There's another catboy inside!

(Mikh doesn't get offended by the term either - for one, it's hilarious, and for another, getting offended by things is, to his reckoning, a lot of work for, frequently, very little gain.)

There aren't so few miqo'te around Ul'dah that this is exactly unusual. The city life might be overstimulating and confusing to many newcomers of their kind, but there are enough who stick it out - whether due to having nowhere else to go, or due to stubbornness - or aren't so bothered that a person is likely to pass at least one or two in the street every day. Still, most aren't dressed like this one is, halfway between the wealthy styles of Ul'dah and Keeper of the Moon tradition in his red silk sultan-style pants and open leather vest embroidered with prayers to and sigils of Menphina, goddess of the moon.

He's also wearing enough jewelery to drown a lalafell in shallow water, but that's perfectly normal for an Ul'dahn. It's all of decent quality, but nothing exceptionally expensive, and none of it is masterwork-quality.

He's sitting at a table with a hyur man, likely Ala Mhigan, who appears to have left off on drowning his sorrows to instead regale the miqo'te with his tale of woe. The miqo'te in question nods along sympathetically, a spark of something dangerous in his slit-pupiled eyes.

T'shhim can just make out what the hyur is saying from the door as he comes in, "-and the Guard won't do a thrice-damned thing about it, of course."

One of his ears immediately twitches and turns more towards that direction, a second before he himself turns to look.

...huh. Potentially interesting! Let's scoot over that way ish and see what's happening, why don't we.

The hyur's voice is bitter; his expression, hopeless. The miqo'te's is not.

"You didn't actually go to them?" He asks, dubious. His ear twitches as he tracks the light tread of feet coming closer, but he doesn't turn away from his tablemate.

"Of course not," the hyur says, "I do not need to ask to know those bastards will believe that thieving whoreson over me."

Shhim leans against a wall, not pretending to not be eavesdropping, but not wanting to intrude anyway. If this actually turns out to be interesting, he can insert himself into it later; and if not, he won't have made any commitments.

"And the outpost guards are even worse," he nods, ears flattening briefly before perking back up again. "This was the one up by Drybone, yes? That lalafell with the blue hair?"

"No, no, I saw no blue-haired captain- this was a hyur, his hair was brown. Aldin was his name."

The miqo'te smiles, "I'll be sure to keep an eye out. Can I get you another drink, friend?"

Leaving his companion for the bar, Mikh side-eyes the other miqo'te as he passes him, raising an eyebrow beneath a twitching ear, inquisitive.

That seems like a cue.

If Mikh's attire was halfway between wealthy Ul'dah and traditional Keeper, this miqo'te's is decidedly of the Seeker "clothes are more effort than they're worth" philosophy. But they're not tribal; they're a dancer's silks, a sleeveless open jacket that stops before his midsection plus the sides of a short skirt coupled with long rectangles of fabric going all the way from his waist almost to the floor, more remarkable in how carefully designed they seem to cover nothing. They're all in a midnight blue, and tied together by chains and necklaces of the sort that's designed to accompany music with its moving jingle.

He locks step with the blond and says, with a casualness one would expect of an acquaintance, "Seems like your friend's gotten in the wrong sort of trouble."

Mikh offers him a friendly smile, "Is there a right sort of trouble to be in, when you're Ala Mhigan in Ul'dah?" He raises a hand to the barkeep, gesturing towards the table he'd come from. The woman nods and sets to fixing another drink for him.

"It seems the captain of one of the outposts in the east is taking valuables off Ala Mhigans who pass through, claiming they'd been stolen. Even when they're clearly of Ala Mhigan origin. My friend was warning me, in case I should pass through there; it's not much of a step from refugees to miqo'te, to that type, after all."

"The right sort of trouble is the sort of trouble you go to the guard for help with. The wrong sort of trouble is everything else."

Shhim has some trouble sympathising, given the way the Ala Mhigans themselves treated him when he first came, but that is neither here nor there.

"And when the guard won't hear your troubles?" Mikh tilts his head at him, pausing to take the drink the barkeep gives him on her way to the table he'd come from. "I haven't had much in the way of the wrong sort of trouble, myself," he taps one of the pendants around his neck, which on closer look turns out to be a guild medallion, "I'm a good, law-abiding member of the Goldsmith Guild! I pay my dues, take some clients, learn from my seniors. The city guards don't have a problem with me - but sometimes the guards in the outlying territories can be... hasty? Too quick to judge? A single person with a cargo full of jewels is a tempting target for all kinds of banditry."

Then you solve it yourself, or you don't do anything and languish in suffering, he doesn't say.

He nods at the bartender as she's walking back, and she knows his face and tastes well enough by now so he doesn't even have to say anything for her to get him what he wants.

"Which outpost?" he wonders.

"Do you know the last one on the road out to Drybone? It's about a day and a half's ride out from Ul'dah, assuming you're not sending your bird pelting down the road like a madman," he says, like someone who's never gone pelting down the road on chocoboback like a madman, "Anyone coming in from the camp along the sunway goes through it. I've actually been thinking of going out east to look through the markets in the settlements there, you'd be surprised what kinds of treasures you can find there if you look." He smirks, there and gone in a moment, "Maybe I'll pick myself up a little something of Ala Mhigan make."

...huh.

"Want company?" he asks brightly.

He beams, "I love company," he returns, just as brightly. He lifts his drink in a cheers motion, "Mikh Zhtaarr," he introduces himself. "Novice Goldsmith, archer and adventurer, among other things. Former member of the Weavers' Guild," he adds, entire expression drooping dramatically for a moment before he perks himself back up. "And you?"

"T'shhim Tia, dancer and whore. And occasionally I do other things than that." Cheers indeed, and he takes a sizeable swig of the beer the bartender's brought him, something that looks to be more pure alcohol than—well, than anything else.

He receives a headtilt for his efforts, "What kind of dancing?"

"I originally learned from someone who hailed from Thavnair, but I have learned other styles since, and usually improvise depending on the situation. So the answer is either 'my own kind' or 'no kind', depending on how cynical you are."

"Ooh, Thavnair," he savors the word, "I'll get there someday; my sister will demand it if nothing else," he laughs lightly, "I've heard their dancing is interesting. Do you think those poor guards exiled out to the edge of Ul'dahn territory have seen it?"

"You know, I would imagine not. Can't see where they'd have run into it. I'm sure they'd find it fascinating."

He laughs, "I think we'll get along just fine, T'shhim. It's a little late to leave town now; what do you say to ninth bell tomorrow morning? The Gate of Nald?"

"That sounds reasonable. On chocobo back, one assumes?"

"My Camylle would never forgive me if I left her behind," he confirms with a nod. He looks down at his drink, "I suppose I should get a good night's sleep, if I'm leaving early tomorrow. Ah, well," he downs it in one go.

"Forcing a Keeper to sleep early. What have I done."

He downs his, too, though, because Mikh is not wrong.

He grins, showing off those characteristic teeth, "It's alright, I'm only half," he winks a slitted eye.

He sets his mug on the bar and pulls out his purse to settle the night's tab, leaving a tidy pile of gil on the bar as he steps away.

"Menphina bless your dreams," he offers as a farewell, waving to the barkeep as he speaks.

Gods schmods.

"And yours," he replies.

...technically he has an apartment at the city but right now he's feeling kind of horny for some reason and he wants to get fucked into oblivion. Thankfully he has a running tab with Momodi and he can just ask for a room and pay later, and thankfully this is the Quicksand, so quickly enough he finds a pretty thing willing to be led into a room by him so he can have some fun.

He's at the appointed place at the appointed time, wearing hardened travel leathers and a hood and veil good for the sun and the sand. His chocobo is small, relatively, but so is he so that doesn't matter. She's saddled and carrying enough bags for a short trip.