned beside the bar, facing the empty passageway that hardly delivered any new patrons at this hour. But he knew that anyone who would stumble their way inside the warmth of the tavern tonight would be here with a purpose, themselves.

Because of this, he insisted against every physical and mental complaint that he should just retire to bed. 

Hours wasted away on the chance that perhaps tonight, he would finally meet his match.

He was watched judgingly by the old and undelightful innkeeper, who was more than familiar with this particular patron's habits.

Named Marco Coelho, the owner of The Everyman's Inn slept even less than he did, as a bad back brought him long and dreadful nights.

The 'Keeper had decided that rather than try and sleep a certain set of continuous hours, he would likely find more success to just trudge away from the bar and downstairs to the cellar now and then, in the hope of finding respite behind the family of large kegs that awaited him every night.

The more years that passed, the more envy that this barkeep had found in watching those with aspiration come and go.

Inheriting his father's tavern as well as his lack of any real ambition or wit, he never cared to pay attention to the stories of the better men who rested in his inn, nor any of their disputes.

He would just escape behind the scenes, which allowed The Everyman's Inn to become a place for many  characters to come and go for all levels of business, and violent ruckus was not uncommon.

Of course, the City Watch was a very present threat for the denizens of Avignon, which at this point had replaced Rome as the capital of the Church for almost two decades.

They diligently patrolled the city of the Pope, removing anyone who disturbed the peace, or more importantly, endangered the city’s virtue.

To ensure that his clientele and their coins would not be abducted by these guardsmen to be rehabilitated by the very invasive Church, there was an agreement between miserable Marco and the gentleman in the navy coat.

This patron would keep relative peace in the establishment when the owner could not be bothered to himself. In return, the English gentleman could reserve a bedroom with a double bed whenever he wanted it.

These were both common occurrences.

The company of his raven was far more desirable than the sour bickering from the tavern's host at least, whom the gentleman did his best to avoid interaction with.

An intelligent creature of pedigree-bred discipline, the ebony-feathered bird also curiously waited upon the open entry, seemingly even more focused than its master in this habit.

Finally, a candidate entered.

The exciting sound of footprints brought forth a woman who was dressed far more extravagantly than worthy for such an establishment. Although the inn was called The Everyman’s, it normally only attracted a certain class.

A class that certainly could not afford that beautiful dress, the man mused, as he often would. There was no one's opinion or instinct that he would rather trust.

One of his childhood friends was born to a family of tailors, and he remembered Mrs. Compton telling him that a large percentage of their total earnings was acquired through the commission of custom outfits.

The noble class would pay far beyond the price of regular clothing to wear something unique, often in the colours of their esteemed House, made to fit their exact measurements and decorated with some standout flair.

This woman’s dress fit her frame just as tightly as she desired, decorating her slim figure in gold, as if screaming the presence of her otherworldly extravagance and wealth. Frilly embellishments tried to exaggerate her posterior in a ridiculous and confident display.

No doubt this woman was aware that such a dress would summon eyes to it, like how bloody water would inspire the wanton abandon of ever-hungry piranhas, but she did not fret.

If anything, confidence was the very basis of her composure.

The male patron continued to muse.

She fit all the criteria of a noblewoman, or at least of someone posing as one. Including even the manner in which she walked towards the bar.

Not only was she well-dressed, but she also carried the air of superiority gifted towards those who were not accustomed to denial of anything they ever really wanted or believed. 

Her demeanour was uninterested in everyone else around her, not that there were any real crowd to find at this hour, yet her presence demanded attention anyway.

Disappointed grey eyes, that had been waiting ever so patiently for company, would roll, with a certain brand of irk reserved for such a kind of person.

Yet the man in navy approached the woman in gold once she reached the bar, abandoning the comfort of silence to pose his own showcase of confidence.

"You have caught my attention," the man admitted with a blunt nonchalance, as if she should know just how lucky she was for this fact.

The woman turned to face the man who spoke to her so directly. Her countenance held large yellow-brown eyes, simple and doe-like, though it took not long for them to form into an instinctual expression of suspicion and impatience.

He could read the thoughts behind her pretty face as if she were screaming each one at him, and already he could imagine the French accent which so typically was associated with such a nature of dialogue. 

Begone, peasant. You are a waste of time.

The one thing they had in common; both found the other obnoxious.

Though the man did not back down. He smiled right at her, as if he knew her true feelings that even she was not privy to.

His coat carried a woody cologne, and upon his breath she would have faintly smelled the source of at least some of his courage.

"A challenge for you, miss. If I successfully guess what you drink here, you accompany me at my table. If I am wrong however, the price of your drink is mine to bear.”

The distasteful look upon the woman in gold's face worsened at his challenge.

"Not what you are drinking."

She regarded the man and his drink of choice, ale, judgingly. Even more so, she gave an effortless glance downward at him, as if offended that he dared speak to her.

"Or what you could afford."

Her short attitude, while said to be unfitting for a lady, was exactly as the man predicted. Too often, these women never actually lived up to the standards that society framed around them.

If such a remark had offended the far less glamorously dressed man, he hid it well. "I assure you that I can in fact afford a glass of Regal Raluca."

There was no room for doubt in the challenger’s confidence. After all, he was correct.

His prize? Visible interest.

With a glass of white wine in her hand, she followed the stranger back to his table. Her expression was perplexed, as if his answer could only be the result of witchcraft.

"How did you know?" Her curiosity could not be concealed, as she positioned the glass against her thin lips and drank.

In this lighting, the white wine almost looked gold itself.

"Well of course, surely one as stunning and intriguing as the Night Court from Romania must drink the wine that is named after one of the Court’s most prestigious members." The gentleman answered with a polite smile, and a note of thinly veiled sarcasm that masterfully surpassed the woman’s comprehension, yet was so native to British tongue.

The woman's absent eyes sparked, flattered at being compared to the mesmerising and mysterious visitors to Western Europe from the East.

Oh, she took that quite easily.

He took more note of those eyes once they awoke and saw that they were of a rare amber pigment.

Quite lovely, this woman looks as if gold were incarnate.

The amber-eyed woman was now suddenly much more interested in the man's company. She was no stranger to compliments, but this stranger had unexpectedly tickled her with his comparison.

"Well…" The lady looked him up and down again, as if actually paying close attention to his features this time. "You look as dangerous as your drink."

The woman giggled, charmed. A faint blush against her tanned skin contrasted nicely with the gold shine of everything else.

“I thought you were unacquainted with such vulgar beverages?” the man inquired with a grin of his own, before attending to the whisky mentioned. Mutual entertainment brought out further charm in them both.

“I never said I did not like them.” It seemed that the man’s new company became more intoxicated by the minute, by both her drink and him. “I am just intimidated. But perhaps I could get used to it...”

And with that, the lady’s armoured stance had collapsed around her.

He grinned.

Finally, a distraction.

As the night went on, the woman in gold would eventually lower her standards to ale as well. The gentleman pampered her with attention, appealing to her ego with carefully crafted compliments only capable to the most observant of company. She had never felt this seen.

She was undergoing a sensation, as if she never had known the luxury of attention before. No man had ever possessed words in their arsenal as effective as his.

At least not the men she would normally associate with, in her little materialistic world.

The battle was shortly fought. Energised by the unbelievable chemistry, the noblewoman conceded to her powerful desires. She alluded with no subtlety her surrender, squeezing her match's leg from beneath the table.

She whispered to him with an ambitious grin that she was going to book a room for the evening.

It was strange to think that a woman like her would dare spend a night in such a modest establishment.

Unfortunately for the charmed maiden in gold however, who strutted confidently to the bar, her suitor's affection had already been brewing into boredom, even before her invitation.

Any other man in that tavern would find him mad. She was beautiful, with a lovely, fitted frame and the exciting allure of fortune and relevance.

But such wonder faded easily for him. Past whichever noble family she belonged to, lived no substance that belonged to her alone.

He realised that he never did even ask for her name. Nor did she ask him. He was ashamed of himself.

What a tasteless dance to share.

Remembering his answer to how he had guessed her drink of choice made him cringe. As the truth was not actually uncovered in a beauty comparable to a foreign and noble beauty.

The truth was a much simpler thing. The whisky drinker was very familiar with all the choices of alcohol in this city, and even more familiar with its selection of women.

Prey to a terrible curse, the gentleman's eyes drifted longingly towards the tavern's entrance once again. For as soon as his appetite was whetted, the hunter would become hungry again for the allure of something new.

The intoxicated man fell into a daydream, dreaming of company that would surprise and change him. A heroine to pull the unmotivated youth from his dull life, and into a world of adventure.

As if manifesting another chance of meeting such a person, another woman had found him. Initially, he was too immersed in his cloudy thoughts to notice the nimble newcomer slip themselves into the chair that belonged to the blonde, across from him.

His trance would only be broken by an obnoxious and unexpected poke at the side of his arm; the stranger had stretched over the table to reach him.

The first thing he noticed as this invader slid back into place was the heavy presence of black, which left a noticeable contrast to the bright, golden woman who occupied her place before. All darkness, except for various rips and tears in her outfit that teased openings of opposing light skin.

Her body was wrapped tightly in a black corset, from the alien style of clothing that the Night Court of Romania inspired. It had quickly become the craze of London, where many of the Court had taken refuge in their exile. Yet, in the modesty of the rest of Europa, such an appearance stuck out like a sore thumb.

Exotically as well, the bottom half of her flexible form was even more firmly jammed into tight black pants, a design that existed no where outside the few countries with this Gothic influence. They were perhaps deliberately a size smaller than what her tailor would recommend.

Her hair also carried the colour of the night, evidently long as it still twirled around and enveloped her body as well, despite being tied up into a ponytail by long and thin red lace.

She dressed as if she was to attend a funeral, or was the star of one herself.

"Oi, you."

The brash tongue of the stranger roughly pulled the man back into reality. She too was a Londoner, though cockney. Though her dialect was brasher than his, it did suit the bold woman in leather.

"You have not guessed what I drink yet."

Her appearance had startled him, but he enjoyed the disturbance. It was rare that anyone could sneak up on him. She sat in the chair she stole with such a strange yet proud posture. Her lower back was slouched lazily against the seat, a firm and bony stomach exposed as her loose shirt was tugged and caught between her and the chair.

What he could see of her body was scarred and starved, as if she lived on the streets. The first trademark he noticed of hers was a X-shaped scar beneath large and lively green eyes.

She looked like a thief, yet had the swagger of a king.

Despite her lowly and troubling appearance, the gentleman found an attraction to her rawer than the beauty that the noble had provided him.

Her energy was already apparent as vibrant and inviting, and her green eyes were bright, as if they held fire within them. Expressive and enchanted, from an all over impressive arsenal of features, it was this one that drew him in the most. 

During his daze, he noticed that her outfit also seemed personalised, with perhaps deliberate inclusions of that same bright, bold green, a memorable contrast to the otherwise stark black of her outfit.

He had not seen the colours paired like that before. It was as if she owned the combination.

Black-painted lips grinned at him, mad with amusement. How long had he been staring? He was submissive to the power of her own gaze, her large green eyes stared at him with unexpected intensity.

The usually arrogant man felt a sensation that was almost alien to him, one that quenched his thirst for excitement and held him down in another trance. He was embarrassed to recognise this feeling as shyness. 

The hunter had become the hunted.

It would take a few moments to recompose himself, as if waking up in the uncomfortable daze that follows a disrupted deep sleep.

Was he more drunk than he realised, or was this the magic of the woman?

Taking a chance to behold her striking image fully, he confidently made his guess.

"Ale." His statement left no room for doubt, and he petted the raven which completed his own image. The wise creature was watching the woman attentively.

His second match raised a bony hand to catch an audible, dramatic gasp. 

"How... how did you know that?" The sound of surprised defeat rejuvenated the man, and he took the grin that until then had confidently belonged to her.

Though it was a safe bet. Ale was the preferred style of payment for many British commoners. Perhaps she had grown used to being courted by Frenchmen who would not know this.

But stereotypes existed for a reason.

High ground regained; the stubbled man crossed his arms against his broad chest.

"I have met many women like you. You are one of my favourites, if I am to be honest."

The raven-haired woman scoffed doubtfully but was amused at his cockiness. A small smirk returned to push against sharp cheeks.

"You think you know me?" She defended her mystery.

"If you truly knew women like me, you would know better than to challenge one."

The woman leaned over the table again, patting the head of the man's faithful pet with a long, thin finger.

"Or maybe you are a fool."

As she extended her body towards him, he observed that she was much shorter than him. But now that her face was so close to his, her breath graced him like an executioner's blade balanced against his neck.

Never had eyes on him felt so hot and unnerving, they almost made the delirious man believe that the silver eyes he relied on had lied to him his entire life.

Fire was not orange or red, it was green. It belonged to her.

"What is your name?" Her curiosity demanded it.

She would pull out a quill, an emptying bottle of ink and a roughly discarded piece of paper from the bag in her lap. Awaiting his answer, she studied him with cat-like eyes. Such intensity further unnerved the gentleman, but it was not an unwelcome sensation.

Her actions brought him pride. Attracting the attention of such an interesting woman had already revitalised the bored bachelor, but now it seemed that she had the intention of improvising a portrait of him as well.

And with such spontaneity? Oh, what a rare company!

The man was thrilled, his ever-tired mind was alive and active once more.

The way she looks at me … it is maddening. Who is she? Where is she from? I must know more.

But alas, she had struck first, and he owed her a name. 

"I am Arutha Sly." He casually hummed the words with practised charm that were well-supported by his almost posh accent.

He could not be too posh.

Arutha must have presented his name a thousand times by now, to a thousand different faces. However, he remembered none striking him so immediately.

With no regard for his pride, the newcomer openly snorted at his name.

She would loudly giggle at his expense, especially amused as the prideful gentleman blushed madly. Mister Sly was surely hoping for a first impression where his ego would remain unthreatened.

"Do you not appreciate the name of which is mine?" Arutha pushed to contain his pride and regain his composure, as he sometimes had to after being laughed at.

He hated himself for being so easily sensitive.

The woman collected herself and dismissed his insecurity with a wave of her hand.

"No, I do like it. It does seem to suit you." She dipped her quill in ink and began to draw, with remnants of a smirk still lying dormant upon her face.

"I just had not before heard of a House with such a name. Really…Sly? It sounds like the cliché pseudonym of some childish vigilante."

Arutha could not have her thinking that he may be cliché.

"I respect vigilantes; their moral codes often make more sense than the Church’s laws. But alas, I am just an average citizen."

"Though my grandfather, he joined the army at a very young age. As most orphans who grew up at the time of the war did. He was told upon enlisting that he needed a family name behind him and had to think of one on the spot. He simply just thought to use his childhood nickname, Sly," the man explained himself.

"And now I am the third generation to hold the name."

The artist nodded understandably, though she kept that cheeky look plastered across her fair face.

"Third generation, you say? Are you telling me there have been at least two women who could stomach taking such a name for their own?"

Arutha, able now to appreciate the playful banter, scoffed with a smirk of his own.

"You would not fancy it?" he asked her, smugly. He relaxed back into his own chair and folded his arms across his chest.

The wicked woman smirked teasingly, eyes lifting from her drawing to meet his challenge.

"Arabella Sly, hey? … I could make it work."

Would she really say such a thing so easily to a stranger? Still… a woman like her with my name would not be such a problem, I am sure.

Arutha was lost for a witty comeback, but he still had many questions for her.

"So what is your family's name then, Arabella?"

"Heart."

Her cockney accent was especially highlighted when she introduced herself.

“Arabella Heart. Though you can call me Bell. That is what they all call me.” She sang her name like they were lyrics to a well-known song.

"Though it is only my name now, I have no family around."

The man offered her a gentle and supportive tone. "I am sorry. No tragedy involved I hope?"

"Would a hot mess like me come without tragedy, luv?" She chuckled.

When she would glance up from her art in progress again, she would catch the man smirking too, in a clearly condescending manner. She raised her brow, questionably.

He grinned with teasing teeth at her, vengefully.

“And you have the hide to call ‘Sly’ cliché when your last name is Heart? That sounds completely like an alias too!” Arutha scoffed.

"Ironically, it is my true name as well." She shrugged.

"But my name has an even better story than your stupid name." Her smirk returned, though her eyes were focused on her drawing.

Dumbly awaiting the teased story, Arutha just continued to stare at her. But it never came.

"Surely it is a tale you would love to tell me then?" he prompted her.

Her intense feline-like stare finally struck him again. Her green eyes held an impressive power, and the man had to resist the instinct to retreat his gaze when they narrowed at him.

The woman, though so small in stature, presented the feeling that she would pounce over the table and attack at any given moment.

"If I told you, I would have to kill you," she answered with all the seriousness she could muster.

After letting her threat sink in for a moment, she returned to her drawing with a simple smile.

The Englishman was the closest thing to a celebrity that this humble tavern had, yet he had never faced a personality that challenged him like this.

By this point, the French blonde had seemed as distant a memory as a previous night’s dream, though she finally returned.

Once she arrived, her expression immediately soured, and she stared at the woman who claimed her seat with disgust.

When Arabella simply smiled back at the offended woman, the blonde then looked at Arutha impatiently, as if expecting him to answer or solve this inconvenience for her.

"Um... she is in my seat," she complained in a voice that irritated Arutha.

But the seat thief remained in the comfort of her lazy position, taking a break from her drawing to continue smiling at the woman within whom she so easily inspired so much ire.

"We can share," she purred, patting her lap.

Arutha was not sure if she was genuinely flirting or simply being sarcastic.

Perhaps both?

The blonde, however, was certainly not as pleased with the play. Her skin, before nicely touched by a slight tan, now ripened to red. 

Though she refused to look at the source of her fury, instead she stared at the man who had been courting her, and spoke with insistence.

"Let us retire for the evening, monsieur."

Arutha refused in a polite manner, though his eyes were not focused on the woman who spoke to him. "Nonsense. The night is still young. Let me grab another chair and we can all get to know each other more over some drinks."

It was obvious that the blonde, who he still did not even know the name of, would refuse the idea. So Arutha left to fetch some drinks and another chair before she could.

He only hoped that the two ladies would not kill each other while he was gone.

His level of intoxication surged again once standing, but he did not mind. The effect was perfect company to his giddiness, and excitedly he would return to the table accompanied by a somewhat pricey bottle of ale.

Fortunately, the girls had not killed each other yet. 

Completely immersed in her work, Arabella had not even tried to talk with the other woman.

And the nameless bachelorette? Her gaze was the daggers that Arutha felt stare into his back this entire time, her rage anything but subtle.

"A fine ale, of fine British stock of course." He smiled diplomatically at the raging blonde as he started to pour them both a glass.

"I am starting to lose my taste for British stock." the noblewoman spat venomously.

"Would you like for me to fetch you another glass of Red then?" Arutha asked, distracted from his state of drunken disinterest.

The noble's rage could no longer be politely hidden.

"I was drinking white!" she screamed at him. "How dare you forget how lucky you were to drink with the French high class?! And to have the nerve to drag a gin-drinking street rat to my table!"

The fair lady did not sound quite as lovely with that vicious tone.

"A rogue no doubt, worthy only to be seen on a wanted poster!"

The blonde had managed to pull back Arabella from her focused work.

"Careful.” Arabella stared at the other woman with those large, intense eyes, and with a smirk more threatening than any frown.

“You do not know what I am wanted for.”

Her powerful gaze glanced back at Arutha for reference once more and then back to her work again.

The threat for now silenced the table, with an air so ominous that even Arutha felt uncomfortable. He sought to break the tensions immediately.

"Miss Heart, allow me to pour you a glass," he offered.

"Oh, I do not drink ale." She casually informed him; eyes still focused on the drawing.

Arutha tensed his brow and parted his lips for a moment in confused contemplation.

"You lied to me?" Arutha asked.

"It seems like you do not know women as well as you thought," Arabella woman teased, before grabbing one of two flasks from her belt.

She stared at him endlessly as she deliberately drank from it until all of it was claimed.

"Especially if you think you would have any fun fucking this useless blonde doll. You would find more engagement with a corpse."

Her truly vulgar retaliation shocked Arutha. It did not lessen his curiosity for her, though, and the confidence in her voice still elevated her words with her own brand of class.

Where have you been hiding all of this time, Arabella Heart?

Wherever this rogue was from, the noblewoman surely wished that she had remained in hiding. It was rare for her to not get what she wanted, and she was even less accustomed to being disgraced by insults so raw and degrading.

Her delicate, manicured hands shook, and the insulted woman was not sure if this feeling was closer to anger or anxiety.

"Do you know who I am?!" the blonde tantrumed loudly again, clutching desperately to her shield of nobility that she so often relied on.

But in a place like The Everyman's Inn, it was useless. If anything, it was despised.

Arabella boredly returned to her scribbling.

"Jennifer Golde," she answered casually.

Though Arutha did not know the name, the blonde certainly did.

It was hers.

In her close battle of emotions, shock had now overpowered anger. Jennifer narrowed her eyes at Arabella suspiciously.

"How did you know my name? I never gave it to this man."

"Oh my dear, but you are so famous." Arabella batted her eyes at the woman with mocking sarcasm.

"Every rat from the streets knows about Jennifer Golde with the golden touch."

"Golden touch?" Arutha inquired, curious as well.

It was his business to know everyone in town, yet it was not often that the higher class would dine in such an establishment.

Is that why she is here? Arutha wondered. So no one would know her, or bother to ask for her name?

Jennifer's eyes warned Arabella not to dare answer that question, which only encouraged her further.

"Oh it is remarkable, really.” Arabella grinned.

“Golde is one of the biggest Lombard banking families of Europe, and fascinating Jennifer here has a hobby of marrying their many sons."

"Polygamy is illegal," Arutha stated firmly.

It did not matter how rich you were, nobody publicly went against the rules of the Church. And the traditions of marriage were heavily enforced.

"Oh she is no animal. She only dates one at a time. She is onto her third now, I guess there is no better opportunity for gold than divorce-"

Before Arabella could finish her sentence, the noblewoman had hurled herself at her.

Losing all dignity, Jennifer Golde unleashed a flurry of mad slapping and rabid screeches upon the small statured Brit.

Either the barkeep retired to sleep right after the last round of drinks were purchased, or he had strategically become absent as soon as tensions had escalated. So, it was up to Arutha to earn his keep yet again.

"That is enough!" Arutha demanded, grabbing the blonde woman by her golden dress and roughly tugging her away from the other.

"I think it is time you went to bed, Missus Golde," he lectured, before the noblewoman's fury was turned upon him.

"You do not DARE touch me, peasant!" Jennifer Golde screeched furiously at the man she planned to lie with less than an hour ago, before sobering him with a hard slap across his jaw.

The strike forced an intoxicated Arutha to wrestle with his rage, settling with a clicking of his tongue to substitute for a manner of more instinctive reactions that he may have responded with otherwise, had he not been a gentleman.

He noticed that Arabella, who received far longer prolonged violence, had defended herself physically to a degree. Arutha saw the mark of a focused scratch down the inside of Jennifer's tanned arm which had drawn blood.

One of the strings that held the beautiful, expensive dress atop her shoulders had been ripped in the process, struggling to stay in place.

Now the prior perfect portrait of noblewoman Jennifer Golde had been tarnished.

Too busy inspecting the state of her, clutching onto her dress and what remained of her dignity so desperately, Arutha had no chance to deliver any witty last words to Jennifer before she stormed off towards the bathroom.

Hardly feeling loss at her absence however, and fuelled by a sense of concern, Arutha turned his attention to the other woman of the evening.

"Are you alright, Miss Heart?"

Arutha had the warmth of an empath, his silver eyes showing genuine concern as he looked over her bruises.

Her whole face was reddened from the assault, and she bloodied a little at the nose.

Arabella narrowed her eyes and watched Jennifer Golde leave with silent wrath, but would then smile with delight. Partially at the stranger's care for her and also because of the words he used to express it.

"I like the way you called me Miss Heart... Do not worry, Mister Sly, it is not the first time I have been hit. And much of the time it has been from people who know how to actually hurt someone."

She did truly seem in her element, bruised and bloody, and yet still so pretty in her own boyish way.

Regardless of her assurances, Arutha went to tend to her.

He sat close beside her and reached within the pockets of his coat to pull out a red handkerchief.

Arabella protectively pulled the piece of paper she had been drawing on away from the table and out of Arutha's sight but let him wipe the blood from her.

Fate allowed him to be alone in the company of this fascinating woman once again.

Arabella took the handkerchief from him after her nose was cleared.

"Do not tell me you are one of those men who-"

She answered her own question when she saw 'A. Sly' woven with black into the red cloth, causing her to roll her eyes and groan dramatically.

"You ARE a cliche," she teased.

"No wonder you wanted that pretty bitch who literally strutted around in gold. Every prince wants a princess, right?"

She smirked teasingly at him, but the perceptive fellow was certain that he caught jealousy in her tone.

"You would not believe me, I know, but I grew bored of her before you even found me," Arutha swore.

"And it is a bit much, but this handkerchief was a gift from an old friend, many years ago. This was one of her first experiments, she was training to be a tailor like her parents. I mean before, well..."

"The Culling?" Arabella referred to the event sadly, with knowing eyes.

"Mmh," Arutha confirmed. "So your accent does not lie, then."

"It does not." Arabella smiled. "A Londoner, through and through."

Arutha smiled.

"I definitely would have remembered your face if I had seen you in the city before," he commented.

It is not one I would easily forget.

"I am very glad you fled the Cull, and all the chaos that followed."

The woman shook her head.

"I ran away years before any of that, actually. As much as I still inhabit the soul of those rainy cobblestone streets, I was always eager to escape them. I got in trouble a lot and did not have any friends."

"You were gone before those beasts even first appeared in the city then." Arutha noted, observing her. He could see why the boyish rogue would have been unpopular in the society of England's prestigious capital.

Knowing you certainly would have been ideal for me, though. Much better than the company I was forced to rely on.

“You must have been very young when you left.” He observed.

"I guess it was dangerous for a sixteen year old girl to travel the countryside alone. But again I assure you I can handle myself well enough."

"Bullshit." Arutha did not believe her at all.

"You underestimate me?" Arabella raised one of her thin brows and stared the man down challengingly.

He found it endearing.

"No, not that. That would make you, what, in your late twenties or so now? Which I refuse to believe."

She rolled her eyes with a grin, clearly, he was not the first to doubt her.

"And how old are you then?" She would turn the question back to him.

"Twenty-five."

"Baby." Arabella teased endearingly. "What twenty-five-year old boy would not have been content with sleeping with an attractive celebrity like Jennifer Golde?"

"One who finds spoiled aristocrats who prance around with the arrogance that their very presence is a luxury, truly insufferable," Arutha spoke with the utmost distaste.

"They are a degenerate blight upon society, and I refuse to be further fuel to their notion of supremacy."

Bell grinned wickedly.

"I wondered about that when I spotted you with her," she admitted deviously. "I had to test if I could pull you away from her scent.”

"Were you spying on me, then?" Arutha smirked at her.

Arabella shrugged with a smirk of her own, returning to her drawing at last.

"Who knows. Perhaps I was spying on her, instead."

"No." Arutha smiled, shooting down that suggestion immediately with boldness.

His confidence intrigued her.

"You really trust your instinct, Arutha Sly," she noted, her green eyes beckoning him to seek her.

"What do you see when you look at me?"

She was curious, but also testing. He knew his answer would affect how those lively emeralds saw him. Arutha began his dissection. 

"I see someone who fits in by not fitting in. Who pushes everyone to move, hoping to find someone who defiantly remains still. A creature of the night who screams into the empty dark, only to test if anything will call back to her."

Her lips curled with delight, and she chuckled.

"Poetic, Mister Sly. And I am impressed that you managed to not mention a single one of my physical traits in your assessment. But should I be offended? Am I not as pretty as a princess?" She quoted his flattery towards the woman before her.

Arutha sneered behind his glass.

"Dear, we both know you are nothing like a princess. And that is a good thing, in my book."

He enjoyed the banter, but a mystery now pushed at the back of his mind.

Just how long had she been lurking undetected?

He had watched the entrance throughout the night like a hawk, but Jennifer Golde was the only person he ever saw enter after him.

"So, what lures someone like you to a tavern like this? They say only three types of people ever frequent The Everyman's Tavern, despite the name. Tired soldiers, poor drunks, and ambitious crooks."

"Oh, and which are you?" Arabella averted the question and turned it back to him, enforcing the reversal by awaiting him with a delightful look of genuine intrigue, as she rested her heart-shaped chin in the palm of her dainty hands.

Green eyes watched him, even more piercingly inspective than those of his raven.

The bird, who its master usually deemed a good judge of character and danger, seemed just as pleasantly curious and engaged with the woman before them both, tilting its head in a fashion to match the way in which she rested her own.

Arutha shrugged off her curiosity modestly, though still smiled confidently as he answered.

"I like to think of myself as an ambitious drunk."

The comment charmed a chuckle out of her, just as he hoped.

However, she, like him, almost always had another intrigue ready for someone who she found enough interest in.

“And not a soldier? A broad-shouldered and dangerously cocky man like you?”

Arutha shook his head.

“Very much the opposite of my grandfather who coined this name purely so he could join a war effort. I have never had any interest in throwing my life away for someone else's battles."

“You are only young, I am sure you will find something worth fighting for.” Arabella smirked playfully.

His eyes greedily ran over her again. The distraction tonight had him feeling more ambitious than usual.

“I hope so. What has drawn you to your battles? I recall you mentioning that you have some experience with fighting." His memory was as sharp as hers.

"Oh, excuse any of my aimless bragging." Arabella grinned mischievously at him. "I am a lady, I do not fight wars."

Sarcasm was a skill perfected by the Englishwoman.

"I would not be so foolish to underestimate a lady like you." Arutha snickered, deeply engaged in conversation.

Everything outside his conversation with this attractive woman was forgotten to him.

"Then if not a war hero, what are you known for in this city?"

"I am just a courier. I take goods between different places across the city. Nothing too exciting, but the destinations always vary, so at least I am always meeting new people," Bell replied, and Arutha was surprised that the answer was so uncharacteristically boring for her otherwise memorable persona.

She was impulsive and temperamental with conversation, and so Arutha would find himself given another personal question.

“What is your greatest fear, Arutha Sly?”

The gentleman blinked. He had not expected such a change in topic.

He found her spontaneity exciting, however.

“Well surely most men would answer with the haunted beasts which bloodied our entire country and ran us all out of London.

“You are not like most men,” Arabella challenged him.

“It is a good answer, but it is not your own.”

Arutha watched her as she drew, and a few times those stunning green eyes regarded him for a moment with a small, knowing smile.

Whatever experience he was looking for tonight, this encounter certainly was more satisfying.

He knew that her silence waited patiently for an authentic answer. Whether it was the alcohol’s effects, or the excitement of her strange presence, Arutha was inclined to give her just that.

Eased lips let truth free towards this woman, who had already won his comfort.

“Ending alone, consequential to my own mistakes.”

Just like ‘he’ will.

His confession seemed to have resonated with her. Those easy lips now smiled with a grim weakness, and she spoke with as much inspired honesty.

“I feel that for some people… there is no avoiding that particular fate,” Arabella admitted softly, with a vulnerability unseen previously that night.
 
Arutha knew that it was not himself that she was ominously thinking to.

"Now... we cannot believe that. Otherwise, there is no point to living, right?" Arutha assured her, with that special authoritative affection that only a man could give.

That fire in her eyes burned low now and focused on him again.

"And where do you find the inspiration to resist that inevitable truth?" she asked him with a tragic helplessness.

This shared vulnerability drew the two young, lost souls even closer on the lonely night.

"When life reminds me at times of its beautiful unexpected occurances, like meeting you." The bearded man smiled warmly at her, reaching over the table to support her arm with tender affection.

"It is not yet the end, Miss Heart. Our stories have just begun."

Something convinced Arutha that he had already known this woman for a lifetime.

Romantically, he imagined this was the feeling of two fates destined, finally meeting.

But perhaps that was just the naivety of his mind, which primarily existed to find salvation in the form of a woman.

Bell had smiled back at him, as in her own way, she had felt similarly.

She did not move his hand. It felt nice. Secure. Safe.

Affection was her weakness after all, but only when it was genuine.

That, and intensely chemical first encounters.

For a while, the two stayed frozen like that in mutual adoring silence. The feeling of contentment did not fade.

Even long after they sobered up, the two remained intoxicated.

Despite the late hour, Arutha never once considered leaving his seat. Not until his company had lifted from their own chair, did he rise to mirror her.

The woman was much shorter than her confident spirit may have given the impression of.

Her iconic eyes now lined with his shoulders; she would be almost a foot shorter than the man.

“No, I insist, the next round is on me,” Arutha pushed with an easy smile, though the still partially tipsy man already felt homesick for the feeling of the stranger’s hands beneath his.

Although she only stood level with his shoulders, Arabella stepped towards him and committed to reaching his tidy, short brown hair. She ruffled it playfully, feeling guilty pleasure in ruining the deliberate neatness.

“You would look better with long hair, I reckon.”

Rather than answer his offer, she returned her attention to the page she had spent the night idly drawing on. Completed, she tore the page from her sketchbook and folded it neatly.

With no care for manners, she then tucked that hand up the man's shirt.

The woman left her hand on Arutha’s chest for a moment with greedy boldness, as she wedged the sketchbook between the other of her thin arms and her slim figure.

“It is time for me to return to the night.”

Once her hand left his chest, he would have to raise his hand quickly to clutch onto and catch her gift.

Disappointment was as clear as the nearing day on the stubborn man’s handsome face.

“I better see you here again, soon.” Despite the comfortable playfulness in the man's voice, his eagerness was increasingly evident.

He grinned at her with the confident ambition of a youth fresh into the world.

“Maybe.” She shrugged simply with a smirk as she slid her light feet quickly towards the door.

She hardly made a sound. It was no wonder that no one heard her approach the first time.

Immediately feeling immense mourning at the loss of her company, Arutha would feel temporary relief once she paused for a moment during her departure.

Those lively green eyes found him again and she smiled warmly.

"I forgot to ask you an important question."

"Shoot." Arutha would answer anything she asked at this point. He would discuss anything at all. He just had to keep talking to her.

Like an affection-starved puppy, the young man was enthralled.

"What is his name?"

He did not understand her question at first, until she patted her shoulder tellingly.

She was referring to his pet raven.

"Oh. His name is Whisper," Arutha answered, looking proudly to his quiet and obedient companion.

So weightless and polite, Whisper's master had practically forgotten he was even there during their intoxicating conversation.

"His eyes are so dark," she remarked, drawn.

"Like little pockets of darkness. If I would be hiding anywhere, it would be in them."

She was so odd. He could not get enough of her.

But soon after, she left as she said she would. Swiftly, without a chance to be stopped.
 
With her, so too left any obligation Arutha had to the night.

He retired to his reserved bedroom, stripping down to nothing before collapsing upon cold and lonely sheets.

The cold mattered not to him; his body felt warm and enchanted after her company. Intimately he felt the satin sheets envelop across every inch of his fair and lightly haired skin.

Eventually conceding any fantasy that the unpredictable rogue may surprise him again with a knock upon his door, he settled for the compensation that came with the excited anticipation for the artist's unseen gift.

Arutha unfolded the page in the dim light of the lantern that sat on a wooden bedside.

He was left with one last surprise. Looking upon the drawing, the man would scoff.

How could he have expected anything less off the cheeky woman?

He would not deny her talent. The artist had captured a more than honest depiction of her subject, except the subject was not him.

Rather than Arutha Sly, she had drawn Whisper the Raven, deviating great detail to sketching emphasis on all the different notes of darkness upon the bird.

A crudely rushed but still pridefully elegant signature sat at the bottom of the parchment.

'Bell'.

Arutha chuckled and let out a sigh.

As he laid in empty loneliness, the woman dominated his mind. Her bright energy almost made it hard to feel alone in the sombre inn.

Almost.

It was with deeply wounding tragedy that Mister Sly concluded that he would probably never see the likes of such a woman as Arabella Heart in this sad, old place again.

He hoped, at least, she awaited him in his dreams.

Floating in the faraway clouds of ecstatic lust, Arutha fell asleep without dedicating another thought to the first woman of the evening.

If he had, perhaps the usually observant gentleman would have noticed that Jennifer Golde never returned at all.

The Innkeeper, forever cursed to suffer sleepless nights, woke before dawn.

His reprieve in the cellar was disturbed by a most foul smell.

The invasive putridity of the odour was ominous, as if screaming with warning at the old man to forget it and return to his sleep.

Yet, whether out of obligation or morbid curiosity, he followed the stench. It did not take long to find its source.

A beautiful figure of gold floated cold and dead upon an expanding puddle of red.

It was rare that apathetic old Marco felt any considerable emotion upon a person other than himself, but her face, frozen in a scene of horrid agony, was a sight that truly shook him to his weak and brittle bones.