Sorren carefully lifted his mug to his lips again, suffering through another mouthful. His eyes kept a steady gaze on Oleander as he justified his reasoning for hunting Sorren down. It seemed believable enough, it was certainly a decent enough reason, he was right. If Sorren was caught, he may have mentioned a guard that told him where to get the necklace, but he would not have specified Oleander by name. At the little added sentence about Cazador and concern for Sorren’s health, the man quipped an eyebrow into the air. His tail tip curling up, the fluff peeking over the table.

“Cazador may seem the cruellest, but that is only because he is forthcoming with his cruelty. The other merchants,” He waves a hand around, the other still holding his mug. “Coates, Agnelli, Schultz, they’re all as bad as each other. They just keep a beautiful facade over their sinister dealings.” Sorren finished, giving one last flick of his hand before letting it fall back onto the table. Drinking down another portion of the mead, gulping it down quickly to avoid the taste lingering. “Cazador steals from whomever he likes, I don’t think he targeted the royals for any other reason than the fact that Schultz wanted the damn thing.” He cleared his throat, running the tip of his tongue along his fangs for a moment. “I think one of their marked were at the ball too, I couldn’t get a clear look, but they were…I don’t know.” Sighing, he took in another mouthful of mead. “She was flitting around, it just looked strange.” Sorren shrugged, glancing down at his mug, he had almost managed to finish the entire thing. Thank goodness.

At the shift of movement in Oleander’s chair, Sorren looked up to see him finish his drink and stand quickly. Well, that was short and sweet. His eyes followed Oleander as he headed for the tavern door, he leaned back in his chair with another heavy sigh. What mess had he gotten himself into.

From the other corner of the tavern, a shorter woman with her hair pulled back out of her eyes began striding towards Sorren, keeping close to the wall to remain in his blind spot for as long as she could. Her eyes were wide, solely focused on the strange man lounging in his wooden chair. Rat. Her cloak flicked as she pulled a short dagger from her hip, snapping the silver metal into her palm. She slid behind Sorren, drawing the blade up to his throat in a single fluid movement, her other hand gripping his hair and pulling his head backwards. Her eyes were blazing, lips pulled taut in a grimace.

Sorren yelped as his head was pulled backwards, almost falling out of the chair, his eyes stretched open in panic, pupils slitted. He went to pull himself forward but then he felt the cool kiss of the blade at his neck. He gulped and drew his panicked eyes up to the woman. For a moment, he thought about striking out with his tail to knock her off balance, but then she spoke.

“Where is the necklace?” She hissed from between her teeth, pressing the blade further into his tender skin, the beginnings of stinging pain as it pierced the surface of his skin.

“Necklace? Lady, I don’t have a necklace.” He gritted his teeth, trying to control his breathing, but it was no use, his chest was heaving despite his efforts to calm himself. As he spoke, the woman’s eyes snapped down to where she was holding the blade. A knowing glint shifted in her eyes as she saw the snake wrapped around his neck, just above the blade.

“A Cazador.” Her voice was lined with venom, she drew her dagger away, the act slicing Sorren's neck. Not enough to cause a serious problem, but enough to make him baulk at the pain, hand flying up to his neck, fearing she had truly killed him. She whipped herself away, as quickly as she had appeared, she vanished out of the front door of the tavern.

Sorren jolted upright, tail whirling, he pulled his hand away and saw the blood. But he wasn’t dying or dead. Just bleeding over the table. The man staggered out of his chair and moved towards the bar. “Get me bandages.” He called out to the man behind the bar, leaning on the wood with his free hand.

Eventually he managed to wrap the old white cotton around his neck, it took a few attempts and he felt a little light headed but it was doing the job. Now he sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the cracked floorboards. Whoever that was knew he had the necklace, and recognised him as a Cazador. The implications of the interaction did not bode well for his health in the coming days.

As per usual, Sorren had risen at the crack of dawn, however his early bird tendencies this morning were driven from panic. The cloak hanging from a small hook besides the door had looked suspiciously like a small woman ready to kill him. He jolted out of the bed, tail swinging wildly and panting, hands extended and prepared to defend himself. That was when he realised his mistake. Cheeks quickly flushed a deeper, vibrant purple as he realised what he had done. Luckily no one was around to witness that horrifically embarrassing moment.

Surprisingly, Sorren had little planned for the day. He had money, he had given Cazador what he wanted and when he wanted it. He was free until he was called upon again. Pondering his way down to the main tavern room, his eyes scanned quickly in search of that little cloaked woman. Safe. How she knew it was him that had taken the necklace and that the necklace had been taken at all was beyond him. He offered a friendly smile to the woman sweeping the old wooden floorboards, earning a grunt of acknowledgement in return. She was working her way around the few passed out forms of men that had had one too many the night before. Likely to have had their pockets picked clean before last call, Sorren stretched out a leg to step over one by the front door before he vanished out into the early daylight.

He enjoyed the feeling of the morning sun on his bare skin, it just felt right. Enriching him with some sort of freedom, to enjoy the small amount of nature this city allowed within its boundaries. As the day passed, his sightseeing was coming to an end. Ready to return to the tavern for something to eat. Casually making his way along the stoned path beside one of the canals, a woman in a long red dress caught his attention. The colour grabbed him initially, but the flirty smile she gave him kept his attention. His lips slid into an easy smile, head turning to follow her form as she passed him in the opposite direction. Her hair was like honey, shining in the morning light, a beautiful sight. One he would love to stare at for - smack. Sorren recoiled in pain, his tail flicking sharply down towards the ground. A hand slamming up to the side of his head, right on his temple. Good Gods, his horn too. It burned with an aching throb. From behind him, he heard a lilting feminine giggle fading away.

Sorren slowly opened his eyes to see what had hurt him, still holding a hand to his head, winced in pain. A lamp post, still smoking from being extinguished that morning. Mumbling to himself, he rubbed at the sore spot, taking step backwards as to not be so close to the damn thing. That was when his eyes moved down towards the lower portion of the post, where one’s head may be if they weren’t freakishly tall. A fluttering piece of paper with large, bolded words printing on it. Particularly, the reward value plastered at the bottom caught his attention. Excitement rising in his chest as he ducked his head down to get a better look. Perhaps it was something that was lost or stolen, he could steal it right back and get the money. Scanning the words, his grin quickly fell from his face. Replaced with dread, jaw slacking. “Oh fuck.”

A rendition of the ruby necklace was scrawled into the middle, a huge “STOLEN” printed above it. And just between the drawing and the reward, a small description. “Possibly male, tall.” And then in an even smaller font. “Dark or purple skin tone.” His tail began to thrash behind him, panic rising in his chest as though he were drowning in it. He had never been caught before, or even seen. Who had seen him? He thought only Oleander had? Perhaps a vexed competitor of his? Trying to rat him out for something, without knowing he actually did it?

Sorren gulped, his spine snapping straight as though a metal rod had been plunged down it. His eyes frantically shot around the area. Surely no one would pick him. This city was huge. He had certainly seen others that looked similar to him, but it certainly narrowed down the pool of suspects. That was when from the corner of his wide eyes, he spotted a familiar figure. His heart dropped impossibly further. It was Cazador’s eldest son, beckoning him towards him like a dog.

Reluctantly, Sorren picked his way across the path, ducking into the alleyway his master stood in. Keeping a wary distance, he waited for Cazador’s son, Floren, to snap orders at him. He kept his gaze down at the floor, tail forced still, but he couldn’t help the small twitch of the tip. The anticipation, panic and fear whirling inside of him like a cruel cocktail.

Sorren had slinked back to the tavern that night, blood dripping in his wake as he ambled along the uneven path. Using whatever wall he could reach to prop himself up as he shuffled closer and closer to the comfort and safety of his tavern room. It was the early hours of the morning by the time he had arrived, no one was waiting for him, not even drunkards asleep on the sticky floor. His head hung low, hair concealing his battered features as he crept his way up the stairs and into his room, the sweet relief of his bed. Crashing down onto it, crumpled into a ball on top of the covered he willed the sweet release from his pain, coaxing sleep towards him.

For days he lurked in that room, only leaving to scrounge up food and drink from the bar beneath him. People had swivelled their heads dramatically, his swollen cheekbone, the bandaged wound on his forearm clearly in need of a change of wrappings. No one had asked him what had happened, they knew. That snake coiled around his neck was enough of an advertisement of his position that no one had to inquire further.

It was days later that he felt less abhorrent enough to venture outside, to see the sun and feel its glorious warmth on his skin again. It was a brief outing, not wanting to draw any unwanted attention to himself. Those posters had only increased in numbers, plastered on every surface. Why did he had to be the one that was chosen to steal the damn necklace. He had never done wrong by Cazador, why give him such an impossible task. He was giant and purple, how much more obvious of a thief could you get. The sky was darkening, the beautiful purples and oranges dancing like swans in the sky, it was a picture perfect image. How he wished he had inherited wings, he could simply disappear into those inviting colours and never return. Alas, that was impossible, resigning himself to his more cynical thoughts, he dipped his head, watching his bare paws hit the ground. The outing had taken the energy from him, sapped it from his veins, he wanted to sleep.

Eventually, the enticing smell of the tavern graced his nose, pulling him to walk a little faster. His left leg had the hint of injury, jolting as he used it. Using one giant hand to push the door open, he ducked inside. As per the last few days, he kept his head lowered. Letting his mane fall into his face to conceal his battered and bruised face. Most of the smaller injuries had sorted themselves out by now, but the more severe ones were blatantly obvious. Around his neck was a dark bruising, curled all the way around his neck, perfectly in line with his mark, small spots of haemorrhaged blood splotched around the bruising indicating the brutality of the assault. His forearm, still wrapped up, was dirty with old and fresh blood spreading from the central slice beneath the bandages. In clear need of disinfection, if infection had not already taken hold. His leg dragged lightly with each step and his tail did not move, hanging limply behind him, the tip dragging along the floorboards. A brief hitch in conversation as he entered, he knew they were looking at him, but he didn’t care.

He wanted a stiff drink to take upstairs and lick his wounds, to wish death upon himself. Slowly, Sorren lifted his gaze as he reached the bar, parting his cracked lips to speak to the bar tender when from the corner of his bloodshot eyes he saw him. A crack of his neck as he span his head around, Oleander was sitting at the bar, mead in hand and staring at him. The movement made his neck scream in pain and his hand went flying to hold the injury, grimacing. His lips pursed to let out a harsh hiss of pain. His thick eyebrows scrunched up into a tightly knitted line over his closed eyes. How pitiful. How weak. Sorren gritted his teeth, feeling the sensation run along his jaw. He cracked open his eyes, pupils dilated slowly but surely as he watched Oleander and his clear approach. Surely, he was done for. Posters were everywhere, Oleander was here to drag him by the horns to the royal family and then his head would be mounted in their trophy room.