[Out and About Viden] The Slow Season

[Jakob Daud]

~~6th of Cylus, Arc 719~~

Jakob snapped to attention at the raspy sound of his co-workers voice. "We've got seven dead men on our hands from that operation." He looked at who was saying it, and it was Bors. Jakob internally reeled at his visage - Bors wasn't a pretty man before he got his flash slashed up by a beast; now, well... it wouldn't be any stretch of the imagination to say that he wasn't going to win anybody over with their good looks.
"Aye. Not a nel to show for it." grumbled the other man. It was Moorn, shorter than Jakob and Bors, but he was stout and stocky for his size. If you called him fat, he'd knock you over with his low center of gravity.
Jakob sighed. The conversation had bored him enough to make him lose concentration already. Dead miners, a handful. The student, Sybil, had told him. He told his coworkers, and they spread the word throughout the ranks from there. Asides from errant whispers stating obvious displeasure, he heard nothing else from anybody else about it. Seems everybody had moved on already, focusing more on the upcoming lack of work. The dreaded slow season.

Jakob, Moorn, and Bors were sitting outside on the stoop of Moorn's assigned dormitory. The building was an abject horror of architectural design - rooms were designed pragmatically. They were nice and square, down by this part of the Prism. Jakob's dormitory was a bit nicer, made too many years ago to count. Back then, they had some taste when designing a building, and he supposed that it got lost somewhere along the way. He didn't know where Bors lived, and didn't really care either. In fact, he was fairly certain Bors lived in the woods, where he mated with animal corpses and never bathed, considering his stench. Probably lived in an ugly square house like the rest of the Prism.

Jakob blinked twice with realization. He was talking to himself in his head about how ugly buildings were.
Jakob couldn't even remember why he decided to come out here. The Twilight made people bored - sometimes it made them crazy. He wondered if his recent lack of attentiveness was a result of cabin fever. A booming clap next to his head snapped him back to attention yet again. He cocked his fist, and aimed a punch at the noise - it was Bors, with his ugly broken-tooth grin. "Wake up."
"What?!" Jakob barked, while lowering his fist. He didn't want to punch Bors. He knew how that fight would go down. It happened before.
"Moorn was talking to you, wago." Bors said with a sarcastic tint.
Jakob turned his attention to Moorn, lowering his voice. "What?"
"You got any nel saved up, Daud?" Moorn seemed oddly sincere. Jakob thought it was strange, somebody asides from his family asking about his financial situation. The two only knew each other for a Cycle. Jakob's eyes wandered to the left, trying to recall his situation. He lost pay due to missing a day, and lost pay due to one of the sledge-crews going hammer-crazy on a goon. Keeping everything in mind, he figured that he would be fine, if he was able to get a couple odd-jobs here or there.
Jakob replied with what he was thinking. "Yeah, pretty sure. Just gotta find some odd-jobs for the slow season."
Moorn and Bors got quieter than usual. Bors cleared his throat of phlegm onto the street, then rolled his shoulders as he said "Hope you know somebody that won't fek you, then. Not many people need us during this Cycle. At least for sixty trials, I'd say."
Moorn grumbled, "He's right. Don't come to me looking for a handout. I got nothing to spare, with the brats, y'know?"
Bors nodded and added "Yead. Better make due, Daud."

Make due.
The smell of the dead and dying rushed back into his head. A woman in rags with a leg gone below the knee. The scratchy voice of the student came back to mind. Moving her would make it worse. Either we make due or... Searching through a chest for clothes that belonged to the dead. Two cold wagon rides. Back to the tent, and... what remained of that slave...

Jakob rubbed his eyes. Moorn and Bors had moved on to conversing about something else. He needed a drink. He surveyed his immediate surroundings, and noticed that nothing much else of note was going on in this part of the Prism. Nobody he knew, nobody he cared about. Nothing interesting to stare at besides the cold stone.
"Can we get out of the fekin' cold?" Jakob grunted. Bors and Moorn turned to look at him as he continued with "Should go get something to drink. Some warm food." The two men shrugged, and agreed. Jakob took the lead, "Devil's Advocate it is. Fek this cold, anyways." The three men got off their stoop, and made their way up the street to the north.

[Sybil Malach]

Over the last few trials were quite the trial for Sibyl's mind. Time had passed, but not enough for the transgression for speaking out of turn to be forgotten. The mental debate between right, wrong, and the practicality of preserving a human life tossed around in the student's mind. Did it matter more that a person was saved? Did it even matter that all their efforts in trying to preserve someone succeeded? Sibyl didn't even know if the woman even survived, in truth. Ever since the student was verbally forbade from the labor camp some miles due south, there were no calls for Sibyl to return. But likewise, that demand to take an etiquette lesson was never even truly acted upon. Was a silent nod of understanding given to Sibyl by the Good Doctor? Was the request for more students lifted to maintain a ruse? A breath is drawn. Sibyl didn't know. In the end, it hardly matters. Further apprenticeships were becoming sparse. The single minded attempts at rising above the grain of academia was starting to rear its head. A rut, many called it. A lack of motivation due to some paradoxical nature of the mind itself. Something nagging forced its way into the student's brain. It sang songs of isolation, and destitution. Something that brought Sibyl to the verge of another bout of cabin fever. This time, perhaps, the one that finally seals the deal.

"Kid." Comes the voice. It was rumbling, yet smooth. Sibyl likened it to the sound of gravel being stepped on, atop a flat stone pavilion. Eyes glancing to the side, and towards a man, "Not drinking." The words were curt. A thick, padded with callus hand taps the metal cup onto the tabletop, in an attempt to get the student's attention. Roused from a deep thought, the cloak clad individual seems to register something. A nod is given, beneath a cavernous hood. Small, gloved hands reach out, to the cup.

The two sit in almost abject silence, drinking, in the Devil's Advocate. Eyes were cast upon the two, but the size of the Lotharro present dissuaded most of the interventionists. Far beyond the average Videnese man and woman in weight and height class. Sibyl had decided to attempt to buy a man's friendship. For the evening. One of the laborers spent some time speaking with the student, in a way that was common for men of his ilk; about the dregs of society, grueling work, and an undertone of vague disdain for the 'cushy' by comparison living in the Carnelian Prism. He was a member of the Precariat, and it was obvious. The assumed primal, less intelligent dull sheen of his eyes made him a prime subject of something to be ogled at in high society. Something to be pointed at, and avoided. But among the workers, he may face greater racial profiling due to the lack of education, and small world views... They would at least not call the city's guards upon him, so long as he did his work. Sibyl was almost certain that he was lying about being Lotharro, in some cases. He spoke curtly, and short, but spoke with little accent. Something was strange about him. Something that the student found to be particularly interesting.

And that, is the reason why Sibyl chose him. Paid for his drinks. Taking a deep drink of the dark ale, Sibyl grimaces beneath the shadowed hood. A loud cough is given. The swill wasn't watered down. The burn didn't scald the throat like the more finely distilled drinks, but it was definitely a step down even the likes of beer, in taste. "Might as well get used to it." The voice rumbles out from across the table. The man forming a smarmy grin at the Carnelian dweller's intolerance. Some of his teeth were yellowed, "The crowd's gonna get worse." The man nearly chuffs, as he sniffs in, clearing his nose.

"Never told me your name." Comes Sibyl's voice, eventually. Eyes, with a thin layer of shadow beneath the hood, slowly rising up to glance at the larger man, "Never told me yours." Comes the retort. The rumbling voice of the man almost amused, by the endless back and forth. It's as though the Lotharro enjoyed this game of social awkwardness. It was easy for him. There'd be no risk for himself, given his size, and no room to nag. A sigh leaves Sybil's lips. It was obvious the man was having his fun. Sybil knocks bag a swig of the ale, and winces. A shake of the head, "Sybil, then."

A smirk painting the Lotharro's lips. A gruff, rasping laugh escaping, "Acting like I'm pulling teeth." Comes the man's voice. A cock of the brow is given, as the mug is placed down, with a soft thud, "Do you... Have one? A name?" Comes the slightly... Confused, voice from Sybil, "Might remember. Make good on that ale."

For the longest time, Sybil gave the man an incredulous look. It was like he was waiting for something. Stalling. The student could tell, though barely. It was like the Lotharro was expecting someone with a more... Forcible, and assertive personality. One that the student, frankly, lacked the energy to give. Slowly, it began to dawn on the student. These sorts of things were a means to get what was wanted, rather than any meaningful connection. Exploitation. A breath is taken, as this hollow reality begins to ring within Sibyl's mind. A few coins are slid forward, tips, from a job done a while ago.

Sibyl beginning to regret coming here.

"Here." Says Sibyl, with a slow quirk of the head, "Get us another round." A basic workaround, to Viden's tight laws on intoxication. The man's borderline rotting teeth gleam out. The more it widened, the more Sibyl's soul died. This was a business transaction. Everything was stilted. The student had no true way on how to fix it. Nor where the problem stemmed from. Sibyl returns to the drink, as the Lotharro downs his drink, like some bestial creature, at the prospect of having more. Chasing the alcoholic buzz.

[Jakob Daud]

The trio sauntered through the Prism, jovial in nature. Harmless banter, back and forth between the three. Sometimes, an innocent bystander would be the target of their playful, yet admittedly obnoxious, ribbing. Nothing too loud or too insulting, as they didn't want to rub raw the authorities around these parts. Jakob kept a watchful eye around here. It wasn't like this part of the Prisms were crime ridden, because they weren't. He simply didn't like the people here. Many of them were students, hailing from wealthy families, or poor ones banking everything on their success. Those that weren't students were city dwellers - generally speaking, smarter than Jakob and his ilk. Their clothes were nice, they spoke clearly and without slurs, they had houses that weren't horrendous looking like the ones down in Moorn's part of the Tsavorite Prism. Most importantly, they didn't fist fight each other with a regular frequency. Their houses were also absolutely beautiful on the rare occasion that he was able to go inside. Nice furniture, wonderfully soft pillows, a splash of color, and...

Why am I thinking about houses?

Jakob inhaled the bitter cold. It was refreshing. Well, as refreshing as it could be for city air. He needed a drink. His right foot was hurting from the walk. He just wanted to sit down.

A few bits later, and the men had arrived at the Devil's Advocate. The place was amazing for two reasons. One; it was run down, and the only people that came by here were the people Jakob wanted to associate with. Two; the prohibition didn't exist within their walls - a blind-eye turned to their practices allowed for people to get a healthy buzz and be on their way. Jakob had spent many nights in the Devil's Advocate. For a while, he was sweet on a Biqaj girl that worked here, but she moved away years ago. Last time they talked was when she was nursing him from a fight he had gotten in with a big bastard of a student from the academy. Many memories, and many scars.

The biggest downside to the place was that it was objectively hideous. The place looked like it could fall apart at any moment. And their choice of furniture was absolutely horrendous, especially th-
Jakob snapped himself out of his internal rant as the three man passed the threshold, into the bar. Ten or eleven patrons, he counted in his head, spread about the rather small tavern.
"Make room!" Bors shouted for no particular reason at nobody in particular, "Or be made to move!"
Jakob gave a sharp elbow into Bors' side as he stepped past him, giving him a glare. "Don't do that." The attention of the room was on the three of them, including that of the bartender. Jakob raised his hand, three fingers extended, "Three of whatever they want." afterwards, closing his hand into a fist and pointing a thumb at Bors. "His nel."
As he stepped past Bors, the monster of a man grasped his shoulder. With a snarl, Bors asked "The fek you mean by 'My nel,' Daud."
Jakob got eye to eye with Bors, who was roughly three inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than him. "First to talk, first to pay. You know the rules."
Bors and Jakob stared each other down for five trills, when Moorn put a hand between the two. "Aye, Jakob's right. You spoke first, you pay first. Miners code."
Bors groaned, and bumped shoulders with Jakob as he passed. Jakob scoffed. Tonight was going to be good.

Moorn and Bors took a seat at the bar. Jakob walked to the back room to look for a pot to piss in. While he was walking, he surveyed the patrons of the bar. Humans, the lot. He thought one of them was a Lotharo, but couldn't be sure until he got closer. Not like he cared, either. He had to walk past all the patrons to get to the back room, walking right passed Sybil and their Lotharo friend. He didn't notice the two. He opened the door to the bathroom - a real hole in the ground, a chamber pot, a jug of water and a bowl to wash your hands. The only thing he could think of was how hideous this whole room was...

[Sybil Malach]

Sibyl could only listen to the bustling of the pub. Tuning into the frequency of the utter organized chaos of the men and women around, it's as though the student simply settled into the mindset of being a passive observer. Two men by the bar were arguing over bets. Something about the season throwing off the trade routes. A woman near the corner of the common room seemed to only speak in mutters, things that Sibyl couldn't even hear. She obviously had a knife readied at her side, as though she alone served as some sort of deterrence. The entrance of the boisterous miners is not lost on the student. Sibyl's eyes slowly glance over to the side, as Jakob passes. Hooded gaze simply following him along as he enters the privy. The gaze doesn't last long, as one could expect. The Lotharro had taken kindly to arguing with the barkeep. The atmosphere was draining noticeably around him. The Videnese didn't take kindly to his kind, when they got like this. It was obvious, by the way that the woman guarding near the corner took an approach to the bar itself, and setting down next to him. The students considers if what was seen was a knife being drawn, or a particularly awkward, but firm grip was being made against the man's tunic, around the abdomen.

A gesture was made towards Sibyl, by the Lotharro. A sinking sensation started to tingle in the back of Sibyl's gut. Watching the two slowly escalate in an argument. The student pulls the cloak close, rising to a stand. Clearly, something was wrong. Sibyl couldn't tell what it was, or when it was going to happen, but this wasn't how people usually behaved around the student. Or perhaps it was the peculiar habits of the Precariat. Regardless,

Sibyl wasn't the smartest. Or, at best, was too curious for any student in their right mind.

Rather than hedging bets and simply leaving, Sibyl unfolds the hood, and takes steps near the wall next to the privy. Leaning against it, Sibyl left a decent amount of space between this, and the ensuing argument breaking out. The Carnelian Prism was home to similar arguments. But it was very rarely physical, for it was too closely tied to the Academy. But here? Either side could let the bile from their veins. Sibyl had been told, over, and over, that this was a bad place to be. Run at the first sign of trouble, but... The way the Lotharro challenges the human woman, despite having a clear warning of his behavior... It struck Sibyl as curious. Maybe it was the ale.

Taking a deep drink from the mug, a breath escapes the lungs.

The hushed murmurs become hardened whispers. The tones begin to slowly escalate. The jovial nature of the place liable flip on a nel. The men and women illegally imbibing to the point of intoxication are mercurial. The ways that glances between the slaves and the others are being given are becoming more obvious. Slaves wouldn't just sit by as one of their own is harassed by someone not legally entitled to whip them into shape. Nor will the establishment take one of the chin. ... Nor will the average taverngoer not just think rationally, and coolly, "... Well. May as well get my nel's worth..." Sighs Sibyl, with a shake of the head, speaking barely above a mutter.

[Jakob Daud]

Jakob couldn't stop thinking about interior design. He's never thought of it before, but for some reason, today, it was in his mind. He washed his hands and splashed some of the water from the jug on his face. He heard the ramblings of the crowd outside slowly getting louder and louder. He took a deep breath through his mouth. He didn't want to use his nose, as the room smelled terribly. While he paced around the privvy, his boots would stick to the nondescript film on the floor. He never wanted to imagine what type of skich was on the ground here, and that was probably why the owner kept the privvy dark in the first place. He chuckled to himself at the thought. This pitiful excuse of a bathroom didn't even have a mirror. Smart move, thinking about it; somebody would've just broken it and used it to kill somebody. He checked the dark wall, and his eyes adjusted to it. He could see a small, metal frame, in the shape of a rectangle hanging on the wall by a piece of twine and a nail. It didn't take much thought to imagine that it used to hold a mirror...

Maybe somebody already had.

He did his best to stop thinking about architecture. Whenever he did though, he either thought about nothing, or he thought about that dreaded Chirurgeon's tent. When trying to force his brain to another topic, all he could think about was the fact that he didn't get paid for eight trials. That just made him mad. He didn't know what was worse at this point; empty thoughts, architectural critique, death and decay, or rage. He took a deep breath, inhaling the stale air of the privvy, and opened the door leading out. The candlelight bled into the room, and for a moment he thought he was having visions, as the student from the mining operation was standing before him. He nearly jumped, sharply inhaled, and raised his left hand to defend himself while cocking his right hand into a semi-punch. Realization set in that it wasn't a ghost or a figment of his imagination, and he calmed down as quickly as he stirred up.

"By the fekin' fates..." he exhaled, putting his hands on his hips and leaning over to catch his breath. "Sybil, right? What finds you here?" He brought himself back to an upright position, and quickly pointed to an empty table nearby. "And can we sit? I don't want to stand in the piss room." His eyes darted to where his co-workers were sitting. Bors had seemed to be getting himself in trouble with, what were they, slaves? He couldn't tell. The Lotharo man was arguing with a woman about something or another. Moorn was quietly drinking, sitting on an uneven stool. Upon closer inspection, Moorn had an empty flagon in front of him, and was happily sipping down on another. Jakob's eyes widened as he muttered...

"That bastard stole my drink."

He quickly looked back at the student, Sybil. Their face was red. Were they drunk? Well, what else would an Academy student do here. They were in the middle of a sentence when he mindlessly agreed to whatever it was, stating quite plainly "Can we sit?"

[Sybil Malach]

Eyes slowly slide to the side, in consideration of Jakob. Leaving the privy, it's clear that Sibyl was more or less addled in some way. A pinkish highlight to the cheeks and forehead, "A friend. Or rather, perhaps, just someone that I know." Comes the rather vague answer, the eyes shifting from the human, to the Lotharro to the side of the bar. The Lotharro himself seems to grin at the proposed threat of violence. His leathery face and lips tightening to chapped flesh as he almost plays it cool, for a moment. His words turning from aggressive, to a sort of icy chill about it. It was muttered, so only the incoherent murmuring could be heard over the crowd. In despite of this, the seedier patrons, or rather, the regulars of the establishment, seem to look on in vague amusement, perhaps almost strictly as to what is to come. A slow cant of the head is given, lingering from Sibyl, before the man catches the student's attention once more. Knocking back the rest of the drink, Sibyl downs what's left of the ale, leaving behind only a shallow mire of the alcohol within the cup itself, "Sure. I was sitting before. Not about to turn it down."

Though, a pause is given, as Sibyl gives a tilt of the head, in mild confusion. Slow blink of the eyes, as a breath is taken, "You're acting like you're seeing wraiths." Comes the comment, regardless, as the breath is released. A shake of the head is given, before just going along with the man.

Approaching the table, with Jakob nearby, Sibyl's movements are steady. A simple buzz, rather than anything truly punchdrunk. It was hard enough to get enough ale to do that in this Citadel, let alone with the swill on offer here. Many likely being served with drinks diluted and topped off using leftover slush from the coldrooms, or just tracked in. Something that only really lingered in the back of the student's mind, as a breath is taken, and Sibyl finds a seat on one side of the table, seemingly putting some distance between here and the bar itself. Hands resting on the mug that the student had been nursing on for the last few bits, it's a bit clear that it's not really leaving Sibyl's hand, for one reason or another. It would be reasonable to even assume that it's just being done out of force of habit.

"I would suggest taking it back, but it-" Sibyl starts, seemingly trying to comment on what was just heard, but...

A wet squelch, and a hard crunch disturbs the dissonant enjoyment of the night. For a moment, all goes quiet, as a brilliant streak of red paints down the side of the bar. It drips with a viscious, thick quality, originating from... A glass. The Lotharen, with a leathery smile on his face, had tipped it off the bar, with one of his elbows, during the confrontation with the human. The woman pushes forward, and mutters out a quick few words, perhaps too rapid-fire to hear, in some strange accent, eliciting a chuckle from him.

A shake of the head. Sibyl lets out a breath, it's something that seems more exhausted, than anything, as the eyes returns to Jakob and his crew, "Don't believe I've seen your friends." Comes the student's voice, curiously, glancing between the two... Very obviously men of lower class, some ways across the room. A soft yawn escapes the lips, "... Unless you're saying strangers took your cup of ale." Sibyl, seemingly getting used to the vibe of things. The clamor of the tavern not yet interrupted by the growing conflict... But the atmosphere slowly getting more tense.

[Jakob Daud]

Seeing wraiths...

Maybe he was. Maybe a wraith was whispering into his ear about interior design, driving him mad. Sybil had taken a seat that put them facing the bar, but with the table in-between. Jakob took the seat across from the student, keeping his back to the bar. Every once in awhile, he would turn his head to get a view of the commotion going on not-ten paces away. Jakob had questions; a lot of questions, actually. He didn't know where to start, really. Maybe with a simple "How are things?" He was genuinely surprised to see them here. Maybe, he thought, the cold aloofness from the death-tent was a professional facade, and the student preferred a nightlife of debauchery. He couldn't imagine it, but the idea gained some traction in his head when he watched the student down whatever was left of their drink quite casually. The pinkness in their face was becoming more apparent. He amused himself with the idea of what type of drunk personality Sybil had, and was almost tempted to keeping push drinks in their direction until he got his answer. The two sat across from each other. Jakob kept his eyes on the student's face, thinking of what to say. He started wondering if Sybil lived in the Carnelian Prism, with the rest of the students. Maybe they lived with family. Imagination was creeping into his mind about what sort of house the student lived in when Sybil broke the uncomfortable silence between the two. The student asked about Jakob's co-workers.

"I don't know if I'd call 'em friends," Jakob said, turning to see if his co-workers were either starting a fight or minding their own business. He pointed to each of them as he said, "The big one with half a face, that's Bors. Short and stocky, with the beard is Moorn. They're miners." He put his hands back to the table while he turned back to face Sybil, whose half-open green eyes were attentively watching Jakob. This one wasn't an idiot, he thought. Sybil probably came to that conclusion on their own, and Jakob was quick to say as such. "I'm... guessin' you knew that."

He wasn't sure if that was a common occurrence, strangers stealing drinks. He chuckled as the words came through a soft yawn. Sybil must've been feeling drunk by now. Jakob met Sybil's eyes and in a whisper he stated "Yeah, the little wago must've been trying to sneak in a few sips before I got back."
He began an impromtu staring contest with Sybil, and their eyes locked with each other. "Despite two of three proving otherwise - not all miners are thieves." He began to recall himself sifting through the chest of clothes that had belonged to the recently deceased. He didn't want to bring anything up about the incident itself. He was doing his best to put it behind him. The staring between the two continued.
Jakob did his best to keep his face straight, but when Sybil's neither flinch nor blinked, he broke eye-contact and laughed inwardly. Running a hand through his beard, he said, "Just the ones you've met so far."

Jakob was quick to turn his head to face the sound of the breaking bottle. In other places, a breaking bottle would be considered an accident. Around here, at the Devil's Advocate, it was more akin to a fight starting. He was hoping that Bors didn't bite off more than he could chew when he turned to face it. The Lotharo that Sybil was sitting with seemed to be causing problems. It had only been a handful of bits, but Moorn was already four flagons deep. Bors and the Lotharo were sharing words with each other. A harsh whisper from the Lotharo, Jakob couldn't make it out, stopped the commotion, and most of the people returned to what they were doing, including Bors and Moorn. The two returned to the bar, and stood over their collection of drinks. Moorn questioningly looked around the room, and found that Jakob was sitting with a stranger. He extended a hand outward, facing upwards, wordlessly expressing "What are you doing?" Jakob ignored it. When Bors looked to find out what Moorn was pointing at, he found Jakob. Bors looked as if he was getting furious. Jakob knew that meant no good.

Jakob returned his attention to Sybil. He decided he'd keep the questions about their lodgings or if they had any work he could undertake to himself, and asked; "How are things with you? Did you get in any trouble?"

[Sybil Malach]

"Playing a dubious game with the law often implies friends. ... At least, that's what I've always understood." Shifting the gaze over to the professed 'wagos' over by the table, the thoughts in Sibyl's mind churns. A distant machination of assessment. There was no real issue pronounced on the Student's face about the gaggle, but it's clear that the attention is transient, as the eyes return to Jakob all the same, "Perhaps you should hedge your bets a bit better... Unless you're playing it smart and just putting up with them." Sibyl speaks, near paradoxically, as the person that the student invited gets deeper into an argument. In the background behind Sibyl, beyond the reasonable focal point of any sort of focus of this conversation outside of a vague image, the Lotharen rests his heavy frame against the side of the bar. One of the barmaids approaching the woman keeping him in check from the side, hand resting on her shoulder. The caramel skinned lass giving a slow shake of the head, thick braids bouncing in a very nearly overactive fashion.

A chuckle escapes the student's lips. The mug taps against the surface of the table. The barmaid looks away from the woman playing guard at the table. An obviously disgusted, or at the very least, annoyed look upon the face is worn very plainly, when she's waived away just like the very kind of slave she was berating. "I could tell. Usually any of the finer trades tend to... Well. Not be seen here." A tap of the cheek is given though, as the mug raises, and a final swig of the shallow mire of alcohol is given. Shuddering, and with a shake of the head, "That, and the labor camp. A good hint all the same. ... Neither of you were wearing enough velveteen to really fool anyone to be a representative of the Bank." A short 'cheer' of the mug is given towards Jakob, as the student lets out a slightly dry laugh. In the blurred distance, one could make out the vague outline of the caramel barmaid spitting into the next drink she serves. That saccharine smile being splayed vivaciously, as though utterly innocent and absolved of any wrongdoing. No-one seems to notice.

"You'd best not linger on the semantics. Practicalities breed results far faster. They were under orders to be redistributed." Comes the retort from Sibyl, with a slow, disapproving shake of the head, as though some vague attempt to switch the narrative of the ordeal. The carefully worded sentence remains, as though it was the 'official' response to it all, "They were distributed."

A small smirk breaks through Sibyl's somewhat stalwart facade. The tired, yet buzzed look in the student's eyes doing wonders to whittle down most of the self control it takes to appear aloof all the time to the world's troubles. Though, in equal parts, it seems that the ale itself is enough to help Sibyl cope with even talking of it, "The Academe did not look kindly on my actions. ... Specifically, with the woman. The clothes were a non-factor. I shared an etiquette class with what I think where scullery maids... Or were they slaves. And another thorough dressing down. But that seems to become par for the course, these days..." A shrug leaves Sibyl's form, as a light breath is taken. The mug is returned to the student's face, before realizing it's empty. Sticking a tongue out, Sibyl lifts the mug, and tips it over the mouth, tapping the butt of the mug, getting the last few droplets of ale out, before placing it back on the table.

"Yourself?" Comes the mirrored question. Hand covering the lid of the drink itself, as though it was some sort of nonsense ritual done like a tic. Fingertips tapping along the side of it.

[Jakob Daud]

The bar's atmosphere was shifting. One bit it was arguably cozy, and the next it would churn into fever-pitched hostilities. Jakob stopped trying to keep tabs on what was going on behind him. He couldn't focus on Sybil if he did. He was already having trouble keeping up with everything the student said. The first was about Moorn, and Bors. Admittedly, the only reason he associated with the two was because, as far as he knew, they were in the same boat with the Law as Jakob was. Sybil was right on the mark with that. Their histories were rather unknown to him, but from the pieces he had placed together, neither of them were innocent men. Bors came from Scalvoris. The man used to be sailor, or so he alleged on a drunk night once before. He figured with his size, build, and scars that Bors was a fighter or a raider of some such. That was before whatever beast tore off part of his face. When it came to Moorn, however, Jakob had a more intimate experience with his criminality. He didn't want to talk about that, though.

He leaned in to the table, folding his arms and resting them on the table. "It's silly of you to think that criminals are friends with criminals because they're criminals." He waved over a barmaid, ordering himself a mug of mead. Cute lass. Once she departed, he returned to the conversation. "I wouldn't know anything about that," his face looked sincere, "Honestly."

"You said it yourself. We weren't criminals. But none the less, somebody was punished for it. That slave I brought in was blamed for stealing your pain-punch, as well as some of the clothes from the bin." He put a fist to his mouth, and bit his tongue. He didn't want to tell Sybil what happened to the man, but he had to say what was on his mind. Jakob took to looking at the table, focusing on the grain of the wood. He did his best to keep the image of what happened to the slave out of his mind. Skin and flesh weren't meant to look like that. He doubted the slave was alive, after what had happened. If they were still with us, they wouldn't have been any use to their owner, and would end up dead, or worse, anyways. He didn't know where their owner came from, but their treatment of slaves didn't change much around these parts. He held no love for those that often replaced him when the less scrupulous needed miners, but he still felt empathy for them being treated so poorly. Where was his drink? Better to say it now, he thought. "Pretty sure they killed him for it."

He blinked a few times, and turned to face his co-workers. The Lotharo man had begun talking to Moorn and Bors. That wouldn't end up well. Jakob turned back to face Sybil. "Honestly, I'm going to be blunt with ya. I'm looking for work." He didn't want to say why, really. Though the answer to that wouldn't need much imagination to figure it out. Jakob wasn't going to make it, financially speaking, if he didn't get a few odd-jobs within the next week or so. He shook his head, embarrassed as he said "We're hitting a slow season for mining. I'm not above asking a stranger, but I am above begging."

[Sybil Malach]

"I think it's fair enough, considering where we're both sitting, more than anything." Comes the chuckle, escaping Sibyl's lips. The statement itself very much reflecting of the place the two were even situated in to start with. It wasn't even allowed to serve anything outside of salted meat and the basic essentials by public authorities because of the horrid practices taking place here. And seeing the kind of jerky they're serving, a plate of it being carelessly placed at a nearby table, Jakob would probably have better luck chewing on the outside of an iron-studded boot than to actually get anything out of it. It was a miracle that the chair he was sitting in was sturdy enough to even handle his weight, with the sheer level of 'quality' this place offered. But, nonetheless, Sibyl seemed undeterred by these things. Matter of fact, the student was here long before Jakob even entered. With even stranger company than his own, considering the dip in atmosphere. A strange thing for a student to be doing indeed, "But we should count our blessings. There are very few places one can actually drink ale in the Citadel. ... And I've yet to experience the rotgut that the Malachite ships up this direction... Though I can't help but notice how quickly drinkers vomit, here..."

A flurry of eyelashes is the main response to Jakob. For a moment, it's as though the student was confused about something. The thought churned in the back of the skull, before the eyelids stop at a comfortable half-lid, as the information is digested, "Misfortune has quite the habit of coming in threes." A comment that simply feels more hindsight than anything. A slow shake of the head is given, as the thought finally settles within Sybil's mind. Not trained enough to suppress the nervous reaction, the mug is tapped against the table. Fingertips rub against the sides of the mug itself, tracing the metallic texture. A soft breath is taken, "I don't regret it, either. It's unfortunate, but the alternative was simply allowing nothing to happen. ... At least trying to do something is better then letting it happen." Comes the statement in that scratchy voice. The voice wavers, a bit. As though, perhaps, unsure on the implications, but overall confident in the statement being made in on itself.

In truth, this was something that Sibyl only half believed. Though the student has never yet had to pull the dagger of mercy on a patient, Sibyl had been present during instances in which the allowance of death is the most that could have been done. Sometimes, indeed, doing nothing is the best thing that could be done. The Precariat led a life that Sibyl had to adapt to, in order to learn even a sample of medicine. No prestigious member of the Academy would be caught dead tending to the people that Sibyl did. Even for image's sake, there were far better people to do this for. But it was the most genuine. Something that, despite the layer of grime attached, Sibyl could see, even a glimpse, of the Videnese lower class's true struggles. And it was... Banal. It was utilitarian. Basic. Comfort was not an option. Efficiency was needed in order to handle so many patients with such basic needs.

Part of Sibyl worried that the student would be unable to empathize with other issues. Or eventually make a misstep fatal enough to warrant an excusable discharge from the Academe.

"Well, there are quite a few options." Comes the admission. Finally, Sibyl had considered it. Fingertips rapping against the tabletop and the mug, it's clear that there is something on the student's mind, "There are materials that we could gain for the alchemical wing of the Academy. ... Issue, is that I will have to learn more of how to extract what it is that they seek." A breath is taken, in slow consideration of Jakob. Eyes slowly blinking, before simply saying, "If you know a few good men who could assure my safety, we could possibly get enough from corpses and plants to make it worth the while. ... But the more you bring, the more I'll require, in order to make ends meet, and ensure you're all paid."