Baghdad, 13th Century – Party Atmosphere
The city hummed beneath a crescent moon, minarets casting long shadows over winding streets, and the Tigris reflected shards of lantern light like liquid gold. Merchants' stalls were shuttered, the call to prayer long since faded, leaving the city alive with whispers and nocturnal murmurs.
In the center, a sprawling mansion (palace) rose above the surrounding adobe and mud-brick homes, its sandstone walls etched with intricate geometric carvings. Windows glimmered with lantern light, and the air carried the mingled scents of roasted lamb, spiced wine, and the faint perfume of imported jasmine and amber.
Despite the piety he professed during the day, the palace's master, a notorious politician, held occasional nightly revels that drew gossip even from the farthest corners of Baghdad. Servants scurried beneath arched halls, cushions and carpets inlaid with gold thread, tapestries depicting distant lands, and low music spilling from hidden chambers. Lanterns swung from carved wooden beams, casting dancing shadows on silk-draped walls.
Outside, city dwellers paused to glimpse the spectacle: an extravagance that only cemented the politician's reputation for hypocrisy. Guards stationed at every gate were a reminder that while the party was open to his guests, the mansion itself was a fortress.
Arrival & Entry – Night Smoke in Disguise
The streets surrounding the mansion (more like a palace) were a labyrinth of shadow and flickering torchlight. She moved among the throng of latecomers, robes drawn tight to mask the lines of her form. Her eyes, sharp and deliberate, scanned every detail; the patrols, the lanterns, the occasional figure that lingered too long in the alleyways.
At the main gate, a pair of guards scrutinized the guest list. She approached with the calm elegance of one accustomed to high society. A tilt of her head, a modest bow, and her fingers brushed a coin through the folds of her sleeve. No one looked too closely; her composure spoke the language of wealth and refinement. She was expected, or at least, she would be taken for it.
A servant, trailing silk linens and carrying a tray of dates and honeyed pastries, barely acknowledged her presence. She allowed a small smile to curl at her lips, tilting her head toward the courtyard as though her entrance were the natural thing of the evening. The massive doors opened before her touch, swinging wide with a measured creak.
Inside, the air shifted immediately. The party's warmth and murmur enveloped her. Noblemen reclined on cushions with goblets of wine, their laughter mingling with the subtle strains of a lute and the whispered negotiations of deals and alliances. The scent of spiced meats mingled with sandalwood and smoke, heavy enough to hint at indulgence yet light enough not to betray the tension of watchful guards.
She walked down the hall with the poise of a guest, each step calculated to blend in, to draw attention without suspicion. Her robe's folds shifted just enough to suggest elegance, concealing the subtle tools of her trade beneath layers of fabric. She didn't glance at the guards; instead, her gaze drifted past them to the center of the room, where her true focus lay, the nobleman.
The room seemed to bend subtly around her presence, the music and conversation acting as a veil. Her hand brushed a column, her fingers lingering near a small latch hidden in the carved stone, a window that could be her entry point for the team. She laughed softly at a passing joke, eyes never leaving her target.
Everything was performance. Every gesture a signal, every glance a message. Yet to the onlookers, she was just another guest. Graceful, captivating, and utterly unassuming.
The Party Begins – Arrival and Mingling
Lanterns swayed gently in the cool night air, their light spilling across the sandstone courtyard of the mansion. The first guests arrived in carriages drawn by fine Arabian horses, cloaks dusted lightly with the city's golden sand. Servants in flowing robes flitted between entrances, balancing trays of dates, honeyed pastries, and small crystal carafes of spiced wine.
Noblemen and merchants greeted one another with the customary bows and handshakes, their voices low but warm, punctuated by laughter. Women in jewel-toned silks and embroidered veils moved with measured elegance, their eyes bright behind delicately worked patterns of gold and thread. The air smelled of incense, warmed honey, and roasted lamb carried from the kitchen halls.
Night Smoke entered as quietly as any other guest, yet her presence seemed to create a subtle ripple in the crowd. She offered a delicate bow to a passing diplomat, a polite smile to an elderly merchant, letting her posture suggest refinement rather than calculation. Beneath the layers of silk and embroidered cotton, her eyes moved with precision. Every servant's route, every guard's patrol, every slightly ajar window and door latch registered in her mind. Nothing escaped her scrutiny.
The party was gathering pace. Conversations merged into a soft hum of gossip and negotiation. Men discussed trade routes, alliances, and political favors while sipping wine; women exchanged compliments on silks, jewelry, and perfumes, their laughter light yet intentional. Each guest believed they controlled the night, but Night Smoke observed them all. Every stumble, every glance, every repeated gesture was a map of opportunity, a list of vulnerabilities.
The Toast
The nobleman rose from his carved mahogany seat at the center of the main hall, his gold-embroidered robes catching the lantern light with every subtle movement. The chatter fell into a respectful hush as he raised his goblet.
"Friends, esteemed guests, allies in the city and beyond," he began, his voice smooth and commanding, "tonight we celebrate not only our prosperity, but the bonds that hold Baghdad's great house together."
Goblets were lifted, the sound of crystal clinking against crystal ringing clear. "To wealth! To wisdom! To Baghdad!"
The guests erupted in applause and cheer, some raising their voices in song or joining the small lute ensemble stationed near the corner alcoves. The hall swelled with sound, footsteps over thick Persian rugs, murmurs of delight, the rustle of silk and velvet against polished marble.
Amid the celebration, Night Smoke's eyes were never idle. While her delicate fingers traced the rim of her wine glass, she catalogued the mansion's inner workings:
The way the guards lingered at the stairwell, slightly distracted by the music.
A servant adjusting the heavy embroidered curtain near a side door, inadvertently creating a narrow path.
A slightly loose window latch tucked behind the main hall drapery.
Even as she smiled and engaged with a nearby diplomat, her mind assessed risk: escape routes, weak security points, and potential allies, or obstacles. To any onlooker, she was merely a refined noblewoman enjoying the party. To herself, every detail mattered. Every gesture could be a signal to those waiting outside.
🍷 Party Resumes – Mingling, Deals, and Observation
As the toast ended, the hall erupted back into motion. Guests drifted into small clusters, discussing trade agreements, political favors, and whispered alliances. The nobleman resumed his seat but did not relax; he gestured to favored allies, sharing jokes and observing behavior with the practiced eye of a man who had spent decades in public life. He laughed loudly at one story, leaning into the gilded cushion, ensuring those around him felt both entertained and acknowledged.
Yet even as he performed for his politically beneficial guests, his gaze wandered. Women passing through the crowd caught his attention more than once. And then he noticed her, the mysterious figure near the far window,draped in jewel-toned silk, with a posture both delicate and deliberate.
Her gaze lifted briefly to meet his, a subtle acknowledgment of his notice, and then returned to scanning the hall. A practiced tilt of the head, the faint curve of a smile, enough to catch his interest, yet impossible to read.
To the nobleman, she was intriguing. A new presence in his carefully curated circle, a woman whose composure and subtle allure made her stand out amid the familiar faces. He leaned back, smiling, already calculating how to draw her attention while continuing to entertain his allies.
To Night Smoke, he was simply another point in her map: distracted guards, a wealthy target with predictable habits, a room full of opportunities.
A dull thud echoed faintly from above.
One of the guards near the archway frowned, hand drifting toward his blade. "Did you hear—"
"Careful!"
A servant stumbled between them, nearly dropping a tray of filled glasses. Wine sloshed dangerously close to the guard's sleeve. Apologies spilled faster than the drink.
By the time the guard looked up again, silence.
Nothing but music.
"Oyy what do you think you're doing!?"
Across the room, she exhaled softly, swirling her drink once.
Clockwise.
"The linens, these aren't the right ones." A hushed argument broke out near the banquet tables.
"They were just here—"
"No, these are for the lower hall!"
A tray was taken. Another misplaced. A third abandoned entirely.
In the confusion, a side corridor stood briefly unattended. No guards. No servants. Just an open path.
Near the window, she adjusted the fold of her sleeve.
Once.
Twice.
Then stilled.
She drifted toward the window as if the room had grown too warm. Fingers brushing the frame, absentminded. Her attention never left the nobleman. A soft laugh from across the room, his this time. He was already watching her now.
Her thumb pressed lightly against the latch. A pause. Hair tucked behind her ear. The faintest click disappeared beneath the swell of music. She let her hand fall away, as though nothing had happened.
On one hand, she toyed with a loose strand of her hair, winding it slowly around her finger as if lost in idle thought. The other rested near the window, fingers grazing the latch, not quite touching, not quite still. A faint tremor ran through them, subtle enough to be mistaken for nerves.
But her eyes told a different story. They were fixed on him. Across the room, surrounded by laughter and gold-lined cups, the nobleman paused mid-sentence. Just for a moment. Just long enough to notice her.
She didn't look away. Didn't smile.
Only watched.
And that was enough.
The hook had set.
A breath later, the window gave the slightest click.
Nuwais approached, his gold-embroidered robes catching the lantern light, the hum of the hall fading slightly in his mind as he focused on her. "Night Smoke," he said, voice smooth, laced with amusement. "It seems the bazaar has impeccable taste—or perhaps I am simply lucky, encountering you twice so soon."
She inclined her head, the faintest smile curving her lips. "Or perhaps you are fortunate," she replied evenly, letting her gaze sweep the room before settling back on him. "Your hospitality is… persuasive, Nuwais. It seems even a passing merchant might be tempted."
He chuckled, a low, warm sound, leaning subtly closer. "I had hoped you would come. It would be… disappointing if a woman of such discernment remained hidden among the city's merchants."
Her fingers brushed the rim of her goblet, deliberate, and she allowed the smallest pause before speaking. "The bazaar is full of noise," she said lightly. "It is rare to find someone whose attention lingers beyond the obvious."
Nuwais's eyes gleamed with amusement, the faint shadow of something darker behind the charm. "Ah, so you remember our first meeting?" he asked, almost rhetorically, though he already assumed she did.
"I do," she said smoothly, letting the memory linger in her tone without revealing intent. "It was… memorable."
He gestured around the hall, where laughter and music mingled with the scent of roasted lamb and incense. "The party is lively, yes," he said, lowering his voice slightly, "but even the most spirited gathering can tire the keenest mind."
She inclined her head, allowing a pause. "Indeed," she said, "quiet observation often reveals… far more than the chatter of the crowd."
Nuwais's smile deepened, eyes sharp and playful. "Then perhaps we should find such quiet," he murmured, subtly offering her his arm. "A place away from the eyes and ears of the hall… just a moment, to enjoy a different view of the evening."
Her lips curved in the smallest, almost imperceptible smile, giving the illusion of compliance while she already controlled the direction of the encounter. "Lead the way," she murmured softly, her voice a silken thread that drew him in without haste.
As he guided her through clusters of laughing guests, she cataloged every guard, every servant, every slightly ajar window or corridor—all while maintaining the appearance of a merchant charmed by his attention. The party's music, the clinking of crystal, and the perfume-laden air (skip).
Nuwais led her through the throng of guests, their passage smooth, almost imperceptible amid the swirls of silks and laughter. "Your collection at the bazaar," he said, voice low, "your chalices, the bronze jugs—exquisite. I cannot imagine many could rival such craftsmanship."
Night Smoke's eyes flickered toward a polished goblet in one of the tables nearby before returning to him, bright and calculating. "I have always believed," she said, letting her tone linger, "that the same eye which judges a fine bronze or silver vessel can judge… other forms of refinement. Perhaps even the men who admire them."
He smiled, amusement dancing across his face. "Is that so?" he murmured. "Then I suppose I should feel honored."
Her smile was faint, almost imperceptible, yet precise. "I do not hand out compliments lightly," she said. "A discerning gaze is hard to deceive."
As they moved deeper into the mansion, past the inner halls and narrow corridors lined with embroidered tapestries and oil lamps, the clamor of the main party fell behind them. Servants and guards passed by with careful attention, yet neither intruded upon their quiet procession.
"Your eyes," Nuwais said, lowering his voice to match the intimacy of the moment, "are as sharp as I remember. At the bazaar, I thought you clever. Now…" He let the statement trail, letting the hint of admiration and curiosity hang in the air.
Night Smoke allowed her gaze to sweep over the guards flanking the hallway, cataloging their positions, noting the gaps and distractions, before turning back to him. "Cleverness, like beauty, is often… a matter of perspective," she replied lightly. "What one admires depends on the measure they choose."
He laughed softly, the sound low and confident, and gestured toward a bronze-handled door ahead. "And what measure would you choose for a man like me?"
Her eyes met his, steady, unflinching. "I am most exacting," she said. "But the most valuable vessels… and the finest men… often conceal their worth behind layers few can penetrate."
The hallway narrowed as they climbed a spiral staircase, the warm glow of lanterns reflecting on polished marble and gilded mosaics. Guards lingered in corners, half-turned, respectful of the space of their master and his companion. Nuwais's hand brushed slightly past her arm—not touching, merely guiding through the architectural maze of his private inner halls.
Finally, they reached the top floor, a door of dark carved wood etched with inlaid bronze patterns. Nuwais pushed it open, revealing his private quarter, a space awash in the glow of lanterns and the silver light spilling in from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Beyond the glass, the city of Baghdad stretched in every direction: rooftops of sandstone, winding alleys, and the glint of the Tigris catching the moonlight.
He gestured toward the view, voice rich with pride and amusement. "From here, one sees everything. Every light, every shadow, every subtle movement in the streets below. A perspective few are granted."
Night Smoke's eyes lingered on the city, then flicked to him, mirroring the same sharp assessment she applied to her merchandise. "Indeed," she murmured, letting the edge of her gaze convey both intrigue and control. "Perspective… is everything."
And there, in the glow of lanterns and moonlight, amid the opulent trappings of a corrupt politician's wealth, the dance of power, seduction, and subtle manipulation reached its quiet apex—though the real game, as always, lay just beyond sight.
Skippu
Under the cloudless night sky, atop the collection of adobe houses overlooking the distant dunes, a group of mercenaries clad in black linen clothing gathers in wait. One of them holding a cylindrical metallic apparatus covering a round glass, a telescope. He's particularly fixated on a specific house in the higher rise of the city, a well-lit house, and a grand one at that, with guards at the base plus some more atop it.
"Whoa they're really going at it huh…"
He comments as he observe one of the private quarter in the fancy abode. It's high placement allows for a good view of the city and beyond the gate but likewise, it is also visible to outsiders' prying eyes.
"would you like to check it out too, Night Wind?"
He offers to a slightly shorter, slender figure wrapped in black robe and a mix of other fabric, waiting on the roof with him alongside 3 others behind them.
"I don't need to, I'm sure Brother will carry out his mission successfully"
A young female voice, her attire is a mismatch of several clothing style at once with leather belts hugging her waist and across her chest. Her expression stays cold, barely reacting. Until he continues.
"C'mon, that's not what I meant-"
He jest.
But she didn't seem to find that funny, this time shooting a sharp stare at him. Though her mouth is covered behind a ragged cotton fabric, her downturned eyebrows more than expresses her annoyance.
"whoa whoa, I'm kidding… fine, I'll enjoy the view for myself. Still, he's really good at what he does huh, this is going to be a long night for those couple huh"
A larger bulky figure seated down on the parapets, chimes into the conversation.
"It'd be best you don't anger the young lady, Escapist. She's had a long stressful day from the infiltration earlier"
His deep rough voice carries a wise and respectful tone. Offering his advice even as he's focused on classifying and packing his weapons on the floor, or rather roof considering where they are.
"what an obscene man"
Another figure sitting cross legged on the roof speaks out his thought. A lanky man with a sharp chin, wearing several contraptions, monocles near his face. Gears and thin metal rods running across his shoulder, ever so subtly reflecting the moonlight, are covered by the hood of his attire. Though he doesn't look as disgusted as the lady, rather amused even. Leaning on to the parapets with his eyes closed, like he's trying to sleep, or perhaps meditating.
"Keep your thoughts to yourself, Noon Star. Some of us have longer hours to work, cut us some slack"
The bespectacled man scoffs again.
When Escapist turns back to resume his voyeuristic "mission", he finds the room already dark. The action is already over.
"Huh? Where'd they go? Did they already go to sleep?"
A mature woman's voice cuts through the suspense of the cold night
"He will be sleeping for another 2 days before they figured out what's wrong. That'll give us enough time to clear our camp and exits the city. By the time they found out about the poison, we'll already be on our way to Hejaz. Mission complete, everyone"
She briefed them as she turns the other way, the same woman on the other end of the telescope earlier is now fully clothed and covered. Tugging the other side of her robe to hide her head and exposed body from the cold night breeze. Hearing her order, the other figures on the roof stands up and prepares to depart.
That is, until Night Wind calls out to the woman
"Brother… umm.."
Halting others and more importantly the woman on her steps, she turns to her. Her hood falls off from the motion, revealing her face to the moon. Slowly within that turn, her face also transitions into that of a different person.
Her jawline straightens, her gaze sharpens, her chiseled chin now grows a faint stub of beard. Her bodacious figure slowly rise into something more lean and robust. Replaced with a broader shoulder and a firm solid abdomen. His hair is now no longer hanging down his chest but spikier and crowning his head.
"What is it, Night Wind?"
Her concerned, uncertain face from earlier shifts to a more reassured expression. With a light smile, she replies.
"N-Nothing… Welcome back, Brother. I mean, Night Smoke"
The rest of the squad just grins subtly under the moonlit night.
"Good job, leader"
They say in unison.
"I appreciate it, everyone. Now, we must make haste"
Juxtaposed against their merry faces, his cold unreadable demeanor stresses his earlier commands.