Final Run

Jumping down, Song makes her way down from the hanging crosswalk. Noticing as she falls down; the crystal, the stone, the metal. The cobbled stone and the moss on the ground create an interesting sensation under her feet, the squelch plus the weird sturdiness of the rock. She drops into a three-point landing, feeling it fully. She doesn’t dwell on it long, silvery eyes looking up towards the crossroad she just fell from. Hearing the clicking sound of the cane, and seeing the ramrod statures of the tall warrior woman and the younger boy with the cane. He looks as sickly as usual, hand unflinchingly around the wrought iron. It’s almost enough to hide the focus embedded in the handle. Interesting. He’s using that one this time, must be serious. The tail around her waist tightens, anxious, and focused. Don’t worry about that, the voice in her head growls out. Remember, you have to do good.

You must do good

So her brain tells her to sprint off into the night, moving silently. Eyes up, shoulders in. Keeping small and boring, she moves along their path. Guessing it early, waiting for the familiar tall woman and the boy to cross her path. She might be perched like a gargoyle, keep above a certain level and it’s very unlikely they would look up at you. It also helps that in this city that many people are watching you, it’s hard to tell whose eyes you’re seeing. Even if you know your watcher well.

You limit the things that make you stand out. This is why her tail is wrapped around her waist, giving the illusion of a belt if looked at it the wrong light or by the most obvious of eyes. Her hair pinned in a way that the low borns normally have theirs. Tucked into a bun and pressed firmly to the nape of her neck. Keep your clothes dark, not fully black. Shades of navy or blue do the trick just fine, better even. The darkness is never one color, instead of a blend. Like the murals on the walls of the cathedral, but instead of the jarring vibrant reds and silvers, it’s cool blues and purples. Being aware of colors is a must, despite all the crowing knights and clerics saying otherwise.

A good spy knows the weather, the light, the world. Only a spy knows the importance of these things, for it changes how you must finish the job. A little too bright outside? Wait until nightfall before you strike. Too lively at night? Strike in the early morning.

“Strike swiftly. Strike silently. Strike with all your might.”

The words of her mentor ring in her ears, causing them to shift unconsciously. Reminding her that hey, your quarry is moving. You need to watch them, and stay true to your mission. Nodding once to herself, Song starts up again. Especially as her targets make their way towards the Cathedral. A rather beautiful place, solemn, spacious, and all too quiet.

Deep purple and magenta crystals cast interesting glows across the sheer height of the Cathedral. Changing the silvery glow into something much darker, as if corrupting the purity of the place. It almost forces her to laugh, which Song puts down with a wrinkle of her nose. Her kind are corrupt in every sense of the word; physically and mentally.

Proven as flashes of a muddy bronze animal appear in her mind's eye. Tail thrashing and paws clawing at the walls about them. Needing something, anything, to put away  a feeling that can only be described as hunger. But she’s older now, wiser than the foolish girl who cried when she saw the acid burns on her aunt’s arms. Song’s doing better than that young girl who didn’t know any better. She knows better…

Right?

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But it’s time to focus now, they're almost at the cathedral, you’ve almost done it. For the first time in 59 years, you’ve managed to fully hide. At least enough to be proud of. To get that elusive “Good Job” from her mother. Minutes more await her, and she waits with bated breath. Hopping from one rooftop to the next, before she plans her great reveal. The next part happens now, where she has to get into the cathedral.

Scanning the walls, she notices a window that’s a little more open than the others. The shutters pulled up to allow the clerics and priests to survey the flock, the town beneath the mountain from their gilded palace. Now that’s a good word for it. Palace. It’s the only place that she thinks fits the words, as she’s heard that Progenitor Skel’s house is more a manor or mansion.

Or a Barrack, according to rumors. But those get squashed pretty quickly. Enough where only those in darkened corridors whisper them when they know it’s too late.

Scaling to the best of her ability, gloved fingers finding purchase in odd places on the smooth stone. Balls of the feet, precarious as she shifts up. Reaching for the window post-haste, as she notices two figures from her perch. Time to get in.

Worming her way in, Song lands as silent as possible. Letting out a sigh of relief as she realizes she lands in a seemingly empty hallway. Thick metal storage containers line the sides. Ample hiding room, and perfect for the woman to find the perfect place to get down towards the foyer of the opulent cathedral. So she takes it slow, ignoring all of that in favor of walking with purpose. At least for as long as she needs too.

Until she finds a bathing area, unlocked and the perfect place to slide into. Pulling the bag at her back around and open. Doing her best to change into more church worthy attire. Out of her spy garments; thick navy and rubber-soled, and into a thin chiffon dress. The purple-pink fabric curls at her ankles, showing off the gold heels at her feet, and the gilded collar that holds the front of the dress up. In the front at least.

As it dips low to the tailbone and lets her scaled lizard-like tail sit proudly curling and resting on the floor. Fixing her hair in her normal half up and half down the way, she shifts the bag to be a bit more fashionable before heading out and holding her head high. The priests give her an odd look but say nothing, moving past her muttering pleasantries she returns mindlessly.

Only focused on the man and woman who seem to have made it to the foyer. She crosses the floor to their side, swiftly enough, and presses a hand to the small of her brother’s back. He jumps slightly but says nothing. Her lips near her brother's ear as she murmurs "Gotcha" before she moves into a more...unassuming posture. Easily noticing how her mother’s eyes flash with pride as the hand retreats and rest mindlessly on the bag itself.

The conversation ends soon enough, and the three begin their return to the Do’ghym home. And all Song can think is how she finally fucking did it. And then her brother glances at her, raising a brow. As if she said it aloud…did she?

Oops~