Kovich Stillborn the Spectre

Role

Chapter 1

*** Smoke curls upward from his cigar, a mix of local tobaccos with a touch
of foreign spices. Kovich watches the woman as she prepares her inks, a
concoction of his blood and her special inks. She never speaks during the
process, and his voice is slightly more than a whisper as he begins his
tale.

Taking up her needles, she begins her work. Choosing carefully from the
various inks, she begins the story of Kovich upon his flesh.

All noise from the raucous activity below, the gluttonous sighs of others
finding their happy endings in the brothel, soon fades away. Even the soft
breathing of the harlot quiets to nothingness. The only sounds are the
raspy words of a man sharing his beginning. ***


My fondest memory is also my first memory. My death.

Darkness surrounded me, but it was right, it was home. A sense of belonging
settled itself into the infantile roots of my soul and caressed my being.
Within this darkness, I brushed upon the power that it offered, suckled upon
its sweet eternal promise. This one moment contained everything I have ever
wished for, aspired to be, and would ever seek out in my life. I felt the
caress of Death and reveled within its eternal touch.

This. This is where I am meant to be.

No other desire but to remain here sparked upon my briefest of first
thoughts.

A burst of light. Just as quickly as my beloved darkness embraced me, a
burst of light drives it away. Pulsing at the edges of my consciousness, I
could feel the light ripping me from my new home.

*****

At first, they said my birth was a miracle. It was some divine act to reward
my father and mother for their devout prayers and life of toil. After many
attempts, I was the first fruit of their infernal loins to be carried to
term.

The midwife promised an easy birth, but even her hopes faded as she began to
assist my mother to the birthing blankets. At that moment, the midwife knew.
This birth would be the same as before, producing only a tiny, withered
corpse that would be added to the many graves already near the cottage's
small garden.

She sent for aid to the town, where it was said a few men of faith had taken
refuge from the passing spring storms. Their prayers would be needed to
guide my soul to the gods.

Hours passed as my Mother strained, the idea of a miracle now shattered by
impending grief. Another, she thought, another child lost...

My father waited outside, his pacing casting shadows on the threshold of the
stone doorway with each passing, only stopping at the arrival of the armored
stranger. The midwife guided him in, the servant of some god, a lone Paladin
passing through the countryside as part of his pilgrimage to a distant holy
site.

Role

Chapter 14

"Must run in the blood. He'd be proud of what you did today. Perhaps... you
might consider something similar as a trade for yourself," the man offered
with a nod of his head. He turned and left.

Bytallia's neighbors were beginning to gather, many claiming that they knew
one day the witch' would get caught. I made sure to remain away from their
curious gazes, I chose to leave through the back. Two sacks were filled with
Bytallia's books and treasures that were now mine. She had served her
purpose after all.

I returned to my quarters, giddy with what had happened. I had rid myself of
a teacher that was no longer useful and secured the trust of the Blood
Tribunal. It was as if a bell rang in my head. I knew the network of the
guild. There were many more tools out there to assist in reclaiming my place
in the darkness, and if they chose not to cooperate... perhaps the Blood
Tribunal could help them to be more useful.


*** Kovich feels the last of his story inked into his skin and sighs. His
story has been recorded. This would be one of his final acts before he
courted the Darkness.

Closing his eyes, he reflects upon every memory, every step, every moment
that has led him here. His death, his parents, his Aunt and Uncle, books and
mysteries, the joy he felt when he brought death upon his father's flock. He
can feel his fists clenching and twisting, reveling in the first moment when
he had controlled and bestowed the power of death upon another being.

He can feel the darkness coursing through him, as it had at that moment.
Diving deeper into the Darkness, he beckons to it, no longer like a lost
child, but as an equal.

He can feel life slip into death about him, he clenches his fists tighter.
Tighter. It seems an eternity, but he takes a deep breath and releases the
Darkness within him.

The whore crumples to his feet as his hands release her neck. The life in
her eyes flickering out. Stepping over her, he blows out the candles on her
window sill. No use wasting perfectly good candles, he thinks. ***

Role

Chapter 13

I grew distant from my Aunt and Uncle, but I don't think they were sad to
see me go. I could tell they considered me nothing more than a burden at
this point. I was a constant reminder of the duty they never wanted in the
first place.

When I left, they offered no farewells, nor did I offer my own.

I took quarters near the brothel where I had first met my new mentor. I felt
that was a place for beginnings, and that's what this was.

The years with Bytallia soon led me to a realization. She was not as
powerful as I was, and she knew it. More often than not, I was performing
the main rituals in her experiments. It was me using my power to gain the
results she was so desperately after. Having spent so much time with my Aunt
and Uncle... resentment was no stranger to me.

I began to use her as well. I used her to find new connections to her
network of the guild throughout the city. I used her for her knowledge and
her books. I used her for the next step in my plan.

She knew what I had done when the Blood Tribunal showed up at her doorstep.
I could see the hatred in her eyes. Tearing through her shop, the two
magistrates soon found her workshop' in the back. I had made sure to leave
the room in quite a state. Blood splattered across the walls, entrails
strewn about like some demonic ritual, a few skulls atop the shelves of
vials and concoctions.

They were quick to gag her, lest her cries bring more evil upon the city,
but I could hear her muttered curses on my name as they made to cart her
away.

One of the magistrates stopped in the doorway of the dye shop turned
slaughterhouse, and looked to me in a moment of interest. "I recognize you.
Is your Uncle not a man of the Patrol?" he asked.

I nodded, my heart beating faster. Why was he delaying?

Role

Chapter 12

*** Several weeks have passed since Kovich's last visit. The whore stands
near her window watching passersby on the street. The fact that he has not
returned for her services does not dismay her, she finds herself relieved.
With each session, his stories become darker, and what seemed a man on his
first visit may hide something more sinister.

Time passes as she watches the streets, dark thoughts dancing through her
head. She sips from a glass of stale wine, left from the night before, but
it is all she has for now.

Turning about, she gasps, dropping the wineglass from her hand. She had not
heard him enter, yet here he is. The candles set about the room flicker as
if their light were cowering from his presence.

Kovich eyes the whore for a moment, watching her face. All he sees is
resentment. ***


I learned much from Bytallia, that was her name. She was one of many
necromancers that resided within the city. Their number was so vast it
caused me fits of laughter as I pictured all of my Uncle's men thinking they
kept the impending darkness at bay. Fools, it was already here.

For the few years I was with her, I grew into a man that was no longer a
boy. She had hired me on as a ledger keeper for one of her many shops within
the city. What looked like a dye shop, several vats of foul-smelling dye set
out each morning, were used to cover up the stench of the corpses she often
kept in the back rooms. Each one a long-dead patient to her studies.

She taught me to graze the Darkness with my fingers, to embrace it within
myself, and to extend it out to others. I could now meld the shadows with
thought and cast them with a few words. I had found power, and soon I could
see the distance closing between myself and my dark ambition.

Bytallia told me stories of Necromancers in the past, ones that had
completely submitted to the darkness. They gave their entire being to the
Darkness and were gifted with increased power, immortality, and a place
within the heart of the Darkness.

Role

Chapter 11

I asked a man by the door about a street darker than others and he showed
only mild amusement. I asked again. My third time asking, he shoved me back
out the door. "You want a dark street, kid. Pick an alley. We got plenty of
those around here."

Returned to the quiet of the night, I stood for a moment. This was my one
chance at learning more about necromancy. My once chance to one day touch
the Darkness again. I WOULD FIND WHAT I SOUGHT!

I looked inward. Angry at the men of the brothel, angry at my Aunt and
Uncle, angry at the whole of the city about me. I reached within my deepest
memories and found that first one. The memory of when I died. Help me, I
asked of that memory, Help me, please.

A hand fell upon my shoulder. It broke me from my internal demands and
prayers. Looking at it, I could see pale, slender fingers of alabaster skin.
A sweet voice whispered in my ear. "Kovich, we have long awaited your
arrival. The darkest street a man can travel is the darkness in his soul. As
you have called out, we have come. There is much you have yet to learn."

I was dumbfounded. Turning, I looked to the face of the woman that had
spoken, and could not make out her features within the darkened hood she
wore about her head. I nodded once and stepped with her into the darkness.


*** Kovich stops for a moment as he ends his tale, and looks into the eyes
of the whore. He has never done this before, and she is equally surprised by
his unexpected brazenness.

She sees him weigh her value for a moment, and breaking from the gaze, he
stands. Taking his shirt into his hands, he dresses before he leaves her
room.

As he shuts the door behind himself, the skin-writer shudders. The only
desire in Kovich's eyes had been that of a man looking on his most favored
tool. ***

Role

Chapter 10

"She'll have it. I must get them to her. She'll have it she will," he
whispered to himself, his spindly arms across his bare chest.

"Who?," I asked.

"Not for this one. No, these will go to her. Not for this one. I must bring
these to her," he garbled. For one split second, he looked into my eyes and
found some recognition there, I'll never be sure of what. He nodded twice
and patted me on the hand. Reaching within his rags he produced a small, wet
sack. "To her, take these, on the darkest street during the blackest night."

Intrigued, I took the pouch. Free of his burden, the man before gasped a
final breath. "To her...."

The men of the guard were not surprised or amused at the man's death. Less
paperwork' they called it as they carried the corpse out to the street to be
taken away by men from the graveyard.

I said nothing to my Uncle about what the man said or what he had given me.
Finding a moment to myself, I examined the small sack. The wetness it
seemed, seeped from the inside, for it contained six eyes and a tongue.

"Dirty lot that one," my Uncle said as he approached, not noticing the sack
that I tucked away quickly within my sleeve. "Was found robbing the dead. He
dug up three men buried a few nights ago. Mutilated them. This world needs
men like me in it for that reason, eh, boy?"

My only thought was that I needed to find the darkest street in the city,
that I must bring these items to her. Only one kind of person would require
materials wrought from the dead, and I would find out why.

That night, I snuck from my rooms and into the streets. Padding about, I had
no idea where I should be going. Sinister shadows loomed around every
corner, their shapes morphing through the passage of night. I briefly
stepped into a tavern, or what I thought was a tavern. Women clad in heavy
makeup and nothing more adorned much of the room, surrounded by much less
appealing men. Merchants, nobles, and guardsmen alike were here. Their
raucous laughter was an extreme contrast to the silence of night beyond the
walls. I could smell the cheap ale, rotten perfumes, and unwashed bodies. I
have never felt so much disgust for a place in my life. Looking about, I
glanced up the stairs and noted one woman, different from the rest. Her skin
was dark, likely a plains-woman, and her arms covered in the intricate
designs of ink put into the skin. A skin writer. It seems even the worst of
places can hold their small treasures.

I memorized her face, her features. I would find her again. Interesting, and
useful. A tool for future needs.

Role

Chapter 9

Today, he would be working in the constabulary offices, and he could use my
help with the many papers it required to convict a wrong-doer for their
deeds. Unlike my Aunt, my Uncle struggled with the task of writing and often
turned to her for this need. "Now," as he would say, "I have you for such
work."

Little did he know how this work would be in my favor. We reached a squat
stone building, its bricks shorn smooth by the passage of decades of sand
and wind. Within were more men dressed like him, some older, some younger,
but all with the same haughty carriage my Uncle bore upon donning the
uniform. They considered themselves not only men but the guardians of the
law. If asked, many would respond that they alone were the keepers of
Justice.

Five men clad in rags were set upon a bench before a large counter, their
hands bound by steel shackles. Through the shackles ran iron chains, binding
them together.

"Begin here, we need their names and the crime that brought them here,"
ordered my Uncle. "Be quick with it now, Boy."

He strode off.

I managed to find parchment, quill, and ink after many requests to his
fellow keepers of the law', but only after many annoyed glares.

I began with the first man. "Name."

"Janril, Sir," he sputtered through broken teeth. Blood trickled down his
chin.

"Crime?," I continued.

"I stole from a merchant in the square..." His story was not a new one.
Thieves were known to wander the streets and to take advantage of the weak
or unobservant. The next three were much the same, broken men trying to step
up in life through crimes of opportunity. A stolen necklace, a bag of flour,
a purse off a passing noble.

The last was unlike his brethren in crime. His hands and feet were covered
in mud and dirt. His eyes carried the look of a crazed animal, focused one
moment and distant the next. He muttered to himself, choosing to look
everywhere but at me as I asked my questions.

Role

Chapter 8

*** Kovich was in a mood as he entered, which was no surprise to the whore.
She often found him lacking in salutations. Quickly shutting the door, he
stepped over to a chair and turned it about, resting upon it so that his
arms draped over the back of the chair.

Standing, she keeps her gaze on him as she moves about the room. She lights
a series of candles in each corner, a brief whisper as she does so. Kovich
grunts in disapproval at such frivolities, but allows her the ritual.

Taking up her needles, she asks sweetly in his ear, "Give life to the story,
so that I may place it upon your skin."***


I was no longer allowed to accompany my Aunt to the library. She felt that
my questions about atrocities' and devilry' were the start of a life bound
for damnation. To this day, I find it amusing that one so bound by knowledge
rather than spirituality was so prone to fear for my soul. If she only knew
what I intended to do with this soul.

For weeks I kept to myself in my rooms, only emerging for meals and a brief
search through the personal library of my caretakers. Though a small
selection, it kept my mind occupied as I tried to unravel the few mysteries
I had found within the Library.

Who were these Necromancers? What dealings or relation did they have to my
beloved Darkness? Were there others like me? Shadow-kissed and lost...?

My idleness was soon taken to note by my Uncle. As I've told you, he and my
Aunt were not ones to entertain the whims of a young and lazy lad. I loathed
them for this because time spent in toil was exactly where my parents had
wasted their mortal efforts, choosing to muck about with chickens and dirt
when greater purpose lie all about them. My Uncle's solution to my lack of
toil was to accompany him on his duties as a man of the watch.

Each morning, he would rise and don his uniform, a badge on his aged chest
denoting him as some minor captain of the guard. A shortsword hung at his
side and seemed more worn than useful. Not through lack of care, but lack of
use. It was just another ornament he used to declare his station in the
crowded streets.

I followed him on one such day, tagging along in his shadow, his cloak
brushing against me as I worked to keep with his stride.

Role

Chapter 7

I felt drawn to the darker sections of the library, feeling safe within the
shadows offered there. Within dusty stacks, I found references to the gods,
great heroes, and to my surprise, I found references to the Darkness.
Further exploration of the books revealed no more than references, but once
word stood out above the rest. 'Necromancers'.

These dark mages would hold the keys to returning to Death's sweet embrace.
When I asked my aunt about them, I was quickly slapped across the face.

'Knowledge can bring salvation, but it can also bring damnation. We'll have
no mention of those foul beings in our house. Choose wisely, boy.'

It was too late, the curiosity and promise of what I found had already taken
root within my being, serving as new fuel for the secret aspirations and
hopes I held within my soul. In my Aunt's eyes, I suppose I chose damnation.




*** These last words cause the whore to raise her eyebrows in brief
surprise. For a moment she meticulously looks over the entire form of the
man before her, weighing what she knows about this almost stranger, his skin
currently bared for the ritual of the tattooing.

Kovich smirks, knowing that not many take his chosen path lightly. Followers
of necromancy were known to walk with death and too often to leave death in
their wake. She will probably raise her rates for future sessions, now that
she considers me dangerous, he thinks.

He leans back, watching thin tendrils of tobacco smoke drift toward the
ceiling from the loosely rolled cigar in his hand. If only she knew what is
to come. ***

Role

Chapter 6

I explored the small yard beyond the kitchen doors for many days. I watched
people stream by the backroad, of all shapes and sizes. I watched other
children play in the gutters of the street, tossing mud at one another in
play. At first, they asked me to join them, but after I ignored their
attempts and attention they soon changed their words of welcome to ones of
derision. A week later they would change from taunting words to harder fists
and even harder stones, leaving me in a bloody heap upon the doorstep of my
Aunt's kitchen. My Uncle was furious, but my Aunt clucked in disappointment
and cleaned my wounds, telling me that 'smart boys found ways around having
to fight.'

Just as with my former home, I found myself somewhere that I did not fit in,
nor did I want to. In my dreams, I often returned to the massacre of the
chicken pen where I had rejoined with the Darkness, even if only for a short
while.

Though my dreams often turned to that moment, nothing was ever said of what
had happened back home. They never once spoke of what had led me to their
care. My Aunt only stated once that my mother was so daft that she could
only tell a mule from a horse by the shape of its ears, and even then may
still get it wrong. There was no wonder how my mother had managed to raise a
mongrel.

As days became months, my Aunt set about teaching me to read. Every night
was spent before candles and primers, the words slowly filling my mind with
their teachings. As months became years, I soon found myself eager for new
books, for new information. These words from long past, or faraway places,
and within I found secrets not often known by the bustling city that thrived
around me.

My uncle found little use for me, but at times would take me on his patrols.
Noticing my trepidation and previous encounters with the world beyond our
home, he took it upon himself to teach me the ways of the streets, and how
to not bring unwanted attention to myself. It would bring me less trouble,
and in the end, that would mean less trouble for him and my aunt. I felt
most comfortable in the shadows if not a crowd.

My proficiency with scholarship soon exceeded the expectations of my Aunt,
and she allowed me to accompany her to the library. The sheer number of
books and tomes amazed me, surely this was considered a vast treasure trove.
My writing soon joined her own in the ranks of scribes, and I found myself
drawn to the library even without her at my side. I thirsted for knowledge.
Where most people found me odd or abrasive, the books never judged. My
benefactors even gave me texts to begin my collection.

Role

Chapter 5

*** He steps through the door of the brothel, not offering a glance to any
gathered within. They mean nothing to him. Climbing the stairs, his
footsteps take him to stand before the familiar door, its paint peeling and
the wood long in need of care. Turning the handle, he enters.

She awaits him, a slender pipe held in her hand, a robe haphazardly drawn
about her slender form. She nods once and sets the tobacco pipe down upon
the table. She understands why he is here, and as with the beginning of all
of their transactions, she gestures for him to sit.

Taking a pestle into her palm, she begins to grind her powders into ink.***




It was days before I braved the world outside of my room. My room. I had not
experienced such a novelty within the hovel kept by my mother and father.

I had been taken in by distant relations of my mother. From a small farm, I
now found myself at the mercies of the city of Hamsah Mu'Tazz.

My 'Aunt' as I was told to call her had first greeted me with open
disappointment. A bundle of rags and flesh thrown at her feet, I imagine I
was not an exceptional prize.

What had she done to be blessed by the gift of a country mongrel, forced
upon her by some distant cousin? However, she took me in hand rather
quickly, settling me within the four walls that served as my new prison.
Prison isn't exactly the right word, for it was I that chose to lock myself
within, to hide from the life that spurned me, and to remain apart from the
new life in which I had not chosen.

She was a scribe in the citys libraries. Her weathered hands were often
covered in the inks of her trade, long days spent recording or transcribing
the texts of the scholars. Her husband, my 'Uncle', was a member of the city
guard, his work often taking him out at various hours of the night as he was
called to patrols or some transgression committed by the criminals of the
city.

My Aunt and Uncle were different from the country-raised people I spent my
early life with. They valued scholarship and duty over prayer and endless
toil. As I became more accustomed to their home, it was explained to me that
idle hands do not breed a proper man. I would be taught to read and write
and find a way to contribute to my place amongst their family. Their
children had long grown and moved away, leaving plenty of room for a
youthful boy to grow, but no room for a lazy waif.

I remained apart from the household for quite some time and rarely spoke to
anyone. I made no friends in the gangs of boisterous boys that wandered the
streets beyond the walls of my room.

Curiosity finally drove me from my room though and taught me a harsh lesson.

Role

Chapter 4

I watched as he held each one down, and with a swift stroke, he struck their
heads from their fattened bodies. He handed the headless birds to me, their
bodies still spasming from the shock of their decapitation. Even in death,
they struggled, the nerves firing in their final throes. This fascinated me.
They continued after what would have ended most men, some enduring death
long after they should have died. They had escaped their prisons of flesh
but managed to briefly carry on.

The feelings that danced within me as I watched this act of gore brought
memories of the darkness I sought with each waking moment.

I arose from my pallet of straw the next morning, long before either my
father and mother would rise. My sister lay asleep in her small bed at the
foot of the bed in which my parents slept. The sun would not rise above the
distant horizon for a few hours yet.

Creeping out the door of our cottage, I turned my steps toward the coop. The
chickens within maintained an eerie calm as if knowing my intent long before
I knew it myself. I took my fathers cleaver down from a nearby post, the
metal blade gleaming in the waning moonlight. I opened the door to the coop
and stepped within. Everything around me faded as I set about my task.

Shrieks roused me from a bloody revelry. My mother stood beyond the metal
wiring that separated the flock from the yard proper. My hands were covered
in blood, feathers coasted lazily through the morning air. At my feet lay
the heads and corpses of my fathers beloved flock.

A feather rested upon my cheek and brushing it away, I only succeeded in
smearing more chicken blood on my face. I had felt it, the darkness had
consumed me, existed within me as I took the lives of these creatures. I
felt their final struggles and drank in their last moments with each kill.

I remember smiling. I had come closer than any previous moment in achieving
the darkness. This was the first stepping stone on the path I desired.

A quick strike to the back of my head brought a different type of darkness
as I explored these thoughts and feelings, and I crumpled to the dirt. My
father stood above me with a log from the woodpile, and my mothers screams
continued to greet the rising sun.



*** Kovich watches the face of this woman that labors over him, her hands
deft and swift as the needle repeatedly punctures his skin. What was once
simple lines slowly develops into more as she matches inked imagery to the
words of his tale.

Though he detests the perfumed smell of the woman, he holds no admiration
for her work. Briefly, he thinks that perhaps she is wasted in this shadowed
hovel of lust and grime, but the thought slips away just as quickly as it
came.

Kovich downs the liquor remaining in his mug, and the whore acknowledges
that her work is complete. He leaves another offering of coins and slips out
from the musty room. ***

Role

Chapter 3

*** He enters her room, the four walls so familiar to him now that this
seems almost as natural as his own lodgings. They never speak outside of him
sharing his story, but they never need to. This is a transaction, a service
he requires of her, and coin that she requires of him.

As always, her inks are laid out on the table before her. Her needles still
glow from being placed in the sterilizing heat of the fire in the nearby
hearth.

Her movements are like a dance, and she crosses the room with the grace of a
dervish. Shutting the door, she returns to his side and sets herself to
work. That she never balks at his stories does not surprise Kovich. With
each visit, he has passed rooms of wondrous atrocities. The whores of this
particular brothel seem well versed in their trade.

Lighting his tobacco and taking a stiff swig of liquor, he sets his mug down
upon the table. Staring into the flames of the fire, Kovich begins the next
addition to the flesh tapestry that forms his life. ***



I was not like other children, much to the dismay of my parents. I did not
smile, I did not play, and I wrapped myself in sullen hostility.

My father raised chickens to support our meager income. He would wake early
to feed these strange, furtive creatures. Their cackles were always audible
throughout our small homestead. He kept them in a small coop near the
eastern walls of our home.

At an early age, I was expected to help with these duties. To bring these
feathered monsters their feed each morning as the sun rose, and to watch
over them until sunset. I was to cry out at the first sign of people or
predators approaching our property. I told these beasts my secrets, words I
felt would be wasted on my mother or father.

I told them of the darkness and what I felt there. Shared with them my
desire to return to its seductive embrace. I whispered wishes for Death to
come to me once more. Sometimes my dreams would graze the surface of that
initial bond, further securing me to what was becoming a deep obsession.

Four years after my unfortunate birth, my parents were blessed with a child
born in light. This was the child they had prayed for, the miracle had
finally come. Their time was soon spent doting on this new addition to our
small family, leaving no attention for their child born of death. I think
they feared me even then, and would never leave me alone in the presence of
my sister, so they put me out of their sight by tasking me further with the
god-forsaken chickens.

Winter was approaching in the span of my seventh year enduring this curse of
mortality. My father had commanded my assistance with culling a few hens
from the cacophonous flock I was tasked with guarding over. Their deaths
would help to ensure that we had food in the coming months.

Role

Chapter 2

He was no stranger to facing death, and with a grim nod, he recognized a
familiar foe. He knelt next to my lamenting mother, tears upon her
pain-wracked face. Removing a leather glove, he placed a weathered hand upon
her bulging abdomen and murmured a prayer to his gods. Seconds turned to
minutes, and minutes to hours, his brow soon furrowed and sweaty from
maintaining his vigil, his faith locked in a battle over the soul of a dead
child, and then it happened.

With a burst of light, the midwife guided me from my mothers womb and
dragged me shrieking into the world of the living.

My father rushed in from beyond the doorway, immediately at the side of my
mother, her pains dissipating at the ministrations of both the midwife and
the Paladin. My birth would be considered a miracle for much of my life, the
child returned from the clutches of the beyond.

For me, it was a mortal curse.


*** With a flick of his gloved hand, he tosses the cigar to the flames
within the whores hearth. Time slips by silently as he watches her work,
the ink taking hold upon his flesh. As she finishes, he leaves a small pouch
of coins upon her table and leaves without saying anything more. ***

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