Work Text:
Silk is a dedicated collector: of truth, lies, and the strange in-between that is both. He finds secrets in the downward twist of lips, in strictly guarded safes, and in the almost unnoticeable glint of weaponry. The world is a treasure-chest, people puzzle pieces, and Silk's eyes are always sharp.
Silk collects secrets; some of them are even his own.
Everywhere he goes, Silk carries weapons, gold, trinkets--necessities, all of them, but none quite so valuable as the collection of people he's been: names, and faces, and histories. Prince Kheldar one moment, Ambar of Kotu the next, and each man as real as the next.
It is a brilliant game, and anything but.
Silk's collection has grown vast: secrets, lies, lives.