by Io Ono » Thu Apr 02, 2020 3:55 am
She might have been offended at the notion of randomly poisoning others, if she weren’t so perpetually expressionless. Sure, it may be interesting to see how some react, and sure, some deserved it, but she was no villain, not by choice anyway. Besides, as far as she was concerned, only snakes bit the feeding hand, and she was still a person, mostly. It could not be discounted, however, that most of her actions were those that would cause most to be wary. She drew in a deep breath, but released it slowly.
“If Miss Gloria is kind, then Io has to worry. If Miss Gloria is not, then I can help. Kind people cannot ask questions.” It was a simple wisdom, one not born in the world of the innocent, but of the underworld. It was the product of spending a lifetime with people whom dealt in the currency of information...and of course, currency. It was a world filled with ambition, politics, and secrets. It was a world where the kind kept their heads down, and the depraved took what they could. In contrast, Io was not actually a cruel soul, and, if left to her own devices, tended to fall on the gentler side of things. Life, however, did not oft let her fall where she may, and she learned quite early the darker nature of the soul. In a partial sense, she was a product of her environment, a damp, groddy pit, where her only utility was to take from other rotting souls.
“Men who know things, say things in the darkness. They say things to men who need to know things, want to know things. They trade things with secrets. Secrets are power. Secrets told in the night, in homes and on the streets. Io hears them, the whispers of men at night.” She motioned to her ears, which, were quite thankfully normal. “It is what Miss Gloria wants to hear, yes? I can help Miss Gloria hear the secrets at night, to answer her questions.” Io was not a wordsmith. Simply, her survival usually depended on her silence, and that was not only when she was apparently wandering about in the moonlight, eavesdropping. She was beginning to feel comfortable, however, despite the rapid decline in the comfort of her hopefully-soon-to-be-but-perhaps-not-now-host.
“But Miss Gloria is kind, even if she wishes not to be. The kind...” she was searching for words, and had to pause for a moment to find the proper one. “Regret things, in the darkness, when they should sleep. Miss Gloria thinks herself not kind because of things she does, but is kind because she feels. Fear, regret, they make Miss Gloria kind.” Sure, it was a very, very preliminary read, and taken far too matter of factly, but at least for the moment, it was what she could see. A quiet soul she was, but when called, she spoke her mind, as true as she could, to a fault. Likely, it accounted for at least a portion of the scars she wore.
“Miss Gloria should not trust Io. Miss Gloria should trust no one. If it can help, Io is in need of a roof in the rain, and things to eat, and does not know how to get either.” This was partially true. There was always the option of foraging, and hunting, and thieving, and sleeping under trees, or piles of thatch, or whatever makeshift shelter she could fashion, but, even without formal schooling in numbers and odds, she knew her chances were greater here than elsewhere, and now rather than later. “Io will trade what she can give to Miss Gloria, for that. Io will give Miss Gloria her trinkets, and she can decide when they are used.” Though it was akin to her normal arrangement, it was still a position of relative vulnerability. She was not completely harmless when disarmed, something she figured Gloria would suspect, though she was still far more so, especially when most others would have at least some manner of utility blade or pointy tool on their person. If confronted, she was likely to flee anyway, armed or not, as she was better at it than fighting square, but this removed all but last options.
Io had seemingly made the decision for her, and with five muted clinks, laid her tools on the step beside herself. There was the one she’d used on the shopkeep earlier thin like sewing needles, with a hint of blood on the tip, and another its pair, and the one she’d used a moment ago, sturdier, with its twin, And a longer, slightly crescented one, likely useful for dealing with some manner of corner, or wedging between windows and sills, and removing jams therefrom. All were a silvery steel, and worn from use, though, reasonably clean, aside the blood spot. All had at least one point, though the first two were tipped on both ends, and all had the ability to deliver poison, if required. With hesitation, she trailed the tips of her fingers over their surface, before pulling away and clutching her own knees, resting her chin between them.