Drowning (Kaz Brekker)

ii - Asra

IF YOU ASKED ASRA TEN YEARS AGO WHAT SHE THOUGHT SHE'D BE DOING, the six year old wouldn't have said barmaid. She would've said assassin, and while up until recently that would've correct, that phase had come to an end, as all things did. And now she worked behind a bar, in Ketterdam of all places.

The city was fine. Fun, really. The city of depravity and greed was a melting pot for screw-ups and runaways where they were all equally worthless and desperate to prove themselves otherwise. None more so than those Barrel Bosses everyone went on about.

Men playing at Gods, that's what everyone called them. Asra supposed they were right, though Gods did seem a bit far. Even the biggest baddest only dared proclaim himself King of this forsaken city. Pekka Rollins. Asra wasn't sure why she didn't just work for him. Maybe it was just her less than normal upbringing had left her despising anyone with a claim to authority and so, the so-called King of the Barrel only made her skin crawl. The Bastard of the Barrel however, that was someone she liked the sound of.

Kaz Brekker was... interesting. Amusing, in his own brooding and quiet way. She'd promised him a head, smiled at his subtle surprise when she delivered, and he'd made her a barmaid. Bastard indeed, she'd muttered when he told her.

It was like a cruel joke and she was both the punchline and the only one who knew of it. Still, a job was a job and a task was a task, and orders were all she'd ever really know. How was this any different? So she poured drinks and cleaned glasses and refilled cups until everyone in sight was drunken mess.

A barmaid. The Saints were cruel, assuming there were any. Asra doubted it.

She stood behind her bar and emptied her bottles into her customers in an almost trance. It was easy, barely worth her attention. She didn't mind, too much anyway, it gave her chance to do what she did best: watch.

Watching was her forte. Spying, knowing, noticing. Of all her many skills, watching always seemed to come most easily. Interacting with people was... not so appealing, but watching? That was fun. Well, interesting. Amusing. People were often amusing to watch, Asra found.

So she watched. The Crow Club was alive and loud and downright fascinating. Drinks were downed, bets placed, money lost, and then it would repeat. A cycle of loss that every single one of them followed happily. The greed of men, delusional hope of alcohol, and desperation to prove themselves something. It was pathetic to watch in the most hilarious way. Asra was just glad card games never really appealed to her.

Only one person joined her in her silent studing. That interesting, dark speck among the bright monstrosities of Ketterdam fashion: Kaz Brekker.

He'd sit in his both with a scowl on his face and gloves on his hands, watching the desolation unfold beneath his roof with all the arrogance and power of - Asra couldn't help but laugh - a God.

Sometimes he'd drink (Asra would study his face when she came to refil his drinks and he'd study her back). Sometimes he'd pour over his paperwork. Sometimes he'd talk to his men (or Dregs, as they called themselves), usually the bouncer she'd kicked or that infamous Wraith. Jesper and Inej, right? Asra didn't care much, honestly. But no matter what, his hands were gloved.

The gloves were odd. Asra had inquired, of course she had, and come up with the knowledge no one had a fucking clue. There were rumours, of course, outlandish and as likely as a fairytail. Tales of sixth fingers and blood curses lingering in the touch of his skin, that sort of thing. It was to be expected. Asra decided on two possibilities.

One; germiphobia. Simple, understandable in this city of filth, though highly inconvenient. It felt so human somehow, so simple. Terror often was, but somehow it didn't fit Kaz Brekker's complexion quite right. Misery suited him better, it brought out his eyes.