Heading Out

The next morning, when the sun was still a suggestion on the horizon, Ash snuck out of the inn. It was no challenge at all: Ash had always been a light sleeper, owing to the fact that she had rarely slept in a place that could truly be considered safe, so it was nothing to wake up as early as she wanted to. When she did, she was not surprised to see that both Solenia and Tienne were still deep in sleep. She had no doubt the two Valkyries were plenty skilled and competent for what they did, and that they had seen their fair share of hardship, but that was not the same thing as living a life surrounded by danger. Ash did not blame them for growing up in comfort, but she would take advantage of it.

Ash did feel more guilt from leaving than she expected. It wasn’t that she wanted to disrespect Solenia’s instructions, nor did she think the elf was incorrect in her assessment of the situation. Rather, Ash simply could not stomach the thought of sitting still, not when she knew that someone meant the city ill. It was all well and good for the Valkyries to go out and do good in the name of duty or whatnot, but Mearn was not their home. It could not be the same for them. Ash could not be thankful enough for all they had done already—especially saving her life multiple times in one day—but it was for that reason too that she could not leave everything to them. She owed it to them, the city, and herself to take matters into her own hands.

The first step was to figure out the exact nature of the threat the Emerald Hand, the keystone, and the evil-leaking-hills posed. Ash had no doubt the first and last were related. If the Emerald Hand wanted the keystone, then they wanted whatever was in those hills. So, it was only logical that finding the Emerald Hand’s hideout meant finding out what their ultimate objective was.

Hopefully, it would also explain why they were going after her, of all people. She could not imagine why some gang of magically-enhanced thugs would fixate on her when she had been involved for barely a day, but there was no other explanation for why the man had only attacked her. Well, if they wanted to come after her, then Ash would let them. It just made it easier to find them.

Ash did not intend to simply wait around, though. After leaving the inn, she headed straight back to her home neighborhood. However, she did not go back to her hideout. If Solenia and Tienne were correct that the Emerald Hand was after her, then she would not be leading them anywhere near her home or her people. Besides, her business was not there, but in the seediest part of an already seedy area of Mearn.

The neighborhood where Ash had lived since fleeing the orphanage was unquestionably a forsaken section of the city. It, like so many others, had been outpaced by the relentless upwards construction and, without further investment or defense, had been left to wither in the shadow of newer, more desirable developments. Now, the only people who lived there were those who had nowhere else to go. It was ruled and defined by crime, much far more serious than Ash’s gang was guilty of. Even so it was, for the most part, not the worst of the worst. It was still possible to live in the majority of the neighborhood, albeit with one eye constantly open and rarely with much money. In the darkest parts of the neighborhood, however, were places that even the most hardened of criminals did not tread lightly. Here lurked the most dangerous and powerful players, and businesses that would give the sturdiest minds nightmares. It was here where Ash’s goal lied.

Ash had always known to avoid the worst parts of the neighborhood with utmost care, but that did not mean she was entirely ignorant of what went on there. Almost all of what she was learned had been immediately locked away in the furthest reaches of her mind for the sake of her own sanity, but the knowledge was still there. In this case, Ash drew upon a rumor she had once heard about a tattoo artist who worked for the most powerful crime rings in Mearn. This, along with all the sordid tales of cruelty and branding and so on, was nothing special. But the stories also held that this artist offered services that were secret even to their regular clients. Supposedly, people who had sought these services rarely returned. Ash was well aware that these kinds of stories were, almost as a rule, exaggerated beyond any hint of reality, but it seemed like as good a place to start as any if she were looking for people who might make illicit alterations to peoples’ bodies.

Thus, Ash descended into the underbelly of Mearn, on constant alert for the first hint of a threat.

It was not difficult to find what she was looking for. Indeed, it was one of the deadliest tricks of the underworld: it was all too easy to get in, but almost impossible to get out. She needed only to ask the right questions of the right people, and she was well on her way to the tattoo artist. No one asked why a young girl like her wanted to go to such a place. Either they decided it wasn’t their business—getting too involved with others was a sure way of getting into trouble—or they figured they could take advantage of Ash. Either way, it got her to where she needed to be.

She would not have known the tattoo parlor for what it was if she had not been specifically led to it. The building was little more than a shack wedged between other, slightly dingier shacks and was completely undifferentiated from its neighbors. It was unlabeled, and unmarked. Even knowing what it was, Ash still second-guessed herself, which she supposed was the point. Nevertheless she entered quickly, if only to get off the street; she could feel many eyes watching her, and doubted any of them were friendly.

The interior was not what Ash expected. Far from a dark den of depravity and sinister plots, it was a shockingly professional space. It was clean—by the standards of lower Mearn, at least—a padded table sat in the middle, with a handful of chairs to the side. On the walls were hanging scrolls with what could only be examples of the artist’s work, largely crude, violent gang signifiers and other displays of strength or bravado. In one of the chairs sat a person who must have been the artist themselves, reading a book. They were human, with a thin, androgynous frame, and had quite clearly worked on their own body. Aside from that and the pouch of needles and inks at their bet, they could have been any common resident-criminal of the neighborhood.

“You’re lost,” they said, without looking up from the book. It was not a question.

Any other day, Ash would have agreed. On this day, however, she had gotten a look at the designs on the wall and seen the telltale hashmarks of Words. They were extremely subtle, but if one knew to look for them they were there, hinting at potential power.

“Come on, you wouldn’t turn away business, would you?” Ash asked, putting on a friendly air.

“Are you bringing any?” the artist replied, unimpressed and doubtful.

“Depends. Can you Scribe people?”

This got the artist to pay attention. They set the book down and looked at Ash, evaluating her with an exacting eye. Their face remained largely impassive, but Ash knew she was on to something.

“Got no idea what you’re talking about,” they said.

“Aw, don’t be like that. I see the Words in the samples. You really advertising what you aren’t selling?”

Ash had settled on ‘insistent, stupid gangster’ for her character, in the hopes that this was a fair descriptor of the artist’s usual clientele.

“This ain’t for you, kid. Get lost.”

The artist made a show of turning away and returning to their book. Ash realized that this was her last chance to break through, before the artist summoned whatever protection they surely had or, worse, ignored Ash entirely. She stepped forward, directly in front of them, and took a risk.

“What, you’re too good for me but not those Emerald Hand idiots? That doesn’t seem fair.”

The artist froze mid-page turn. They looked back up at Ash, this time with a great deal more interest and suspicion. After a moment’s more appraisal, they evidently reached a decision.

“Wait here,” they said.

Without any further explanation, the artist stood up and walked to the back of the room. There, they crouched down and pulled up a well-hidden trapdoor. They disappeared down a ladder and closed the door behind them. Ash chose to interpret this as a good sign.

The artist did not return immediately, or even after a handful of minutes. Ash briefly wondered if the artist had simply left her there while they fled, but then decided against it. After all, why would she be worth fleeing from? The artist didn’t know her, and she was rather less threatening than the Emerald Hand. Instead, Ash wandered around the studio, admiring the artist’s work. It was effective—even attractive—in a rough sort of way. Most striking were the Words, though. Up close, they were really quite obvious, even cleverly hidden amongst existing patterns. They didn’t mean anything to Ash, and she resolved to ask Tienne or Solenia how to read them later.

At that moment, the trapdoor creaked open, and the artist reemerged. They walked straight up to Ash.

“Look at this, please,” they said, holding out a thick cloth.

On pure reflex, Ash did so. Too late, she saw the Words Scribed across it, and had no time to react before the cloth leapt out of the artist’s hand, and clamped onto her face, covering her mouth and nose. She tore at it with all her strength, to no avail; it was sealed on tight.

Her breath ran out, far faster than it should have, and her vision went black.