The man’s eyes chisled into her like ice picks. At that moment, she knew there was no amount of talking she could do.
He was not swayed by her appeasing smile and willingness to be kind to a misplaced, misunderstood man.
This made her uncomfortable, and a bit of fear burbled up her spine. She closed her bankbox, and slid it back to the banker, with a small note attached. The banker has done her plenty of favors in the past, and this one he’ll do as well.
"Seeking a guard to defend me to the death." the note stated.
Not long after she left the bank, in quite a rush at that, she bumped into a scraggly elven man who nervously approached her. His clothes were torn and hair was a frizzled mess. "M…Miss Vel?" he asked.
"Ackh! Look at you! Let me help!" she replied, and swiftly took him to a clothier to make him more presentable. Old habits die hard.
While dressing, he stated to her that his blade was hers. Apparently word travels quick! It’s only right, as she has defended the banker’s pride many times in the past. She is owed.
"Good! But you’ll need a belt, and do something with that hair!" she growls. She was used to taking the outcasts of society and dressing them up for her employment. Now that she fired her right hand man Tully, she will need another to walk in his place. And the only thing that would make him remotely trustworthy is if he looked more noble…a tip she’s learned that works. "I must rest, you can stay at the inn tonight. My need for you will come the morrow."
"Yes, Miss Vel." the elven man replied. Not wasting time, he went right away to create a pleasing appearance for her.
Looking over her shoulder, she proceeded back to her Varstaad Mansion. She locked all the doors securely, and proceeded to her dining hall. Stopping herself in her tracks, she now realized something. Would she have to bring her guard to the wedding? What would Jorge think? She would have to come up with some ellaborate explanation if that time came. Who knows, by then, she may no longer be in need of a cut-throat. Anyway, her reasons for having one could be labeled as paranoia. And she can’t have such a title slapped on her reputation.
Kairi pulls open her wardrobe and throws on a silken nightgown. She blows out the candles that light her bedroom, and pulls herself into bed. Resting her head against her pillow, she unsuccessfully attempts to dream. Instead, a million possible stories run through her head, a million possible explanations, for everything. It’s always good to be prepared for the next question. Time to hide, again.
