Fantasy Edinfell

[mato]

Derelicts of a time gone by, the crumbling architecture shielded them from what may be creatures of the night. A chance to rest, at last. The walls of this forgotten structure shield the light of their crackling fire pit, the embers flying into the air and providing a hug of warmth; wrapped entirely around their being. Darkened eyes, mistaken for black at times, but appeared to be green or blue, depending on one’s own point of view, stare up into the night sky.

The children of Eviaris appear quite lively tonight. The weavers of the stars play about, strung together by threads of time and patience. They twinkle with laughter and a childlike innocence that has since been snuffed out of the tired mercenary. On this night, they feel so entirely small under the children of Eviaris. The longer they stare, the more they feel the pull of a yearning to be reunited with their loved ones.

With the lull of sleep pulling them under, the mercenary falls willingly.

Clammy, frail, wrinkled, calloused hands grip the child’s soft hands into their own. The child looks up into the clouded eyes of their grandmother. Distorted, muffled words spill out of her mouth. The child looks at her, confused. Their heart starts to race when the front door comes flying open to the sound of soldiers’ boots. They pile into the household of the Lichenrage’s and they go about pouring oil everywhere.

The frightened child’s hands are let go when their grandmother is yanked away from them. A scream rips from their mouth, but they cannot hear it. They cannot hear as their grandmother fights helplessly against the soldier, who fastens their grip harder on the frail woman’s wrist. Time moved in slow motion. It blurred and fast-forward to see the entire street of Queenswall up in flames; entire shops, households, and generations of families reduced to ashes and rubble.

A woman’s wailing could be heard, waking the mercenary up from their dreams.

They grip their sword sitting beside them and sit up. The song of birds echoes in these parts. Sollenar rises to greet the mercenary with a kiss on the cheek. Painting the mid-morning sky in oranges, yellows, red, blues, and purples.

It is rare for the merc to have time off work. Could you call it work or survival? Cast out of Edinfell a decade ago, though to them it feels a lifetime. Out here, outside the walls of their utopia, was the so-called “Void.” But out here? Everyone looked out for one another. It didn’t matter if you were some famous painter or not, out here you were surviving like everyone else against the creatures of the void.

The mercenary wasn’t the only one in this line of work. However, they were the most sought out. To rid of creatures that lurked or preyed upon villages, small encampments, or survivors wandering the landscape. At most times, they were a hired guardsmen to help people trek across the lands, even carriages full of goods from one village to the next.

They looked at the fire pit, it was reduced to ashes, likely hours after they fell asleep. Their eyes scanned the general area, muscles tense until they found themselves only with the company of the birds and other animals prowling about. The mercenary started packing their things up, only stopping momentarily to reapply ointment to their side and re-bandage it up. Pulling the strap of their pack and over their shoulder, they strapped their sword around their waist.

Snow-white wavy hair fell at their shoulders, parted down the middle, but plaited into a half-braid. The mercenary used to be a promising knight of Edinfell, but was scarcely a person outside the walls of such a place.

Forgoing another day without food, the merc’s stomach protested in hunger. They ran out of jerky quite a few days ago and water, was all they had left. Though they loathed the idea of stopping in Tharguladh, it was the nearest place—perhaps the most populous city that existed outside the walls of Edinfell—that had what they needed. The merc was running dangerously low on supplies back on their trek through the land of Lost Sorrows.

Nobody knows why it’s called that, but it existed before the city of Tharguladh.

Bringing the skin flask to their lips, a few droplets barely manages to escape onto their tongue.

‘Crap.’ was all they could think before tying it back to their sash. Without another path or thought, the mercenary kicked dirt over the firepit and started down the stairs of this crumbling fortress. With nowhere else to go but to Tharguladh, they set out.

 

[oliander]

The city of Edinfell looked imposing even on the horizon. Its vast stone walls and spindly turrets cast an uncanny silhouette backlit by the rising sun. Cassian brushed his hair back where the wind whipped it into his face, dark eyes lingering on the stone gates for far too long.

With the vast and desolate land stretched out ahead of him, Cassian felt a familiar dread creep up his throat. He’d left the city before, on rare occasions, but it never did feel right. And now, especially, he could hardly bear to leave. Cassian felt inexplicably that if he turned his back on Edinfell now, it might not be there when next he glanced its way.

The childish fear disgusted him. Turning sharply back to the road, Cassian pushed his heels into the flank of his horse and set his mouth in a grim line, fingers curled too tight around the reins. As he set off, the walls at his back grew shorter until they vanished entirely.

When he was younger, Cassian believed Edinfell to be everything it claimed. An impenetrable fortress, a solitary safe haven. A utopia. And certainly, there was credence to some of those claims. But the city was far less unified than it should like to appear – and lately, it had been especially volatile. Even now, with the knowledge of where he was heading, Cassian was almost – almost – relieved to have a moment free from prying eyes.

He was no stranger to scrutiny in his position. He’d spent years scraping his way to the side of the city’s most powerful. He was used to threats veiled beneath cordial exchanges, to tremendous influence that could vanish on a coin flip. But what Edinfell faced now was borderline catastrophic.

It had begun with strange rumors among the court. Whispers that even Cassian, with all his practice, had a hard time getting ahold of. They spoke of conspirators who targeted Edinfell’s king, despicable traitors that were nestled within their own ranks. At last, the tension culminated in a shocking assassination – the second son of House Olson, murdered in his family home.

Frankly, Cassian didn’t know if the incident really was part of a greater plot, or was merely an opportunistic attempt to take advantage of the strange political atmosphere. But whatever the case, it worked. Paranoia swept through the court like a storm. Cassian had been to several impromptu trials over the last year, and more than one execution. At each, he bit his tongue and held his breath, more determined than ever to keep his head attached to his shoulders. It wasn’t terribly difficult. He’d swallowed worse before.

At present, Edinfell bristled with a terrible energy, a powder keg about to blow. Whatever traitors did exist had yet to show their proverbial hand. Edinfell’s rulers prepared for war, not against what lay within the Void, but against men. Perhaps even against each other. Ordinarily, Cassian would find a safe place to wait this out – except, of course, he ended up here, staring down the world outside Edinfell’s walls.

Cassian was often relegated to tasks that might be generously termed “unwanted.” Though he was a regular part of Edinfell’s court, he was young and his family name held far less weight than others; he’d had to prove his worth in other ways. Which was, most often, by proving himself willing to do whatever his superiors tasked, no matter how absurd.

The worst of it came from Lucienne Bayard, eldest daughter of Edinfell’s most influential family outside the royal line. She seemed to never tire of the novelty of Cassian’s demeanor, assigning him increasingly outrageous requests just to marvel at his acquiescence. Despite everything, Cassian felt lucky for her attention. Be it cruelty or amusement, he did not care which, so long as he held her interest.

Predictably, it was her fault that Cassian was out here. She’d asked him to retrieve something from ruins that lay far north of the city. Cassian guessed that it was a weapon. She countered it was more like a tool – something to help settle the unease that had festered within the city.

It was a ridiculous demand, even for her. Cassian was far from an explorer. And any strange action could easily be misconstrued as a threat, nowadays. But when he’d asked why it had to be him, Bayard had just given him a pallid smile, her sharp eyes mismatched with her too-smooth voice. “You’re the only one I can trust with this, after all.”

What a joke. Cassian could only guess at the real reasons. There surely was a purpose, some scheme of hers to gain an advantage in the coming conflict. Even she wouldn’t send him into the Void for no reason.

Probably.

Cassian shook his head, and let his thoughts dissipate with the harsh breeze. Whatever game Bayard was playing, it would do him no good to dwell on it now. He knew as well as she did that he wasn’t going to deny her. He’d find what she needed and decide what to do then. Maybe it’d give him the edge he needed to survive this upcoming storm.

Bayard had generously deigned to allow a few of her family’s men to accompany Cassian, but he knew he couldn’t borrow them for long – and really, they’d be little help against the dangers that lay within the Void. He would certainly need a proper guard. He supposed he could try Tharguladh. It was the closest thing to civilization Cassian knew of, out here.

As Cassian started down the road, he pulled his traveling cloak around his shoulders, tucking away his fine tunic beneath dark fabric. He didn’t understand it out here. The rules that had come to define every part of his existence seemed not to apply. But even those that lived here, even those that might resent the ones from Edinfell, would still answer to payment. Everybody did.

 

[mato]

The lands of the outside world were as diverse as they were sorrowful to look at. Names to such locations varied by the peoples in these parts. Markers were more common than not. From the Field of Swords to the Bone Forest to the Skeletal City; people out here were simple with naming it in the literal sense of the place. The Mercenary had been to every one of these places named in the past ten years.

They currently trek alongside the Fallen Land. Long amber plains grasses stood up to their midriff, this place was more plains than it was ‘fallen.’ The name stuck despite the path being full of life. Birds wheeled on by in the mid-afternoon air. Far beyond the plains arose the Mournful Mountains; white caps jutted up to the sky in various sizes. On the left side was the Bone Forest, not a place you’d go through willingly. Their destination lay to the right: the city of Tharguladh.

It was quite a way to Tharguladh, still. Mere hours scraped by and they barely made progress towards the unyielding city. It was a place like no other; houses stacked atop each other on the steppes they built it upon. No opulence was to be had here, only folks with an eye for architecture made of whatever remained of the city they built upon from a long time ago. One could find varying material in the walls, windows, and pipes that ran along the city. But it was still a city. They built a literal wall between the rich and the poor, but the underlying structure remained the same; only the streets were cleaner, and taller buildings rose toward the gray sky.

Tharguladh stuck out like a sore thumb among the ruins that surrounded it. Structures of the olden city remained in ruins, whatever civilization came before them had an eye for using glass generously; it quite literally reflected in the sunlight and sparkled like glitter.

With a parch throat, the merc stopped at a lake nearby. They tested the water with a lick of their index finger; seemingly unharmful. They filled up their skin flask and took a generous gulp of the water. Whether it hurt them in the long run was none of their concern for the moment. They tied it to their belt and continued down the fallen path. They avoided going down this road for many, many months after their run in with Iaena. It’s not like they owed a debt, it’s just they avoided Iaena after going on a short quest to retrieve an item from another group of bandits.

Continuing on for another few hours, they finally reached the outermost parts of Tharguladh. The mercenary had to shield their eyes from the mirroring structures. Giant bald spots appeared in the plains like some alien came and made crop circles. Large shards of glass, taller than the walls of Edinfell, jutted out of the ground. Crumbling structures, likely buildings of the olden city, remained; stairs that went to nowhere, rooms built in opulent designs that nature took over, frames of windows without glass in them.

And the unmistakable sound of glass mixed with dirt, rocks, and grasses crunched beneath their boots. If elves were real and if magic were real, then this city was probably one of theirs. The glittering pathway was almost harsh to look at, prompting the mercenary to pull out their personally made bone sunglasses; a small slit provided a view against the brightness that plagued the area. Beyond the glitter path, they could finally see Tharguladh making an appearance.

In they went, toward the ‘glittering city.’

 

[oliander]

Tharguladh was a strange place. There was something especially peculiar about the city, how it had been constructed in uneven, patchwork segments around the bones of a civilization long gone. In some places, you could still see the original structures, like ribs poking through the skin. A single wall of shining pitch-black bricks behind a lopsided shopfront otherwise constructed of thin, splintered wood. The shattered remnants of a once-great stained glass mural, casting dappled spots of light on the dirty street. It was harrowing to see how such beauty had been torn apart and shoved between the cracks of what came after.

Fragments of glass skittered away from the toe of Cassian’s boot as he walked into Tharguladh, his eyes trained firmly away from scattered remnants of past glory. Some from Edinfell were enthralled with the civilizations that had once thrived in the outer lands. But Cassian held no interest. Tales of ancient heroes and magic rituals and kingdoms blessed by the gods themselves never turned his head. He knew the long-gone civilizations that existed outside of Edinfell were no more extraordinary than the haphazard settlements that stood there now. Whatever great scale they’d climbed to, they’d fallen all the same. In the end, they’d been punished by the Void. And in the interim, the stronghold remained standing.

Cassian had been to Tharguladh before, on rare occasions. It wasn’t all that far from Edinfell; with the decent weather today, it had been a short journey. On the rare event that something outside the walls concerned his city, Cassian knew this was where its envoys went to investigate. And in the admittedly more common event of need, Tharguladh was the only other place nearby stable enough to trade. Though, this was something Cassian found out only recently – Edinfell didn't publicize any chips in its veneer.

The relationship between the cities was strained, forced, and complicated. Cassian felt certain that if the people here had the means, they’d storm Edinfell’s castle for themselves. But they weren’t capable, and so there was no point in hostility. Which was to say that, however unwelcome a sight Cassian might have been in Tharguladh, its denizens had no choice but to help him – or at least pretend to consider it.

He knew what he must appear like, in their eyes. How sure they must be that the knife that hung at his waist was nothing more than ornament. He didn’t bother to defend himself. It didn’t matter what they thought of him. He held his voice steady, as if this whole ordeal was an ordinary task he’d been assigned. In too-cool words, he explained his terms: that he needed to make it north, to the mountains that lay tipped in ash instead of snow; that he was to locate a tower within its folds, and retrieve something from within.

Everyone told him the same thing – there was no one around capable of taking him that far. He didn’t push that hard. Strongarming them wouldn’t help if they truly weren’t competent, and the last thing he needed right now was an escort who held a grudge. He knew that the trip was possible. They had reports of what creatures lay within the region. But those he met with so far didn’t show much confidence – and Cassian wasn’t going to put his life in the hands of someone who couldn’t even put on a brave face.

At a certain point, Cassian was left alone. The soldiers that followed him out had disappeared shortly after he’d arrived. Cassian wasn’t surprised, though he wondered whether they’d been ordered to leave quietly for the sake of avoiding unnecessary attention, or merely to startle him. With no one in sight, Cassian allowed himself to slow. In a side street, he loitered, coming to a stop and resting the back of his head against the wall.

What was he doing here?

Bayard was like him. She put no stock in fairy tales. What could someone like her, whose family had stood in Edinfell for generations, have to gain from the remnants of a civilization long gone? She’d talked around every question he asked. He barely knew enough to find the wretched thing – only that it was a book, in a language he couldn’t read. Looking at the excerpt she’d given him to identify it frustrated him, and only partly because the letters made his head spin.

Footsteps at the mouth of the alley made him straighten, and he stared ahead at nothing as the passerby slipped in and out of sight. It’d gotten later than he’d thought. The streets were a bit quieter now, the sun closer to the horizon. He’d be here overnight. But he’d expected as much, either way. There wasn’t anywhere else to go until he figured things out. Be it one night or twelve, Cassian supposed he’d be here until his path was clearer. Not like he could turn back, now.

 

[mato]

They looked behind them once, perhaps, an hour’s worth of daylight remained. Although they’d preferred to avoid this city, they needed to restock for their journey to the Golden Ruins. A vast, deserted land made of monumental risen pieces of lands, stripped bare of any life except for the sands that lie around it. It wasn’t much, but it was where the merc called home, just beneath the carved out, abandoned villages beneath tall, flat-topped mountains. Attempts to resettle the area have come and gone until the last time it resulted in a battle against the creatures of the void, leaving it abandoned in the end.

The sounds of glass mixed with the crunching of dirt and grass under their boots came to an end once they got to the entrance of Tharguladh. It was an ugly city. A thought that remained every time they came this way. A thought that rang true to the ugly uniqueness of the city that was patch worked together like a quilt.

Looking around as they went, slipping through the alleys, avoiding any unwarranted attention from the denizens of Tharguladh. It was relatively easy to go unnoticed in the cramped corridors of the city. Buildings sat atop each other, rust encroached on the parts of the place the mercenary was headed to: Ruins Row. It became less pleasant to look at, obvious parts of the streets were on the verge of collapse, beams barely holding on with bandaged ropes and rags. The stench was the worst part of it all. It reeked terribly, which meant they had finally arrived at Ruins Row.

The Cat’s Pub. A dinghy little tavern that was run by his good long-time friend, Hela. She wasn’t small by any means, in fact, she struggled to fit into the smallness of the pub; having hit her head one too many times on one of the many pipes running through—she shortly installed a temporary rag over the places she hit her head, but it became permanent in the end. The Mercenary stepped toward the faded out painted cat on the swinging wooden sign.

Inside they went, their weight creaked upon the wooden floorboards, but the sound of the bell announced their presence once they pushed open the door. It was packed. A rush of warmth mixed with the smells of food and alcohol lingered in the haze. A few curious looks swept their way, but none cast a second glance.

“Azzy!” Chirped Hela from behind the bar. As soon as she saw that familiar sword tucked beneath their robes, Hela instantly knew it was Azrael.

She had wiped her hands free and made her way from behind the bar to properly greet them, “Didn’t know you were coming back. Need a place to stay, I presume?”

Azrael briefly smiled, “Yes, thank you.” They spoke in a low tone.

More customers came spilling into the pub, giving Hela time to sigh and place a key into Azrael’s free hand. “You know where it is. Not much has changed the last time you came by.” As soon as she arrived, she was already gone to attend to business.

It was an exchange Azrael was quite fond of. They didn’t need much talking when it came to Hela. She just instantly understood what they needed, even if they didn’t know they would need it. The Mercenary trailed off the left side of the pub behind a beaded door, a small set of wooden stairs went up to Hela’s home.

 

[oliander]

At the very least, Cassian could say that it wasn’t the worst night of sleep he’d had in his life. He’d drifted off, in the end, for spurts of an hour or two between the clamor of late-night pedestrians and the odd creaks of the city’s infrastructure shifting. On a handful of other times in recent memory, he’d not even made it that far. Still, it wasn’t what he’d call comfortable, either; by the time the sun was too high to ignore and Cassian was downstairs, sat poking at a tepid breakfast, his mood was distinctly unrefreshed.

Despite the setting, he had still taken the time to do his hair up properly, a braid pinned at the nape of his neck. His fingers tapped an unsteady rhythm on the table, off and on, soft enough that it wasn’t audible and hard enough that the pressure left a lasting sensation on the pads of his fingers. If he’d been hoping for a sudden epiphany to come with the break of dawn, it never arrived. Things were just as muddled as they were before, if not more, and working out the correct preparations was absolutely outside his area of expertise.

Still, he had a few things he knew he ought to handle first. Cassian methodically gathered the locations in which he ought to search for a guide, poking his head into taverns, merchant halls, gathering spots. Standing out was not a problem; in fact, it was probably helpful to be somewhat noticeable. He wasn’t shy about implications of his (presumed) wealth and (equally presumed) status reaching his potential target before he made the proper offer.

Things progressed about the same as before, though he was beginning to grow accustomed to the sorts of people he was looking for. A name came up, on occasion. A mercenary named “Azrael,” apparently held in high regard by a good deal of the people he spoke with, across various social spheres. It was impressive, the broad range of individuals who all had good things to say of them. Though this might have sounded helpful, it wasn’t much of a lead at all; it’s not like anyone could actually put him in contact.

“Well, no one’s sure when they’ll be back. I don’t see ‘em that often, myself,” one man explained, as he scratched the back of his neck and shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t know where they stay most of the time. Not even sure they live in a settlement at all, actually.”

Cassian smiled hollowly over the rim of his drink, some bitter brew he could hardly stomach. Then how is it useful to tell me this? He took a sip long enough to suitably compose himself. A sour aftertaste clung to his throat like soil. “Well. How about this, then?” Cassian said at last. “If you do happen to notice anyone capable of making the trip, whoever it ends up being, let them know I’ve got a job for them.”

By early afternoon, Cassian was pretty sure he’d made his case clear in half the city, and the other half would surely catch word of it one way or another. He might as well let rumors do the rest of his work for him. There were other things to do, if he was going to prepare, than run in circles repeating the same questions. Practical considerations, like supplies, maps, medicine and tools. Certainly not his expertise, but he knew, on principle, the situations he ought to anticipate.

It reminded him, in a strange way, of preparing for the court’s hunting expeditions. Though those were elaborate, social rituals, and whatever “danger” was experienced was entirely separate from the uncontained desolation of the Void, there was that same odd blend of physical and mental preparation. It gave him, at least, a principle to lean on, as he made his way around the city’s stores.

 

[mato]

With the soft thud of the wooden bowl placed in front of them, it contained a variety of nuts, fruit, and vegetables mixed together, and a steaming mug of coffee made from local roasted coffee beans beside it. Though Azrael didn’t fancy themselves a believer in a higher power, they still stuck to their habit of praying in an inaudible murmur before taking a gracious gulp of the straight-black liquid.

Hela leaned against the counter behind her, watching the mercenary practically vacuum the entire food. She snorts, “What ‘appen? Last job was a blunda?” She crossed her arms across her chest.

The entire place was closed. Hela rarely opened during the day, only from dusk till dawn. Tables were packed up with stools stacked on top of ‘em, except for the booths that were cleaned from top to bottom. The shine of the fireplace reflected on the tabletops, the floorboards as well. While she didn’t clean it herself, it was one of four employees she had under her employ that did the closing shift - which she was ever grateful for.

Azrael’s mouth moved like a rabbit’s, gingerly eating the food at a slow pace while washing it down with the coffee. They finally looked up from their food to Hela, “Something like that.” They retort with little context to add after.

Hela leaned forth on the counter, “Are you here for another job?”

Azrael’s cyan eyes looked into Hela’s amber-coloured eyes, “No.” Then back down to their bowl, where they continued to eat the other half of the midday food. “I think you know that I don’t come to this city that often.”

Hela smirked, “Oh yeah… Something about a bounty… what was it again?”

“I took care of that years ago, Hels.” Azrael snorts, snapping back the rest of their coffee. It was a small-sized tea cup that barely made the definition of a ‘mug.’

“It’s just that-” Hela’s words are cut off by the sound of the bell ringing. ‘Cursed by the Goddess.’ She swears she locked the front entrance. Her attention is directed to the figure emerging but she squints against the harsh sun behind the figure as they shut the door behind them again, locking it this time.

“Euphemie?” She confusingly speaks.

“The only and only, darling!” A chipper, high-feminine voice speaks. Earning Azrael’s attention, too. They looked behind them to see a small woman.

Euphemie is smaller than Hela and Azrael combined. Most mistake her for a child since she’s about as a little taller than the counters in Hela’s pub. She wears her curly brown and sun-bleached hair in a messy bun, with loose curls framing her face. When she smiles, a large gap between her teeth is evident. She has nicely-tanned skin, a splatter of freckles across her face, and bright light brown eyes.

“Well, Az! Didn’t know you’d be here, too.” She adds, taking a seat next to the mercenary.

“What brings you here for the noon?” Hela inquires.

Euphemie takes a look into Azrael’s food and her face screws up in distaste before she sits back down. “I was in the Rose Quarters, right? Mindin’ my jolly business when I heard a few of the upper noses talking. Rumours spread fast, Hels. Somethin’ ‘bout a guy or a gal …or a person?” She scratches her head for a second. “Anyway, they were talking about Az’s here.” They turn their head to see Azrael already placing their empty bowl aside.

“Lots of people talk, Euph.” Azrael retorted. “...I’m guessing they were looking for me?” They sigh.

“Duh!” Euphemie chuckles. “But… the strange thing is this fellow wasn’t like anyone I saw before.”

Azrael lifts a brow in interest, “What do they look like?”

“Were they small, round, and angry?” Hela jokes.

“You joke, but they weren’t any of those.” Euphemie looks back to Hela. “I only caught a glimpse of the fellow leaving. I asked Ceolfre.” She digs into her dresses’ pockets and pulls out a hastily drawn image of the person. She places it on the table and slides it to Azrael.

“He said it was a taller fellow. His clothing appeared to be on the wealthier side.” Euphemie continued.

“Sounds like half of the city, though.” Hela says, suddenly interested in the person at hand. She has a fist tucked under her chin and the other on her hip.

As for Azrael, they look down at the image. There was a familiarity to the person, but they couldn’t quite place it. “I’m guessing you know where Ceolfre is now?” They ask Euphemie.

“Sure do.” She spoke, “At his usual spot in the Montou.”

“If I give you some coin, will you deliver a message to Ceolfre, for me?” Azrael takes their coin purse off their belt, pulls out some of the gold mixed in with silver and copper, and places it in front of Euphemie.

She snatches the coin off the counter, it’s enough to last her for two months. The prices in the slums were on the cheaper side, while things in the wealthier part of the city were, well… high. “What’s the message?”

Azrael smiles, “Tell Ceolfre that I’m at The Cat’s Pub in ruins row and to tell the person that this is their lucky day.”

Euphemie casts a look to Hela, “Go… you can have the day off and tomorrow. I’ll cover your shifts for you.”

Euphemie smiles and is already out the door by the end of Hela’s sentence. As for Azrael, they stay on the stool at the bar and look back at Hela, who’s eyeing the drawing in front of the mercenary.

“Do you think I’ll have enough time to hit the market and come back before this stranger arrives?” They ask her.

“Well, the market’s a nine-minute walk from here, but it might stretch to a nineteen minute walk now. The streets are usually flooded with people at this time of day.” She retorts, “...Why? Did you need supplies?”

“Just the basics.” They say, “I just needed enough to head back toward the Golden Ruins.”

Hela whistles, “That’s a long ways from here, then.” She looks at Azrael, “You’re lucky I restocked last week on everything. I think I might have enough for you. Golden Ruins is what… a week’s venture out?”

“A fortnight.” They correct.

“I have enough for a week. The rest you’re gonna have to get from the market.” Hela says, scratching her chin. “You’ll owe me though.”

Azrael genuinely smiles at her, “Anything for you.”

 

[oliander]

Tharguladh’s markets got rather busy at mid-day. Located in a central position in the city, each day drew a large variety of vendors to the square, the noise of a hundred overlapping conversations quickly rising to a din.

“Mm.” Cassian tilted his head to the side, eyes lowered to inspect the crossbow bolt in his hand. “As it is, it’s difficult to pay that price. It’s a bit warped in the middle, see?” He brought up his hand to demonstrate, peering down the shaft and pointing out the slight arch in the middle.

“That’s just how this batch turned out,” the merchant informed him. “It depends on the wood that we have available. I assure you they’ll still shoot straight enough.”

“Even so,” Cassian said. “It seems like it’d be troublesome to deal with. You know better than I do, I’m sure, the extent to which accuracy is paramount for this type of weapon. I don’t suppose you’ve got any others?”

He didn’t. It was obvious. “Until I’ve got time to make more, this is what we have. And further, I’m sure most everyone else’ll be out too. Hunting season started a short while back, and the supply’s run pretty dry.” Meaningfully, he added: “I’m afraid you’ll not find anyone else able to sell such a high quantity to you for a while.”

“That’s fine,” Cassian replied. “I can wait.”

He received a startled look in response as the other man’s brows pinched together. Of course, half the city had already heard word of the strange visitor from Edinfell poking his nose in everyone’s business. Cassian clearly had something pressing to do. When he said such a bold lie like that with a smile on his face, it threw the whole affair off-tilt. The merchant seemed to stutter, and at once, Cassian knew that he’d won.

“Well…” the merchant’s words came out haltingly as he tried to recover. “Surely it would be inconvenient for you to find another craftsman? You’ll have to assess their work again.” Cassian kept staring at him blankly, and he quickly added: “Since these are a little bit crooked, maybe I could do a bit of a lower price, so long as you bought the whole batch – then you’d be ready sooner, and it’d be easier on you as well, so…”

“That will do,” Cassian replied cheerily. He didn’t pay much heed to the almost frustrated expression on the merchant’s face as he brought out his purse. Sorry, but there was no way he was going to be out-negotiated in a place like this.

Once the sale had been made, Cassian took a moment to run a thumb down the length of one bolt, his nail catching on the wood. It actually wasn’t half-bad. The imperfections would only drag it down by a tiny angle in ordinary winds. At Cassian’s level of accuracy, it would be more than enough.

The purchase was near the end of his quickly-constructed list, and the last thing he needed from the markets. Food, water, medicine, lanterns and oil, bolts for his crossbow... It was probably a lot more than he actually needed, but Cassian felt better when he was prepared. And given the ambiguity still surrounding the whole ordeal, this was the only part he could reasonably control.

Cassian felt eyes on him as he walked away. He turned just in time to notice a shorter man call out to him, stopping just a few paces away. Cassian looked him over – the clothes he wore were nice enough, but they clearly hadn’t been tailored for him to wear. Cassian could spot the places in which it didn’t fit – the sleeves a bit too long, pants legs just barely not wide enough. Notably, he was not one of the people that Cassian had spoken to since his arrival. “You were the one asking about Azrael?”

Cassian raised his eyebrows a little. “That’s right.”

“Right. Well…” he shrugged a little, like the whole affair didn’t interest him, but it was obvious enough that he was curious how this had shaken out. “Apparently, you’re in luck. They’re at the Cat’s Pub now, and they agreed to speak with you.”

Well, then. That had worked itself out. Cassian saw another head or two turn in the background and might have laughed. He tucked the bolts, wrapped in coarse fabric, away inside his bag as he responded. “That’s lovely to hear. Do you think you could help take me there?”

The man’s name was Ceolfre, and the story apparently went like this: Ceolfre was told by some girl, who was told by Azrael, who asked to tell Cassian, that the mercenary wanted to meet.

Not that Cassian cared one whit about any of that. What did matter is that Azrael had decided to seek him out, in the end. He wondered why. In some recollections, the mercenary had sounded notoriously hard to get ahold of; in others, they were someone readily available to help the ones who asked. Of course, there was the simplest answer – Cassian was offering them a job, after all – and he didn’t really care to dwell much on it. If the mercenary really did turn out to have as peculiarly strong ethics as was sometimes described, he’d just have to be cautious of his phrasing.

The crowds attending the afternoon market began to thin as they approached Ruin’s Row. As one might predict by the name, much of it was in disarray. While other parts of Tharguladh found a strange strength in its patchwork towers, the buildings here looked a mere stone’s throw from rotting. Once or twice, Cassian glanced sidelong into a building they passed, and saw nothing but shadowed, empty space.

Strangely, it wasn’t as lively as he recalled the slums of Edinfell being, back in the day. Perhaps it was a ludicrously inept comparison, as it was the only one he had, but his sparse memories of that place were far louder. Children playing in the streets, barkers on every corner. Or was that only how he remembered it? Cassian kept his hands in his pockets, eyes resolutely fixed straight ahead. He didn’t really feel like looking in windows anymore. “You know, if you’re planning to rob me, it’s probably not going to turn out well,” he hummed.

Ceolfre snorted, and Cassian pressed his lips together in a thin smile.

The Cat’s Pub was easy to miss. A faded sign above a weathered wooden door was the only thing that set the place apart from its nearly-identical peers. Cassian ducked beneath the cramped doorway alone, and though the tavern opened up behind it, he still felt like he had to keep his limbs close to his body to avoid bumping into the walls or furniture. It was empty, but Cassian noticed just how many tables and stools had been shoved into the small space; if he had to guess, it saw a lot of business.

The only immediately visible occupant was a woman behind the counter. Warm-toned skin, frizzy hair, wide but practical skirts; inside the tiny space, she somehow commanded a real sense of authority. The owner, if Cassian had to guess.

“Good afternoon,” Cassian greeted mildly. He could almost feel the sear of her eyes on him. Cassian hoped his expression read as friendly instead of condescending. “I appreciate you having me. Though, I don’t imagine it’s you who I came to meet, is it?”

She barked a laugh, though it was too short to convey real amusement. Of course, Cassian knew enough about “Azrael” to know that they weren’t her. Though he wondered whether she had some stake in this anyway, given the sharpness in her gaze. Or was she just looking at him like that because it was so obvious he didn’t belong here?

“Nah,” she said shortly. “It’s Hela.” She turned around to busy herself on the other side of the countertop, nodding brusquely towards the bar. “Sit down. They’ll be back in a minute.”