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He had finally fucking made it. Though only after trudging through the mud-fucked forest for what felt like several eternities. He had missed the stagecoach that had been meant to bring him to town, so he had just… walked. That being the worst idea he could have had and committed to, he realized once the sun started to set two and a half days ago. But he was here at least, and with just enough money to at least buy a night at a pub or tavern or whatever the fuck the place he could get drunk off his ass was. That is, if the lord or lady of this town decided they didn’t need his skills. And if he was lucky, he would not only be hired and given payment right off the bat, but he would also be able to play music sweet enough for people to give him some coin. If only so he would be able to drink himself to sleep and at least get a few hours of it undisturbed by his near-constant nightmares. His swirling memories of all those years in the court made it hard for him to go to sleep at all. Hell, a bath wouldn’t be bad, either. But he rarely had any sort of luck, and he didn’t feel lucky today. He had asked… Fuck, he couldn't remember his name though… He couldn't remember either if he had gotten it at all, to be honest. He had asked the caretaker where he needed to go, and he pointed him, both literally and figuratively, in the right direction.
He could feel the eyes of those who live in this squalid hamlet stare at and linger on him with his bells ringing with every step he took, with his fading and mildewing performance attire, but he had long ago learned to ignore it. Ignore the strange looks that were cast his way, at his masked face hiding away his visage, at how he allowed not a bit of bare skin to be seen. This was just another town or village like the hundreds he had passed through before this, trying to make enough so that he wouldn’t starve to death. And as long as he has his dirk on his hip, he’ll be safe. It had gotten him out of the court after all...
He casts his eyes up to the grand, crumbling estate, yanking out the scrap of paper he had scribbled down the details of this possible job he could get in this falling apart place from his bag. Yes, this is the place. As impossible as it felt to have someone who likely had more money than he could sneeze at to run and own a place that was in such a horrid state. But hey, maybe they were a rich tightass and they would rather die of the plague than spend a pretty coin more than they had to. He had seen it before. Where they would rather let the people they were meant to look over suffer rather than have to spend a cent more than they technically had to. It made him sick to think about, but he wasn’t exactly in a position to refuse what he had heard was a good-paying job. Sometimes one has to pick the lesser of two evils, and well… This was the lesser evil. Unfortunately.
Glancing once again at the scrap of paper to make sure that this was where that cackling caretaker told him he would go, having written it down with messy handwriting since, if he didn’t, he was sure to forget as soon as he heard it. Yes, this was the place. Pushing the door open with a shoulder so that his hands remained free, he glances around, trying to take in everything that he could. After all, the world rarely treats people like him kindly. But the place seems safe, though that is never enough on its own to let his guard down. He had his trust betrayed before, and he wasn’t going to let that happen so easily again. Sarmenti never trusted a place that cost more in its upkeep than he would likely make in his lifetime, and he’s not about to start now.
Despite the numerous bells sewn onto his garb, he had long ago learned how to be quiet, lurking around the long halls, as silent as his shadow that traveled always with him. Two lefts and then a right, is what he had written down on the piece of paper. But had he written it down right? Or had that barely sane man actually told him two rights and then left? Had he gotten it all mixed up in his head again? Two lefts and a right is what he had written, so that’s what he was going to do. And if he ended up in the wrong place, he can always just backtrack. Hopefully. If he remembered where he came from.
He carefully traverses the halls and corridors, feeling a faint rush of relief when he finally comes across the door that the caretaker said he would find the heir of this estate. Taking in a breath, and letting it out, he, as quietly as he can, cracks the door open to take a glance inside. No lord, but a lady, and clearly she was the one in charge, busily working over some papers, lost in whatever she was doing. He couldn’t help but chuckle internally, easily slipping into the room with naught a sound. The door is left open by a crack for the risk that the door would need some convincing to go back into the frame, and make his “Trick” not be as impressive. That trick honestly just being leaning against the wall in utter silence until he’s noticed, despite his hands practically itching to busy themselves with something. To twist, to play, to strum, to at least twiddle his thumbs, but he forces himself still, despite how uncomfortable it makes him. Movement attracts the eye after all, a fact he had been forced to know well. But staying so still does also give him the chance to look this marquise over before he discusses the matter of wages with her. He likes to at least get a look over people before he deeply peeves them.
She looks young, maybe just a few years older than him. But then again, he never had been a good judge of age. But she’s pretty enough, even though women don’t really fit his taste, having found out that men much more suited his fancy during his time away from the court. Her hair is brown in color, carefully braided so that she doesn’t have to worry about it falling in front of her eyes. Appearances clearly being important in some way to her. Her eyes, though... They seemed… Odd in a way that was hard for him to put his finger on. But he can figure out exactly why later. Why do those dark eyes seem to somewhat get under his skin, even though they aren't making eye contact? But as he’s watching those dark eyes, they flick up to him for a moment before settling back down. Just before she jolts and gasps as she snaps her head up, nearly knocking over her inkwell.
“H-How long have you been there?” She sputters slightly, losing her composure for a moment.
Sarmenti realizes suddenly that he never got her name. It’s not important. He can get it another time.
The fool chuckles, almost giggling, as he shrugs, letting his bells ring.
“However long will impress you the most.” He comments, a giggle twisting out from between his words.
Her eyes clearly look him over, at his mask, down, and then up to his mask again, doing her best to take him in. After a moment of quiet from her, she lets out a breath as well as some of the tenseness in her body. He clearly doesn't mean her… immediate harm. If he had, he would have already.
“Have a seat.”
Sarmenti has to consider that for a second, an impulse deep inside him wants to disobey, to push against the rules set simply in front of him, an impulse he forces down despite how tempting it is, how bad the itch is. He’s trying to get a job here after all. So he pulls out the chair in front of the noble's desk, legs screeching across the wood floor that is likely older than he is, hanging his lute off the back of it before dumping himself into the old cushion. The woman lets out a sigh, as if exhausted by him already. Something he's used to.
“I assume that you are here about the posting.”
A chuckle leaves him, the question feeling silly. It was, really. Why else would he be here? To tell her a bedtime story? Not like he knows any, not really.
“What gave it away?~” He teases, knowing there is somewhat of a bite to his words, but not caring enough to rid his tone of it. “Oh, let me guess, was it my shoes?”
Idiots. All rich folk were. Common folk like himself at least have a mind enough to have sense. And the heir to the hamlet, kinda fucked now that he thinks that someone can just inherit an unrelated person's home and correctly say it was theirs, shifts in her seat, as if suddenly uncomfortable. Well, he's not here to comfort her. Just to loan his lot in life to her for a while. Bloodshed and music.
She starts going through her papers, looking for something.
“You do know this will be dangerous, correct? That the loss of your life is quite possible?”
The jester can’t help but break into a bout of laughter, cackling, and leaning back in his chair for a moment. As he lets out a screech of laughter, he suddenly slams his palms onto the desk and leans close to the noble till their noses nearly touch, knowing his grin is likely so wide it can be seen through his mask. The marquise jumps in her seat, leaning away from him until she can't anymore. Pinned between him and the wall, as her breathing picks up speed.
“I’ve been a dead man walking for years. Putting me in the ground will make little difference.” The laughter is gone from his voice, words said in such a way that the truth he speaks them with can't be denied, as still he grins wildly back at the frightened face that stares at him.
The others that had arrived before him that had held a similar idea to his own had likely been more… something, he can’t recall the word, or at least… not as openly hostile or crazed. And most of all, so very uncaring about their own life.
Sarmenti settles back down into his seat, fingers tapping against the arm of the chair, back to his usual “calm” if calm is a word anyone would think to use for him, another chuckle leaving his chest at the thought. The heiress needs a moment to regain her composure again, letting out a shuddering breath.
“Al…Alright, so you accept and understand the risks, then. Give me just a moment to find the contract-...”
Again, her hands return to papers on her desk. Sarmenti realizes, almost absent-mindedly, that her dark eyes have blue to them. Mostly brown, yes, but… a thin ring of blue around her pupils. Something he's never seen before. Never. The other way around, blue, then brown, then black, yes, but… never like that. Maybe that's why her eyes had unsettled him… But he's made to sort it into the back of his mind when she pulls out the contract she had been looking for and sets it down in front of him.
“Here is our contact. You shall fight under my employment, of which you understand comes with risk to life and limb. I shall cover the costs of everything needed to house, feed, and heal you, as well as some forms of entertainment. I shall also cover any and all costs needed to improve your equipment and any training that I deem necessary.” His eyes skip along the words of the contract, missing some of it, but absorbing most of it as she continues to blabber. “You shall be paid twice monthly, with a bonus being given per mission you have been sent out on as compensation for any substantial injury incurred during your work. And-”
“I get it, I get it!” Sarmenti interrupts, starting to drum his fingers against the aged wood. “Just let me sign the thing so we can get this over with.”
Cerise, he read her name was, lets out a sigh, pulling the quill from the inkwell.
“You can sign along the line at the bottom. If you can't write then-”
Suddenly, deeply irritated, Sarmenti snatches the quill from her hand, nearly snapping it in his harsh grip.
“I know how to write and can sign my own damn name! I can read as well, ya know, Cerise du Launtmount. I'm at least that “Cultured” you frog.” He snarls, not even fully sure of the nerve that had been struck that had led him to be so deeply offended, scribbling down in his typical chicken scratch before she can stop him,
Signing his life away again to another who wanted nothing but his talents.
As he stands in a huff, grabbing his meager things and storms out, he realizes.
He had written his s backwards again.