Yardie (prime)/Muscle Memory

The Faendryl sharpened his knife as he gave a furtive glance at the victim. It was still, mouth agape, eyes widened in perpetual shock, its last gasp held permanently in fear. It remained fresh; no pungent smell wafted through the domicile, no signs of foul play to garner neighbors' attention, and no blood stains on the surface. Of course, that would change momentarily. Yardie prepared the sharpened vultite knife and moved closer to the deceased.

Pugilism was Yardie’s forte, but his blade work was just as swift, with a deftness cultivated by years of practice. Driving a sharp object and spilling guts served as a crippling, debilitating, visceral horror when combat called for it, so he had the knowledge and the skill. One strong hand held it from the bottom, and the rogue sliced toward the head with one fluid motion. The Faendryl frowned as he watched the cold blood drain from the lifeless thing into the basin. He hated blood – far too messy for his work, and the recent blood magic fanatics did nothing to assuage those concerns.

Then came the rough part. Yardie gripped the innards and yanked out all of the organs, spilling its guts and entrails into the wastebasket. Once completed, he washed the remains until no single drop of evidence stained any surface.

“Easy enough,” he said aloud, exhaling, a grin skimming up to the surface. He reached for the jardiniere and sifted through fresh ingredients.

Fugitive, assassin, Palestra—all these titles came with some notoriety, the hallmark of a Faendryl’s nefarious. But here, in the kitchen, he felt whole. His hands, designed for brutality and murder, were now cultivating something enjoyable, nourishing, and life-giving. He could do something good that provided a benefit instead of inflicting harm. With another knife, his cutting skills were tested as he minced dill and tarragon before patting them on the target, a red snapper.

Suddenly, the word did not seem so bleak anymore.

“Mister Yardie?” The young voice pierced his thoughts from the living space.

The rogue set the pan on the stove, waved a hand until it drew heat, and then put a small slab of butter on the surface. It shifted into a yellow puddle that coated the surface of the cast iron skillet. “Come and set the table, Spinnerette. We have a guest coming for dinner.” With a smile, he placed the fish on the skillet and closed his eyes at the active kitchen's comforting sound and smooth aromatics.