Historia VI

Slap!

“Auugh!”

“Mr. Áed says it’s time to pay your debts.” A tall, furry Caninite nonchalantly summarizes, “You should’ve known this was bound to happen.”

The goon turns to another coming down into the shop’s cellar. A lively city evaporates with the closing of a door behind him. Just candlelight glows in this nearly empty coffin.

“I’ve got it from here.” The second goon tells the Caninite, “our friend here, Zaos, seems to think he’s exempt from Mr. Áed’s conditions.” His finger pointing my way in such a condescending way. The way it waggles. The way his eyes look down on me. His ‘greater than you’ airs he puts on.

Dammit! How did he follow me here?

He walks back and forth. My hands are tied behind a wooden chair from the seafood shop above. Feet done up in the same way. All my conduits have been removed. Collected as payment for a debt I couldn’t avoid. They know I’m unable to do anything. Even if I did, that blue-furred Caninite would rip me apart after the arcana drains my energy enough.

“So,” the second goon monologues, “a dark elf like you had the audacity to try and cross Mr. Áed? Poor, little Zaos. In a species that can exist longer than I, Mr. Kaipo, and everyone else in the shop above combined, none of you really learn too much in all that time. I guess I must be fair— on one hand— you are rather young still. A few decades, possibly. A couple. It doesn’t matter. It’s all but a footprint through sand in Mr. Áed’s eyes. Yet, it’s the debts he cannot overlook as much. And, it’s species like you, that rack up the most before you flake.”

His elvish lungs— grown fat from years kissing asses— have caught up to him. Him, and his waning capacities. After taking another deep breath, “Think again. You thought you could escape into a war-zone and that would be enough to write you off? Fuh Hahaha! That wannabe king can’t hold a tree up if it was rooted in the ground. He’ll muck about and fail somewhere else— again— sometime soon.”

His words drone on and on. It’s like they never end. Those monologues would be enraging if the fool wasn’t doing such a corny job at his ‘suave guy’ accent. It is so eye-roll inducing.

Slap!

Back of the fool’s hand strikes my face. Unlike Mr. Kaipo’s beastly hand, this fool’s backhand couldn’t move the chair I’m on— much less leave a scratch across that cheek.

“I saw those blackened eyes roll!” The fool momentarily rages out of his pale facade, “I will not tolerate such disrespect, you see.”

He attempts to slick back his loosened hair; his ears become more pronounced as those sparse follicle clumps are tucked behind them. A thick finger directs the Caninite around the nearly darkened cellar. One by one, a few additional candles spring to life. Sparks dance off Mr. Kaipo’s fingertips. With each wick lit, a red arcana circle glows on his palm.

Eh— so, that’s how he did it.

The more the light illuminates the room, the paler the Caninite becomes. The fool snaps his fingers, “ Thank you, Mr. Kaipo.” Five new candles join this enlightening conversation. And, the cellar couldn’t look emptier in light of it.

Mr. Kaipo is breathing heavily. The red glow molders back into a sicklier white on the skin of his palm. Sweat can be seen layering his delating furry coat. A bend begins to form in his posture. That palm is missing it’s ruby conduit.

Brazen for a Caninite— even if it isn’t his life being put on the line.

All things within the illuminated cellar are dragged into the spot the elvish fool stands. A table, a single additional chair, and a few sheets of paper keep the six candles necessary for their limited lives. That fat fool sits as Mr. Kaipo— as he’s silently ordered— pushes the fool up to the table proper. Those thick fingers stack the thin sheets loudly. Without any rhythm or necessity, those purposeless stacks echo throughout the cellar. Bouncing off the walls— and torture to anyone with huge ears. He clears his throat and begins to read off the pages.

As his voice grows grandiose, his prattling becomes uncharacteristically practical.“Targets name: Zaos Yllarieth. Home: Nomad. Debt: 103,781 gold coins of any recognized City-State. That, or an equivalence in power.” Faintly lit pupils whiz down the page.

Papers swap in-between his mildly discolored fingers, “Extensions: zero left. Grace Periods: Expired. Deadline: Eh, past due all the same.”

Looking away from the sheets, his beady eyes make their way back to me. Corners of the vanilla pages bending to the slimy weight of his index finger. Those maroon irises peer down his chin in disgust. A sneer escapes his repugnant lips. Whatever the rest of that page said, it mustn’t be to his malignant liking. He switches out to the last paper.

A smile rears its wretched ways into those lips, “Seems like Mr. Áed has purchased the premium price for you.”

“Wait,” my cut lips chatter, “what does that mean? What did that minty bastard order?!”

Fat fingers snap. “It’s time, Mr. Kaipo.” The fool commands away from candlelight, “Hold him down.”

Music of chairs reverberate across the dim cellar as I thrash about in mine. Chair legs tap the stone ground in a violent flurry. These ropes are too tight. All I can manage is meeting the cold ground voluntarily. That elf might sigh at this pointless struggle, but the Caninite hasn’t changed his expression once. I can see it in his lunar-blue eyes. It isn’t empathy. Nor is it sympathy either. No, it’s sorrowful relatability.

“Hey!” I scream and scream, “Get off me! Help! Help!”

Yet, all the sharply dressed elf reacts with is some amusing chuckles. He takes out an iron piece of metal from his belt satchel. A crest can be made out of it from the distant candles.

That elf gives the nod to Mr. Kaipo one last time. Reluctantly, the Caninite whispers something from under his breath. Soon the arcana circle— a sigil— glows a deep red again. It’s glow haunts the sclera parts of our eyes. Sclera of black and white.

“Oh, ho ho,” the elvish fool brims with an excitement seen an adolescence, “this is my favorite part. I’m going to savor it with you, especially.”

Fire simmers in the palm of Mr. Kaipo’s left hand. With the fool’s one physical action of note to me, he places the crest upon my chest. “Go,” is all the malignant elf whistles. The Caninite— hesitant at first- places his burning palm on the back of the iron crest. It begins to burn.

Cooking flesh fills the odor in the chilly air. Sizzling bubbles through all of our ear canals. It sears into my skin. The pain is unforgettable— yet eternal. Sick is the fool as he presses hard against the back of Mr. Kaipo’s hand. Yelps of tears stream down my face— switching between pain and rage. The Caninite can only whimper at the actions taking place.

Minutes pass before it is all said and done. Untied and freed, all I can manage to do is lie there on the cold, hard ground and listen.

“As per Mr. Áed’s and my contract,” the despicable elf relaying the information that he had skipped over from the paper, “you have two-thirds of a season to repay him your debts. If you do not accomplish this— and, by whatever divinity you choose to believe in, I hope you don’t— that crest will tell him everything he needs to exact his consequences upon you.”

The cellar door opens. Festivities from above flow back into this horrific room. As Mr. Kaipo shambles from out of this horrible place and up the stone stairs, the elf looks back one last time. In that dreadful grin, “Just remember: It’s not only Mr. Áed that can hear through the golden vines. It would suit you best to internalize that. For however long that would be good for,” he trails back out into the peaceful streets as well.

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you so much, Zaos Yllarieth.

—•—

Fresh smell of burnt flesh rubs off me through the mini stream of steam still coming off this right pec. My shady brown linen shirt ruffled. My skin-tight pants ripped. My conduits taken. Money taken and weapons smelted. All there is left are my clothes and my trained skills.

If it isn’t the smell or the disheveled looks, then it might be these black sclera eyes garnering all these strangers’ stares.

People really aren’t used to dark elves around here, eh?

To be fair, it was the same in the Warring Continent. Same can be said for all these islands, too— it seems.

Maybe I didn’t sail far enough. It can’t be helped now.

Highest point is the sun’s trajectory and the summer’s breeze is nice today. These dirt streets aren’t as busy at this location. Those alleys never really have enough people to make it worthwhile. Neither the summer festivals or the aqua-hunting season are happening this year. All because of that nonsensical traveling turd thought he could be king for a day.

I could explore the island’s castle. See if anything pricey or powerful has been left ‘unaccounted for’. That’s a great idea!… except for all the carnage and cannibals that are now roaming around in that graveyard. Gah!

Murmurs of close by patrons make their way into my sharp ears. I close my eyes. Clarity tunes those organic audio-waves that strum in surround sound. Hints or opportunities that any could spill. Anything worth its time in gold?

“See that new frozen delight by Bomda-Dil?”

“Jeez, human, you think these quests could be a little less ‘killy’ soon?”

“Woah there! That fish is nearly as big as you, Sherri.”

“That merchant market is getting pretty packed nowadays. Guess that’s what happens when all the good stuff gets shut down.”

While not the most lucrative, the ears did fine-comb what they needed to do. Most information is useless in the moment. Others quintessential at the right place. Yet, all of it becomes valuable when the time is right.

Hmm. The harbor, eh? I think I can make that work for the time being.

The same dock that welcomed me away from those trouble; a treasure trove of goodies to plunder if one plays their cards right. An idea as repulsive as it is opportunistic. One that cannot be disregarded so morally.

An injection of disappointment enter the bloodstream. It’s red warmth highlights the faulty veins that carry it. The power it once carried was so vast. Now, it just fades as soon as it hits. Disappointment is nothing in the long shadow of shame.

Just like droplets onto a church’s pane. Taps of a toddler’s finger through a leather glove; in a space I am not. A luxury for those more fortunate— for those wealthier than I. Not in hand, but inside a place deeper than a body can reach. In a life unsoiled; I will not be found there. Only another space to dig myself deeper into the brozen muck. ‘Tis a thief’s for me.

Oh, yeah. I can feel it. Today’s gonna be a great day!

No, it’s time to get to work.

—•—

One day has passed, and I’m all set up for another hit. The sun is still before it’s at its toppest peak. I’m dressed to impress the invisible of the most invisible. These best laid plans have been placed. Yeah, I have to look back over everything one last time.

Livelier are the streets today in comparison to yesterday. More people and their families are parading the streets. An overabundance of sailors drinking themselves into debt and shops are going overboard in promotions to entice any of those that walk by. It’s as if they all have replaced the insignificance of this random day and supplanted it with a festival of their own. They won’t get any complaints from me. I couldn’t be happier for the riches they will bring me this way.

Touches of toes— through soft leather boots— slide in-between the foot traffic as they make their way left on those herding sidewalks. Leftover turquoise scales clutter the fast-paced dirt streets. Their four-legged sea creatures stopping for no one but the person that handles its reins. Avoiding the Glaucestrian-led wagons along the way.

Past the colorful yellow rows of buildings and down a dirt street or two more, the finish line to my plan can be found. A gap that stands pristinely at this entrance of the worst built place of those whole city: the residential pathways.

The yellows turn into white the further I trace my arcana sigils across the pathway walls. High and low, on walls and anything that can constitute as such; all the sigils are spaced out across the multitude of ways one could go. Each sparse enough to not tip off any simple-minded peasant that may pass them by— especially before they’re needed. Down every pathway that may be necessary in a pinch or on the fly. This’ll have to be my failsafe if things are the worst of the worst.

In a single day’s time, the recoup of required equipment took its time— and took its toll. Cloak, buskin boots, leather gloves, and replacement clothes took very little time to find. It was harder to replace the conduits. Weapons and other tricks of the trade were the most difficult to snatch up without suspicion. Most important of all, the ink crucial to create the type of sigils needed. Only mere scraps of coin could be collected by day’s end. Street filth with the roughest coin pouches to swipe amidst the docks at dusk. Too much security, too many chances of Aquarian competition; too much risk.

Arcana sigils of various colors have been drawn closer and closer to the city’s harbor. Most of them in green— some in blue. But, the size is always the same. Big enough to handle a bipedal assailant. Any bipedal assailant.

A five-foot circle around and a triangle inside. Insignias of the actions that are desired of the sigil paralleling the circle inside and the elements required in Runik writing. The key touchstone to cause the trigger and an additional circle made in the sigil’s center. A gem resembling the color the circle bleeds: the magik conduit.

Now, out from the confusing pathways and onto the merchant market. The crowds are more active and the number of merchants have grown today. Under the clear blue sky; as I rub my hands together, the fresh saltwater breeze brings in many more goodies to peruse unseen. I throw over the hood to my brown cloak and do what I do best: steal.

Seconds to minutes to hours; coin pouches, expensive trinkets, and exotic heirlooms fill out today’s scores. The fine stone-tiles in the market may produce louder taps, but they’re not nearly as loud as ships and merchant’s barters that lord over them. Yet, the perfect cover isn’t without its restrictions. Extravagant clothes and weapons are too big to wisp away without unwanted attention. Nor does one go unnoticed when carrying a bag on their back— even more so if said bag fills without shrinking one’s pouch. Tinier things under noses help in increments. Stopgaps until something worthwhile catches my eye. No one the wiser to my presence. Not one guard to watch such a busy place. Not one smell but the faint whiff of mint.

A smell— once so pleasant— turns the stomach into the foulest of foul bowels. Sickness, but not of physical ailments. Stress and debts aren’t helping so much either. I take my leave from the market. I head south— parallel of the docks.

Vomit and spit spew from out of my torched throat pipes and into the ocean. That dreadful smell bubbles up that horrific person. A person I know I’ll have to meet again. Hopefully, it’ll be in the success of richer spirits. Using one of the extra stolen pouches, a hand wipes of the puke and these long buskin boots walk me back to the market proper.

Boats creak and crack at the sound of the pesky sea-life as I re-enter the merchant place. An anxiety fills the air. Worries of those in the ocean rise to just below the surface. This uneasy. This tension. I crack my fingers, and give a whistle to my thoughts.

Time for Round two.

Bang!

The Aquarians attack another ship. People and livestock run everywhere. Merchants and sailors are packing what they can. Chaos is erupting at the harbor. It’s a frenzy.

Time to shine~

Now’s the time for the big items. Expensive conduits, a pretty dress, and a bag of specialty powder; whatever fancy items on merchant booths that catches my eyes, it finds its way onto my body. Enough to push ahead for one more thing to grab. Something to fit into my hand on the way out. A thing as small as one’s forearm. That thing wrapped in cloth.

Ah! That can work.

Snatching the wrapped item from a belt loop, I make my way towards the planned exit strategy. I run towards the white walls of the pathways. Dodging and weaving, the amount of people in the way is staggering. Still, nothing too tough to maneuver around.

A little of this, a little of th—

“Give me back my dagger!”

“Wha?” I turn to look back. Long brownish hair. Strange looking gray shoes? Weird, desert brown coat thing around her top half? Some type of pants unlike any I’ve seen before. Above all else, there’s a wild look in her eyes. A girl— almost my height— is chasing me down like vermin.

The thing of her focus— this thing wrapped in leftover-looking fabric— is grasped tightly in my left hand. There would be thoughts of value about such a dagger. Any potential buyers to squeeze. If Mr. Áed would prefer it instead of gold. Or, more straight away, if this wild girl is even telling the whole truth. Regardless, none of that is really possible when one in the middle of being chased by a lunatic!

This is why one must plan ahead. A blueprint for flexibility for whenever the initial plan may fail— cause the first one overwhelmingly does. Improve the prep work to match the job at hand. This is why a thief should always have a failsafe.

Into the narrow pathways and through onto the nameless fountain, the first of the arcana sigils is passed. Further on by the fountain, I can hear her in the pathway behind me. The stomps of her weird shoes bounce off the close-knit walls. Hollow vibrations follow after every klutzy smack can be felt from her collisions between those compact walls. She isn’t too far behind. Buskin boots spin on a coin. Now, facing the sigil on the wall, I throw out my right hand.

That girl’s should collides with the sigil’s touchstone.

It’s balled up into a fist. By all except the index finger. Not for magik purposes, but for style. Fun amongst the moral bankruptcy. As the sounds of her feet become less of an echo, I wink my right eye.

Gotcha!

Pebbles of cobble-stone fly into the green glowing sigil. Color from the wall bubbles and de-solidifies. White paint floats off the adjacent wall and into the air as a stream of thick liquid. All close-by things move towards the activated sigil. The wind element-type arcana sigil— with a few touchups— working like a charm. Just as always.

Those bits of rock that touch the sigil’s surface sink into the liquid-like touch of the wall those insignia are lay on. All gobbled up as if it’s quicksand. And, this girl’s whole left side is plastered upon it.

A wince slips from between her lips. Her expression— that face— is something resembling realization. Of being sucked into an inconceivable place and suffocated to death. To never be found. I would feel back for her and her family, but I have a debt to pay. I can come to terms with this after that’s paid o—

“What?!” Bulging shock and a toothy shout catapults from my voice box.

She’s unfazed! Not a limb severed or a grave wound. A measly scratch couldn’t be seen anywhere on her either. Just an old wound wrapping around her left ankle. Not even a tear on her clothes! Only the white of the paint dirties her light brown pants.

Shortly after the collision, the arcana sigil flickers the green glow as the circle itself begins to crumble. A loud cracking of a marble-sized sapphire conduit can be heard throughout the fountain area. At last, the sigil itself disintegrates into dust. Yet, nothing that went into it come back out.

“What the hell was that?!” The girl takes the words right out of my mouth— mostly.

Oh, sh—

No time to waste or any more chances on whatever that might have been. I enact my failsafe plan. Running and running. Between the sigils and through more pathways than one could count otherwise. First, it’s the dress. Then, it’s all the pricey trinkets. When an item drops, I get faster. It lessens the weight. But— even with a limp forming— she just doesn’t get any farther behind! Whatever that girl does for work, it built her up fit enough to outrace a pure-bred Glaucestri.

The blares and cracks of failed sigils follow not too far behind. Conduit after conduit breaks. There have been weak conduits I have snagged, but this can’t be coincidence. Conduits don’t simply shatter on impact. Nothing out there in the world can just destroy these things before their energies are up. Right? Somethings wrong.

What’s happening right now?

Conduits crackle and shatter in a long string of constant breakdowns. Akin to a pattern of what a bard would strum on his lute. Ignored lyrics of a fool found in the back of any dingy tavern. A sung poem of impossibilities made manifest.

How is she doing this?!

Every contingency has failed thus far. From wind sigils to ones that just create a smokescreen, she is impervious to all of them. Things are making less and less sense. The closer and closer the path is followed, the more the plan fails. End of this final pathway is close. Out onto the city square and in front of a world-famous construction, there will be nowhere to run. There’s too much security in the tourist traps. The square is still too deadly from all the adventurers left over. I could be caught by this girl, but—

Mid-run, “Dammit! What are you?” The full turn around to witness her answer is only met by a reply that could kill brain cells.

“I don’t know! Think I’m still trying to find myself!” Sweat bleeding down from her hairline. The left leg starts lagging behind. Nevertheless, “Now! Gimme that dagger back!”, a satisfactory grin glows from the clutches of success.

This flimsy thing better have been worth it.

A bag of specialty powder launches from out of my right hand. The aim is true. That bag explodes on impact. Powder flies everywhere in the narrow pathway. It covers the rambunctious girl from each angle. Puffs of white smoke clouds the limited space. Her eyes are packed in with both. Vision is out of commission. Luck must be on my side.

Thinking fast, my feet attach themselves to one wall and my back to another. Left side shimmies up. Right side quickly matches the left’s pace. With the wrapped ‘dagger’ in hand and pouches filled with coins, I shimmy up to the top as I grab the roof’s flat surface.

“Wait!” She yells in a blinded anguish, “You’ve gotta be seriously kidding me?!”

I climb on top of the roof once above my head, then flee into the afternoon. Rooftop to rooftop; these nimble legs hop across the buildings as there are none the wiser. But, one. A bafflingly strange one.

Minutes pass. Pitchy yells from that pursuer have vanished into the bustling city air. My feet begin to slow. In the safety of isolation, curiosity takes this mind hostage. I have to know.

Was this ‘dagger’ worth the headache?

The cloth slowly unravels. In these gloved hands, gems begin to glitter off the rays of a beating sun. Then, the gold of the handle. This is good. This is really good. It could be worth a lot. This could be worth—

Next, the triangle clear gem breaks through the cloth’s veil. A jewel that’s one of its kind. The gem that can only belong to the one weapon left in that damn castle. A one of kind. One legend calls a ‘diamond’.

This is it. This can work. I need to get to a ship, now!