Zola

Zola sat in the tavern. The air was rich with cigar smoke, the choking sweetness of burnt cherries dominating her senses. She carefully eyed the room, taking care to never linger her gaze anywhere for too long, taking breaks to nurse her drink. It would not do any good to get involved in an altercation. She grimaced as a squeal cut through the rowdy chatter of noise - a bar maiden pretending to be pleased with the attention of a customer. Zola couldn’t fault her though as it likely made for better tips.

It was hard to imagine wanting to come here after a long day's work, but Zola shook that thought away quickly, scolding herself for her own arrogance. Not many had a pleasant home to return to. Still, despite her reluctance, she remained grateful for one thing - the bar attracted regulars.

This made newcomers easy to spot.

After triple checking for faces she didn’t know, she relaxed her gaze to the man in front of her. He wasn’t attractive - a small part of her twinged in protest that this was the first thing she thought. It was likely a boon to his usefulness as a spy, however. Beautiful people did not good spies make; unless in an entirely different modus operandi. Leaning forward, she wrapped her fingers in his, plastering a smile on her face.

‘How was your week, my love?’

Irritation splashed through her mind as he stiffened at the touch. They held these meetings for long enough now that she was getting concerned he wasn’t becoming a better thespian. As she considered the longevity of their contract he finally slipped the mask on, returning her smile.

The report held little interest, in the end. Zola was undisturbed, as she had not expected much. The spy was really just a kitchen hand, paid to keep his eyes open. These days that seemed enough, considering most were content with their lot. Despite her lack of surprise, she did feel… Disappointment? The Kitchen Hand-turned-spy seemed to notice, and he leaned closer.

‘The Moderator did miss her meeting this morning.’

Zola grumbled.

‘I’ve told you to take care of watching The Moderator. In fact, I recall specifically telling you not to report to me on that matter’

He only frowned in response, so she pushed her reproach.

‘She would have you killed and would be rather pissed off with me’

The frown deepened and she noticed a trickle of anger.

‘I would never speak of you, my lady.’

At this, she let out a laugh. It was a mirthless thing.

‘Yes you would. Killed was too kind a phrase’

The words were spoken with a small smile.