A Dusty Traveler [Introduction | Open]

[The Emerald Hind]

“Herbal remedies for sale!” chimed a determined alto colored in cheery tones, the edges of each ringing syllable shaded with an odd flavor that marked the caller as--yet another--foreigner. The voice was sharp and clear despite the compound complications of an unfamiliar accent and the obvious fatigue that claimed its owner, yet the sing-song cry continued after the proper pauses, harkening to those who might be willing to surrender coin to what seemed to be a traveling miracle worker. But the call went unanswered, despite the persistence of the seller and the power of her urgency. It seemed that many regarded her as nothing more than what she appeared to be: a foreigner intent on capitalizing upon those looking for a quick cure or the miracle remedy for any and all ills.

Certainly, this was a pointless venture, just as it had been so many times before. Who would buy herbs and medicines from a dusty girl as the one who stood along the road crying her wares like a flower child? Most likely, there was a local apothecary or perhaps even a true healer who could tend to the sick and the injured--legitimately. And soon enough those very locals would hear tale of a travel-worn girl begging her goods on the roadside, and they would send their bullyboys to shoo her away, just as had happened in all the towns she had ventured into before. Why bother?

Yet, there was always that chance, that singular hope that someone might take her seriously and see what she had. Then they would buy a poultice or even a salve and put it to the test to find that her goods were more than acceptable. This was one of her life’s dreams, after all: to be a wisewoman like her mother, and serve a town as healer and herbalist. But, just as with the Wise Nikesh, Kaia had to first prove her worth to the townsfolk. The only way to do that was to do as she did now: to stand along the road and harp about her herbal remedies and the maladies they could cure. It may have seemed demeaning and brusque to others, but it was the only path she had, and so Kaia would follow the trail to its end.

But even the stone-willed herbalist could not survive as she had simply crying the wares no one wished to buy, and so she had taken into other ventures, carving beautiful bowls and other useful things--items people actually bought--hunting and fishing, then selling the hide and meat to the cook shops. There were even the short occupations as chambermaid or housekeeper at small taverns and holdings. It was enough to keep some coin in the Avanin’s pouch and food in her belly, and it was from those very sources that she now had a few coins to spare.

So when Kaia tired of her long day of straining her voice without bearing fruit for her work, she had the means to at least acquire a warm bowl of stew and a tankard of that awful small beer all the taverns cherished. With a sigh, the girl gathered her many containers of concoctions and bundles of both dried and fresh herbs and stored them carefully in her work bag, and then she rolled up her tent, which she had spread upon the ground to set her herbs on. “Maybe next time,” she muttered to herself as she hefted the strap of the leather bag over her already burdened shoulders. The herbalist then adjusted the weight of both her backpack and her workbag, tightened the folds of her cape about her form, and cast a wayward glance over her shoulder. Another sigh was summoned, but she shrugged her worries away. She would find a way to earn the money she needed to fulfill her dreams, one way or another. “I need only be patient, hmm?” A wry quirk struck her lips at that and Gemini pools of brown-flecked emerald gleamed, only to be shaded by the passing shadow of twilight.

With all her things in order, Kaia made her way up the road the short distance she knew to take her to the area’s tavern. She had not yet visited the place, but she knew of its existence from the bits of conversation gathered here and there as she harked her specialties to the public. The signposts helped her along, as well, and in no time the brown-haired maiden stood before a quaint establishment boldly marked as The Peaceful Promenade. She only hoped that it would live up to its name, as she needed some peace with her meal after her lack of success on the job. So, with some hope, she pushed her way through the door and past an existing patron into the hustle and bustle that was the evening rush.

Inwardly, she groaned at the sight of so many strangers. She always felt awkward around those she did not know when necessity did not make interactions with others a first priority. Certainly, the need for sustenance should have made such a situation endurable, but when not in her work-personality she felt most uncertain. Still, she had to eat, and there was that part of her that wished to reach out and make some sort of contact with another being. It had been a very long time since she had spoken to anyone at length, and even the prospect of simply requesting a meal was gleeful enough to coax her further into the depths of chattering, drunken humanity.

With great care she weighed into the heavily burdened aisles, winding past merry people both sitting down and moving about. It was a challenging task at best, considering the fact that most of the patrons were hardworking locals trying to ease away a long day's work by drinking it all away. Many were well into their cups and quite joyful for it, and so many had taken to the oddly disfunctional dance with chairs and other drunken folk, while others moaned of their sorrows as they stooped over steaming plates and bowls. She managed to get to the bar without incident and even secured an empty space--albeit, a space without a stool--where she beckoned one of the tavernmaids to her with a wave of her hand.

A rather short, plump woman of near thirty appeared before her, her hands laden with a heavy tray overcome with a large pitcher of ale and several bowls of steaming stew. Her features were a bit bland, but she had certain feminine assets that seemed appealing enough to win her an offer even as she placed her focus on the dusty traveler before her. In fact, those very assets spilled over the top of her bodice and threatened to fall out of their lacings, but the waitress seemed not to care. “Yes? What will ye be ‘avin’ ternight?” the buxom lady demanded a bit hastily. She seemed in no mood to dally with yet another patron when she had so many pouring over her share of the tables, especially one as travel worn as the grainy creature that begged her attention.

Not wanting to bother the poor tavernwench further, Kaia rushed to place her order while trying her best to make her speech clear enough to be understood. “The stew of the night, and a tankard of mead, if you have it,” came the shy, exact reply.

“Aye, we ‘ave some mead left in that stores. Go take ah seat ‘n’ I’ll ‘ave it out to ye soon ‘nough.” Then, in a swirl of food and ale spotted wool, the waitress was off, working her way past many a groping man, taking the catcalls and the invasive caresses with a cool demeanor Kaia found amazing, if not a bit disturbing.

Then she recalled the woman’s instructions and turned around herself, glancing about with hazel depths in search of a vacant table. Immediately, there were none to spare, so she had to balance herself upon her toes and look over the crowd so she could examine the back of the tavern. Even there, she had no luck. However, there was one table with but a single occupant, and as there seemed little hope in finding a better situation, she ventured over to it and its tenant, minding those rosy-cheeked souls toppling over their chairs or cracking their necks as they threw their heads back in roguish laughter.

She arrived at the table safely enough, but once there she froze. A shy glance was spared to the person sitting at the table, but no words came, not at first. Instead, she stood there like an idiot, twiddling her thumbs as would some poor lost fool hoping for a treat. This was very awkward, this approaching a complete stranger in hopes of sharing a table, but, as with all things, it was a necessity. So, after a few moments of dumbfounded silence, Kaia managed to string together a relatively decent request. “Hello,” she began, “I hate to intrude like this, but it would seem that all the other tables are full to bursting, and this is the only one with an available seat. Would you mind if I join you to take my meal and mead?” Once more, she cringed, but only internally, as her accent spilt out as thick as syrup for the sake of her nervousness. She only hoped that her intentions were clear and that the person was of the companionable sort, or else she was destined for marked embarrassment.

[The Cinderella Man]

[Earlier that evening, “The Pit”...]


“Go to Underwood, they said. Nothing but lumberjacks and yahoos to fight there...”

The thought was cut of with another detonation of pain that seemed to mash his already bruised ribs. Victor clinched, right arm around the neck of the muscle-bound grotesque that was massaging his kidneys for five rounds now, left one dropping the elbow and covering up the damage of the punch. Around the two pugilists, The Scrapper’s Pit was in an uproar, faces both elated and bloodthirsty staring from the packed bleachers, rooting for their champion. They were the mass in the true sense of the word, one moving in sync with all the rest, like puppets on the same string. If one booed, everybody did the same. If one screamed that Padre should be sent to meet his precious Almighty, they all followed it up with similar insults. The funniest part was – and a part that actually made Victor smirk bitterly despite the pain – was that he didn’t even believe in God anymore.

The ref broke them up with words that got lost in the clamor. In front of him Mervin The Axe Dindane peered above his sweat-coated gloves, preparing another torrent of heavy strikes in those muscular shoulders of his. The chandelier above the boxing ring – a cheap, rusty piece of round metal with four torches that looked like a discarded carriage wheel – made the moist skin of both fighters gleam. The canvas below held a chaotic pattern of crusted blood stains that probably dated back at least a decade. This wasn’t the main Underwood arena, not the kind where prissy nobles came to feast and watch some real fighters. This was The Pit and this was where the losers fought.

And Victor was losing. He knew it, the referee knew it, the judges knew it and the bookies knew it before the battle even begun. He came from Radasanth to Underwood because supposedly money was easy to make here. Supposedly, nobody here was good with anything that didn’t have a wooden shaft and an axe head. Supposedly, all he had to do is beat some roughnecks silly with his fancy professional moves and score some easy dough. The only thing that nobody took into account was that Victor wasn’t a very good boxer. Not anymore anyways. He could still take the punches, and a remarkable lot of them, so he was good for the show, good for some tank to beat him to a pulp. The purse was significantly lighter for the loser, but it was still good money that kept him more fortunate then the hundreds of hobos that sat on the street corners with their dusty hats upside-down and ready to collect charity from some snot-nosed clotheshorse that walked as if he owned the universe.

So Victor pushed aside the pain, bit onto his gumshield a bit tighter and stayed on his feet. They always said he was too dumb to know when to give up.


[After the bout, “The Peaceful Promenade”...]


Less then an hour after the bell rang and marked the end of the excruciating fight, Victor was sitting in the illustrious Underwood tavern, with a glass of wine in his left hand and an ice pack in his right, pressing against the swelling over his eye. He wouldn’t normally be here, but the battle organizer was so delighted with the fact that Padre sustained the onslaught without being kayoed that he even put in something extra in the bout purse. A free dinner for two in the establishment that sponsored The Pit. Victor had to smile at this gesture; it seemed that, unlike in Radasanth, here people respected the losers as well in some small degree. Here, at least they recognized the fact that you just bled and sweated for the auditorium, just like the guy that won. So instead of going back to his fleabag hostel to lick his wounds in his stuffy room with no windows, Victor went to The Peaceful Promenade to at least get some free chow. He reckoned he would eat one meal, take the second one to go and spend his voucher well.

The renowned, widely-known tavern in the heart of Concordia forest failed to impress the beaten prizefighter. It was all the same in his eyes, same half-tipsy barflies that eyed the waitresses and told tales that seemed to grow in magnitude each time they were repeated, same bums dressed in rags that stuck to the corners and sucked on their cheap ales diligently, same cryptic hooded figures that kept to the shadows and flinched at every shattered glass, same innkeepers that always had their hands full when the sun fell and the workday came to an end. Even the scent of these places was similar regardless of which part of the realm you were in. It was always the stale, semi-repugnant stench of bad, alcoholic breaths, warm sweat and bitter tobacco smoke that seemed to hover above their heads like a massive halo. It was never quite clear to Victor how people could actually enjoy lazing in such places and he was nowhere close to be philosophic enough to get to the bottom of it. Besides, he didn’t really care about it much either. He was here to eat his fill and then get away from this rowdy crowd.

His chocolate-brown eyes dropped to the bowl of stew on the table before him. It was still steaming, the faint tendrils of heat wavering upwards and making his nostrils register a scent that wasn’t the tavern scent. It was still too hot to eat and even though Victor disliked environments such as this one, he was too weary and too tenderized by “The Axe” to be in a real hurry to go anywhere.

It was during this survey of the rather respectable dish in front of him that his relative tranquility was shattered by a female voice. Still holding his ice bag over his right eye, Victor lifted his head to look at the inquirer. The brunette looked like a petite thing, with a pleasant albeit prominently embarrassed face as she stood before his table, seemingly ready to jump out of her skin. Foreign too. There was always some thickness in the accent in the voice of people whose native tongue wasn’t Tradespeak, this tiny little idiom that an attentive ear could pick up with ease. She looked genuinely amicable to Victor, and even if she didn’t, Vic was always a sucker when it came to women, always out to help them and always out to get into some trouble because of them as well. Some called it manners, some called it foolishness. It was probably a bit of both.

“Not at all, miss.” he replied, smiling reflexively as he got up from his seat. It was a gesture that was perhaps a bit overboard given the unsightly environment, but his mother always liked to say that there should be no excuses for not being a gentleman. “There’s certainly enough table for the both of us.”

He waited for the girl to take a seat, the lowered himself to his chair with a stifled grunt as his cracked ribs shifted in the manner that they shouldn’t be moving. It was momentary pain though and they weren’t broken so they were bound to mend with time, so he pushed it aside for the time being. His one visible brown eye looked at the girl that didn’t seem to fit in this environment of scallywags and drunkards. “I’m Victor.”

[The Emerald Hind]

A timid smile touched those weather-cracked lips when the man accepted her. Truly, his polite eloquence was to be marked, as few had been so kindly towards her since she crossed the border from Avani to the Lands Beyond all those moons ago. She had suffered rejection after rejection through all the towns and villages she passed through, discovering only the odd encouragement--meant more so to dismiss her presence than anything else--but the suspicious eye was held upon her more so than anything else. Well, with so many outlanders wondering about these parts it was expected that the locals held some reserves, but she could not see how she presented any threat. She was small, harmless, and tried her best to stay out of the way. Still, she was subject to rudeness and unkindness more times than not, so when the man spoke to her with genuine warmth and stood up as if accepting a noble lady to table, his gestures were something to be remembered and returned in kind.

Unfortunately, no words came forth as she bowed her head obligingly, glancing up at him with a quick sweep of green-brown orbs as she removed her burdens--the workbag and the travel pack--from her shoulders and set them at her feet. She then unlaced her cape and allowed it to slip from her shoulders, then draped the dusty woolen garment over the back of her chair. Below all that dust was a shapely figure clothed in loose garments of cotton and linen. A roomy tan tunic and a pair of faded brown breeches clothed her form and disguised most of her curves, hinting at her shape just at the bust and the hips. There was also a gleam about her neck as the large stone she always wore caught the light, but a hand instinctively went to its rescue and tucked the item under the collar of her shirt. Only then did the girl sit down. As she did so, she looked back at her dinner mate as he reclaimed his place, following his figure so as to gain a better assessment of his station.

Until that moment she had not taken stock of him, beyond marking him as of the masculine variety, but now there seemed to be all the time in the world as she sat there awaiting her much sought after meal. And what was the first thing to strike her eye? Well, his, really: the right one in particular, as he clutched a cold pack to it, an obvious attempt at quelling bruise. Indeed, it seemed the poor man had taken on quite a beating, and his injured state was more than enough to invoke the wisewoman’s curious care. Instantly her lineaments shifted from affable timidity to the concerned mother as she surveyed his state. As she scrutinized him, her brows loosely knitted in concentration and her lips were drawn into a faint frown, and her hands drifted down to the carefully tended leather pack she had just dropped from her shoulder. She lifted it to her lap and turned the little antler-knob latch to release the catch, flipped the flap over to expose the organs of her treasured bag, and began to rummage through her various supplies.

But as she grabbed a bottle of helichrysum oil and a clean square of cloth from the internals of the pack, she paused to recall her manners. She had not thanked the man, nor had she told her his name, or even what she was about: she simply saw his injuries and set to her usual ways, taking control of the situation without heed of how he might feel about it. It was her way to take care of all those injured and ill, but who was she to assume that he had not seen to his own injuries? He may have even seen a healer before all this. Well, if he had, she did not think much of the caretaker as the swelling behind that ice pack flushed much more than she liked, but she was not her right to decide that another’s handling was inadequate.

All this rudeness and assumption on her part was enough to color her cheeks a bright shade of crimson, and she bowed her head apologetically as she pulled the vial of oil from its confines and placed it upon the table. “Oh, how rude of me,” she began with a slight waver to the opening syllable. “Thank you for letting me sit with you. I am known as Kaia… It is very nice to me you, Victor.” Another timid grin touched her lips, risking just the faintest gleam of china chits. She then looked him fully in the eye, hazel hoping to touch the one good eye he had to confirm her sincerity. Even as she did this, she continued to rummage through her bag, gathering odd elements through the familiarity of touch and positioning those items to the side of the bag in the event that this Victor should accept her care. She hoped he would as she could not bare the thought of allowing this man to go on with such a lasting mark of brutality to mar is face.

“I hope you do not mind, or take offense, but it looks like that eye could use some tending. I’m a healer or sorts, and I could lessen the swell, among other things, if you would like.” With that said she offered a softer smile than those delivered before. She wanted nothing more than to ensure that this kind man was properly seen to so that he could persist in his generosity and kindness without hindrance.

In fact, the girl was so focused upon this kind stranger that she did not even notice the arrival of the fleshy tavernmaid at her elbow. It was not until the woman humphed her irritation that Kaia even remembered the reason she came to this tavern. With a shy apology written upon her features, she tore her attention away from her table companion and placed it upon the boxum server. She took the proffered bowl and tankard and exchanged it with the required coin, but the items were set to the side without much more thought. Her mind was set upon Victor and his bruised and swollen eye, and such intent was quite clear as she looked at him with entreaty splashed across her round face.

[The Cinderella Man]

“They are all Delilah... All and none of them...”

The timid lass reminded him of his long-lost love, but then again, they all did nowadays. They were all similar with the smiles that struck that eerily spot in your chest, and eyes both keen and mellow that just crept inside your mind, and hair that tempted your fingers to touch its sleekness, and all the eye-catching details that even his one operational eye managed to ascertain. On top of that, below the grimy cloak that the coy brunette took off, there was somewhat of a knockout figure. Victor didn’t ogle, but he allowed a wary, studious glance while she deposited her possessions around her chair. Despite her rather baggy clothes, the girl had some definite curvature, her well-toned body vaguely outlined under the creases of her clothes. It was a mundane beauty though, the working woman beauty that he recognized in her and it was something that he most definitely appreciated. He was acquainted with a fair share of overblown dames and most of them had less between their ears then he did, and given his profession, that certainly wasn’t a lot.

Despite her cordial face, the girl seemed somewhat reserved, taking a seat wordlessly and paying more attention to her rucksack then her dinner companion. Victor was neither surprised nor insulted. He for one was no chatterbox and he reckoned there is a fair share of people with similar demeanor. And it wasn’t like he was the friendliest sight ever, all banged up and sitting in his unbuttoned black overcoat as if it was mid winter. Besides, they weren’t friends; they weren’t even acquaintances, just a pair that was forced to share a table in a jammed tavern. So he dropped his eyes back to the stew and stirred it with is free hand while she rummaged through the contents of a bag that looked too big for her small figure. She pulled out some vials, but Victor thought it was merely seasoning for the meal that she waited. God knew his could use some extra black pepper. Maybe even a bit of red paprika, the sweet, not the peppery kind.

He was still deliberating whether to start his meal – his aching jaw advising him not to – when she spoke again, retrieving her manners and looking somewhat chagrined that she didn’t introduce herself earlier. Victor reestablished eye contact, deciding to postpone the ingestion for a while longer. The genteel maiden introduced herself as Kaia, thanking him for allowing her to join him, eliciting a reflexive smirk and a nod from the boxer. She then returned to prospecting for something in her oversized traveling bag. Seconds later she spoke again – once again speaking as if she was tiptoeing on eggshells – offering her aid in mending the wounds that would’ve been apparent even if he didn’t have a bloodied rag stuffed with ice pressed against his forehead.

She seemed sincere enough, with her merciful smile and what seemed like genuinely sincere tone, but suspicion was a trait that came naturally to Victor. He was down and out for far too long, scraping against the bottom and meeting the lowest of the low that Corone had to offer, and such a life always gave birth to a certain dose of bitterness. People weren’t benefactors anymore, not in his book, and where there was something offered, there was a price tag that hung from it. None of this was visible on his face as he observed her soft, seemingly concerned visage, but when he spoke, his tone was a bit callous.

“I have no money to offer as payment for your services. If I had, I’d probably be in the local infirmary right about now.” he said. But those big hazel eyes kept looking at him with worry that shouldn’t have been there, with almost a diffident plea and he realized that he was maybe being too standoffish. He continued in a softer tone, with an almost jovial smile. “Besides, this comes in the work description, so I’m quite used to it. When you’re a prizefighter, you can’t really expect for a beauty treatment in the ring.”

A busty barmaid approached their table just in time to interrupt the exchange, delivering Kaia her meal with a rather peeved look on her fatigued face. Victor almost felt the need to ask the wench what happened with serving the clientele with a smile – even if it’s as fake as a carnival mask – but he reckoned that smile wasn’t included in the price of the served meal. Besides, he had a better idea.

“Wait, hold on, ma’am.” he said to the waitress who didn’t seem too pleased to be recalled. Victor stuffed his hand into the pocked of his worn leather coat, fishing for a remaining paper slip. His eyes turned to the benevolent brunette. “Tell you what? I’ll buy you a meal and you can fix my eye and we’ll call it even.” Without waiting for a response, he fished out the second voucher for a free meal in The Peaceful Promenade and handed it over to the server. The woman picked the paper up, inspected it in the same manner she did when he handed over the first one minutes earlier – which meant extremely studiously, Victor after all had the outlook of a high risk customer – then shook her head with whatever expression painted on her contours. Dropping the coinage on the surface of the worn table, she made herself scarce in the ever-moving crowd.

“Maybe we should eat first.” he said to Kaia. “I bet this meal is by no means a delicacy, but it’s bound to be twice as bad when it’s cold.”

[The Emerald Hind]

The man’s initial response struck the girl as a bit harsh, the hint of coldness that laced his blunt confession touching her ears like an icy spike. It was frigid but truthful, an obvious rebuff that was meant to curtail any chance at deception on her part. She could not fault him for his caution, but it pinched her pride so that an angry little welt resulted. Here she was subjected to the same treatment as she had endured all day; here, she was still seen as nothing more than a miracle worker minded to her own profit. True, she had her own interests at the forefront of her concerns, but she was genuinely concerned about the welfare of this stranger. Years of training and conditioning had attuned her to the pains of others, and it was the maternal side of her that reacted whenever she saw someone hurt. No matter who the person was--man, woman, adult, child, thief, priest--she wanted to take that individual under her wing and see to his healing. So, it was only natural that she be concerned about this man for reasons beyond fiscal value.

It would have been enough to make her retreat into herself, to recoil from the sting of his callous prudence and simply remain in silence while she attended to her prospective meal; however, it seemed the man judged his own words and tone no sooner than he had let speech fly, and so he amended the first with an slightly gentler admonishment of what had landed him in such a state, perhaps accounting for more than just his physical state. This was not enough to really prevent her from distancing herself, but it did halt a full retreat. After all, it was not fair of the healer to hold his reaction against him. He was apparently use to this sort of thing, and additional efforts on the part of a stranger of unknown character were not necessary. So she did her best to shrug the interaction away, even if such was half-hearted.

But then she had her dinner before her, a steaming bowl of the night’s stew and a tankard of--hopefully--decent mead. These things she had set beside just moments before, when she had been fully prepared to take charge of the black-eyed prizefighter, but now it seemed they were to be of her only concern. Too easily wounded, little girl, she chided herself mentally as she forced herself to recline further into her chair, her gaze wondering for a moment as she considered the wooden container and its cooling contents.

Then came the boxer’s summons to the woman who had served her, something that stirred Kaia’s attention enough to pull her away from her own thoughts and her aimless observance of what was provided as fodder so that it was again bestowed upon Victor. Now, here he was striking a deal with her, trying to mend any weathered planks in the frail bridge built between both him and the herself. Then he exchanged her coin--which the tavern maid set upon the table after some deliberation--with a slip of parchment she assumed to be a voucher. She gazed down as the deposited currenc with mild awe only to look up at the man across from her with all the signs of curiosity written across her visage.

“You know, I would not have required payment since I made the offer to tend to you,” she submitted dryly--she was still miffed by his first response--but then she shrugged and quirked the stern line of her lips into a more pleasing smile just before a sigh escaped their gate. “I appreciate the gesture, though. I don’t have much coin, either. Usually, I’d hunt down my meal, but I didn’t have the time today, nor do I know if the locals allow such a thing without permission. I must thank you yet again.” There was another attempt to catch his gaze, so as to soften her own words, which began as slightly acerbic, but then she allowed her eyes to slide away.

She looked down at her food and sniffed at it experimentally. “You’re probably right about this stuff they pass off as food. Maybe I should have made a night-time raid in the forest, instead.” Her lips quirked into a wry smirk as she poked at a piece of beef with the tip of her spoon, shuttling it through the murky liquid and past vegetable-bergs. Finally, she spooned a portion of the offerings and consumed it, as custom.

The meal was not at all the best she had ever tasted, but it was palitable. Her self-caught meals were far more savory than the sort served to her now, but she could not complain much. It was warm, edible, and there were no obvious signs of taint, which was more than enough to serve her. She only wished that there was a bit more meat and a little less broth, plus there was that lingering touch of something burnt. This meal was probably made in part from the remains of the stew left the night before. Most taverns did such a thing, keeping the pot boiling during all the hours, only adding to it as necessary. Such a system usually meant that the food closest to the bottom burned, so when the cook felt so inclined to stir the contents everything was mixed with the charred sludge that lingered at the nadir of the pot. The food could have been worse, though, and at least it was not composed of all burnt bits. She made quick work of it just to get it out of the way, taking a pull of her mead at odd intervals to wash the stuff down. At least the drink was better: it was pleasantly sweet without being syrupy. Soon enough, there was nothing more than a shallow film left in the bowl and half a mug full of mead.

She then waited for him to finish his own meal, but as she did so she finished fishing out the items she needed to tend to the fighter. “You say that you are a prizefighter? Do you enjoy it?” This was an attempt at some light conversation as her hands busied themselves with recovering the helichrysum oil along with a jar of arnica salve to help bring down the swelling eye. Then there was the calendal juice, which would clean out any cuts he might have. “I’m ready whenever you are,” she added softly as she took the oil and squeezed four drops of the stuff onto one of the white cloths she had gathered earlier.

[The Cinderella Man]

“Aw, shucks Padre, you’re such a smoothie. You always find the right words to say...”

He hated that candid voice in the back of his mind that had a tendency to mock his bad choices once they were already behind the boxer’s back. In this case, it was his incredulity that was the misstep and its consequence was an effective murder of softness on Kaia’s face. Because what he deciphered as an attempt at earning some cash at the end of day was actually sincere concern and whether he brought his defensive walls up reflexively or advertently didn’t matter. The expression of the young lass changed slightly, just enough to underline the fact that he once again screwed up when it came to socializing. It certainly wasn’t the first time. After all, he was an introvert and a grouch and a lot of other expressions his sister Yavannha – who was growing up to be quite a philosopher and quite a bitch as well – would add to that list.

Fortunately, his attempt to remedy the communicative mistake seemed somewhat effective on the diminutive healer. The face that went from warm to frigid the moment he spoke about the coinage for her services retrieved some of its amity after his rather feeble attempt to turn the whole issue into a joke. Jokes were the best defense, jokes and smiles. They gave out an impression that everything was fine and dandy even if it wasn’t like right now. Because Victor felt the need to apologize for blurting out the first caustic thought that popped into his whacked skull, but couldn’t exactly make himself utter it partially because of his male pride and partially because he wasn’t a very deft speaker that could make it sound good. Instead he listened to her words with a smirk, interjecting when he felt like it would be appropriate.

“So I’m not the only one who travels on a tight budget, huh?” the boxer said, finally dropping the ice pack that by now became nothing but a soppy rag, the ice within dethawed completely. The swelling didn’t exactly block his vision, but it impaired it just enough for him to see a blurry tan lid no matter where he looked. He took a bite of unsalty bread, then scooped up some of the murky contents from his bowl and pushed it past his aching jaw. He didn’t masticate it for long, every bite making a soundless bony click, reminding him that he was fed an ample amount of punches about an hour ago.

“At least you can catch game though. Which is allowed, in case you’re wondering, especially here in Concordia.” Victor spoke in between bites, making certain to chew with his mouth closed and swallow before actually trying to address Kaia. He usually maintained this mannerism regardless of the company, but he made sure his mind double checks it given the fact that he had some audience. “The only thing I could catch out there is a cold. I tried to shoot a rabbit once, but I wound up wasting three perfectly good bullets. And they sure as hell cost more then a square meal in a tavern. On top of that, I got apprehended by some Rangers who wanted to know what all the fuss was about.”

About the time his story was done, so was the rather bland-tasting stew and the glass of cheap red wine that was either distilled on a very lousy year or it was watered down just enough for you to recognize it, but not enough for you to bring it up with the innkeeper. Especially not now when it went down the drain. Given the fact that Kaia finished at an approximately same time, tome came for her end of the bargain. A number of vials and corked bottles was already on the table surface, all filled with a various specter of liquids that looked a little bit like different brands of tea to Victor. In some small, distant, unfathomably hopeful way he hoped that he would just have to gulp down on some of these concoctions and then be magically healed, but then he remembered the price tag he saw on one of those rejuvenation potions while he browsed through Bazaar shops and realized that such salves are worth its weight in gold.

“Alright, let me just get a bit closer.” the bruised prizefighter said, motioning his chair over to her side of the table and taking a seat with another stifled grunt caused by his left flank. Seeing that she didn’t have to work on his mouth, he could speak while she worked her mundane, herbal magic. “As for your question... Well, do I strike you as a man that just had an enjoyable night?” Victor asked, his soft tone and a honest smile making it clear that he meant no offense and that the joke was on him. “But it’s the only thing I know how to do. It’s a necessary evil, so to say. It pays the bills... most of the times. Although there is something special when you’re on the canvas and you hear hundreds of people cheering your name. It’s like a mass frenzy takes over the crowd and you’re in the eye of the storm. But nowadays there are less cheers and more boos, if you know what I mean. I’m not exactly riding my winning streak.”

He sighed, concluding the pathetic speech that was supposed to be melancholic and self-pitying without really sounding that way, that ought to give some insinuation how much of a loser her was without really revealing it to Kaia. He decided to change the subject. “What about you? I’m guessing the medicine business isn’t as profitable as you would’ve wished?”

[The Emerald Hind]

She listened to him intently as he told her a little of his lifestyle, as such was quite different from her own. Her business was to keep others intact for the sake of compassion, and his was to destroy any and all opponents for the sake of entertainment. This did not bother her one bit, for everyone had his own way in life, and those who entered the ring with him knew what to expect, just as he obviously did. Apparently prizefighters were no different than the entertainers you found at carnivals or fairs, and better yet, he did not make killing his profession as many did. A fighter she could sympathize with, a cold-blooded killer would be something else entirely. She had met enough mercenaries and sell-swords in her journey to last a lifetime, and every one of those rogues had left a sour taste in her mouth as they went against everything she was conditioned to do. She preserved life, and they took it. This man bruised it a little, but no more than required.

A soft smile traced her large mouth as she allowed his words to pour into her ears, but even as she focused upon the meaning of his speech she devoted herself to his tending. She set the prepared cloth upon her lap so as to free her hands for a proper examination. Then, with him near enough to properly care for, she gingerly touched the flesh near his eye. Her fingers played just measures away from the site of the bruise with feather light strokes, testing the tenderness of the surrounding flesh so she could be certain of how far the contusion extended. She then shifted her head this way and that so that she could see how the light reflected from the rather swollen optical. After some moments of this, she came to her conclusions. He had not held claim to this shiner for long, not much longer than an hour or so, and so it was no where near the end of the bruising process. He could expect to see considerable swelling by the following morning, and as it was he probably lacked the ability to see out of the defective orb. Its color was bright and fresh, attesting to the pain he must have felt. Luckily for him he had applied an ice pack as he had, or else it would have been worse. Furthermore, he was lucky she was there at the time that she was, as she knew for certain that she could attend to this issue and have it resolved within a day or so rather than a near week or more.

By the time he was finished with his story, she had finished with the examination. It was then that she recovered the clean cotton square and added another drop of the oil. She lightly pressed it to his eye, after the proper warning to make sure he had shut it as tightly as possible. She smeared a light coating of the remedy over the discoloration and just beyond, then she held it in place with a soft pressure. “Sorry if that hurts,” she said as she adjusted the force she exerted upon him so as to allow him more comfort, and it was then that she took the chance to look at his good eye and offer a companionable and supportive smile. “This oil will help ease the swelling even if it won’t take the pain away. I have to hold it here for a few moments, though.”

It was then that his question was posed for a return kindness in tales, and this she obliged him as she had the time to speak of her own occupation without interfering with her current task. She settled herself on the very edge of her chair so that she was close enough to hold the cloth to his eye in comfort, although, she was certain she would have to switch arms soon enough: she could never keep her limbs in one position for long before getting a crick in her joints or a cramp in her muscles. She was just not able to remain stationary for long, not after everything that had happened since her father’s death.

“Well, I didn’t get into herbalism or healing for the money. My mother was the wisewoman of our town, just like her mother before her, so, like her, I was taught the Ways of Wisdom. She always assumed that I would become the town’s wisewoman after her--so did I for that matter--but things happen.” She shrugged at that, as much as to dismiss any attempt on his part to have her elaborate on the situation as to shed the grief such memories always stirred. Thoughts of her mother were always joyous to recall, but they brought with them a deep sense of loss and sorrow, as much for the loss of her mother as for how she lost her. It was not something she wished to dwell upon, especially before a man she had just met. So, she continued on without a pause, passing over that little facet of the story as if it were nothing, not even noting it beyond the flash of pain that stabbed at her stomach whenever she thought of the loving Nikesh.

“As a wisewoman, I really can’t expect pay in the usual sense. In the towns, you aren’t given money for your efforts, but you do trade them for services and goods. Unfortunately, I don’t have a town to call my own, and every time I think I have found a place to settle I’m chased out by some threatened apothecary or healer. They don’t want an herbalist around who will offer her services for nothing more than a pat of butter or a mended fence. So, since I am not able to really accept any of that traveling as I am, I have to request money. And who wants to pay a ‘miracle worker’ for a false cure?” At this she pinned him with a raised brow and quirked lips, allowing the humor of the ironic gesture to bubble over into a mirthful chuckle--a deep, throaty chuckle, not one of those tinkles of feminine giggling.

The wry crook of her lips eased into one of those affable smiles once again as she pulled the oil sodden cloth away to expose the slick patch of bruised eye. She fanned the area with her hand for a moment and then blew upon the oil three times before dabbing the excess away with the corner of the napkin. After that, she reached for the salve and opened it up, revealing a waxy brown-green paste. She skimmed the smooth surface of the pat with two finger tips and then gently smoothed the stuff over his eye, rubbing it in as best she could without causing considerable pain.

“You’re lucky I don’t have to sting you with that calendal juice: there are no visible cuts around your eye. But I suggest that you apply a little to any scrapes or cuts you may have. It will prevent infection, even if it stings worse than an ant bite. I’m going to give you this helichrysum oil. Put four drops of it on a piece of cloth and leave it on your eye for no longer than ten minutes, then remove it and put some of the salve on. After the salve seeps in, go back to the ice pack. Between the three, the bruise will be greatly reduced in no time and the pain will be gone much quicker. You should be able to see better tomorrow morning, too.” Just as she finished her instructions, she pushed the items towards him and recovered the discarded ice pack, which she returned to his eye. With her bag no longer necessary, she closed it once again and let it slip down to the floor with a careful motion, all the time looking from his bad eye to the good.

“You will be tip-top and fighting shape in no time, unless there are other injuries about you that I don’t know about.” This time she scrutinized him with a critical glare, one of mock severity, but no less sincere. A slim arch rose to the heavens as she regarded him, looking for a reaction, even as her mouth twitched between a grin and a forced attempt at a stern lip.

[The Cinderella Man]

“Keep a straight face now. You don’t want to come off as a wuss and a loser...”

Even though Kaia’s hands worked with kid gloves – making her significantly gentler then the majority of healers that always seemed to be patching you up on a timer – the pressure on the swelling hurt like a bitch. Regularly, if there wasn’t a cute girl sitting in front of him, Victor’s would’ve probably winced and fired a couple of undirected profanities as well, but this wasn’t an ordinary situation. She was going out on a limb, doing her utmost to fix an ugly kisser of some stranger she was forced to sit with due to the overcrowded tavern, and he was in no position to whine about anything. Not that his pride would’ve allowed him to do so anyways. Instead he did what he always did best; he endured, his facial expression rather bland as she prodded at his throbbing lump.

However, while he could keep the physical pain in check, the queasy-anxious, semi-pleasant sensation was something that was out of his control. It usually originated somewhere in his gut, making him antsy and aflutter, and it happened on a regular basis whenever he was in the proximity of a female. The truth was, Victor Callahan wasn’t a charmer, he wasn’t one of those charismatic talkers that could simply sweep someone off their feet with mere words and body language. In fact, he was pretty certain that he was completely the opposite, which probably made him the women repellent. So whenever there was some closeness – regardless of how platonic or even professional it was – Padre felt rather uneasy. However, given the fact that Kaia was basically within arm’s reach as her fingers worked on his bruise, he had no option but to look at her visage.

She probably wasn’t the prettiest girl he ever saw – an insensitive and discourteous remark, he reprimanded himself. And yet as she offered an abridged resume of her profession and the reasons she opted for it, he couldn’t help but gaze at her. He caught her every word, but more important then the audible component, he caught every subtle smile of her full lips, every quirk of her shapely brows, every studious yet considerate inspection of her light brown eyes that reminded him of polished wood reflecting some eerily incandescence. Combined with her rather amicable demeanor and the cautious caresses of her fingers, the herbalist maiden slowly started to etch herself onto a wall of memories in Victor’s head where all notable individuals in his life had a reserved spot. And Victor was like an elephant; he never forgot, not even seemingly peanut, temporary acquaintances such as this one.

Her story was something that he came to expect from strangers; a fairytale gone bad when “things happened” as she neatly put it. However, while he would usually listened to these recollections with a dose of callousness, in Kaia’s case he almost caught himself asking for more details. Perhaps it was just because she was a benevolent girl that offered to mend his wound for the price of a mere meal. Perhaps it was because Kaia was the kind of girl that he could see in that house with white picket fence that always floated somewhere in his fantasies, because she was the diamond in the rough and yet as smooth as silk. So it could be said that when the healing process was concluded, Victor felt a bit disappointed, wanting it to last a bit longer despite the fact that every contact with his shiner-in-the-making elicited a sting of sharp pain.

Only, it wasn’t really concluded. After tending to his bruise, the brunette took her generosity to another level, offering both the instructions for further medical treatment and the necessary ointments. Victor acknowledged most of her words with a nod, certain that most of it would evaporate by the time he crashed into his bed. Boxers after all weren’t exactly brainiacs. He picked up the pair of items she procured, studied him as if he actually knew what the stuff actually was, but instead of pocketing it, the prizefighter let it rest on the table. He couldn’t accept this. On average, a meal in The Peaceful Promenade cost about five-seven gold pieces. For that price, you couldn’t buy a pinch of healing herbs of suspicious origins from the Bazaar hawkers, let alone a pair of cures that could make a swelling recline overnight. And as if that wasn’t enough, she even offered to tend any other wounds he might’ve had. A numb, cold pain below his left arm reminded him of the ribs and the unnatural way they felt right about now, but he shrugged that away. He owed her too much already.

“No, that’s about it.” he said with a reassuring smile that was supposed to slip beneath the radar of her inspective eyes that almost knew that he was lying through his teeth. He got up, picked up the chair and placed it back on the opposite side of the table. He made certain that when he took a seat, his face didn’t reflect the pain in his flank. “Thank you for this, Kaia. And while I truly appreciate your concern, I cannot accept all of this. I bought you a meal, you patched up my eye. It seems like a fair trade.” It was only when he blurted out these modest words that his mind actually processed what she said. Able to see better by tomorrow? There was an open position for a bout tomorrow in “The Pit”...

“Although...” he added, a bit reluctant to utter his idea, a bit uncertain whether or not she would even want to take a part in it. He supported himself on one elbow, leaning over the table before he continued. “There might be a way I could repay you with much more then a free meal. You see, there is on open spot in a bout tomorrow. Now, ordinarily I don’t fight two nights in a row, especially if I come out looking like this and feeling like a minced meat. But with this stuff of yours fixing my eye and with you in my corner tomorrow, I could certainly make a fight out of it. We split the purse fifty-fifty, which in case we lose is mere two hundred, but if we win... It’s five hundred each.”

Of course, what he neglected to mention was the fact that his opponent would be none other then John Chivas, also known as Bricktop, also known as six and a half feet of muscles set on destruction, undefeated on this side of the Comb Mountains. The open spot in that bout was vacant for a reason. But the money was good either way. If he didn’t get killed that is. “So, what do you say? You tired of fixing this ugly mug or are you up for another round?”

[The Emerald Hind]

Oddly enough, when the boxer removed himself from such close proximity to her, Kaia was made aware of a faint sense of longing that lingered somewhere both in the back of her thoughts and at the very nadir of her heart. If it was not for the fact that she had schooled her expression to remain amiable and sweet, there might have been some clue of this confusing sensation to dim the light in her eyes, but she managed to look away from him for a moment, taking the unspoken excuse that she had to ensure that her workbag was properly secure from prying fingers. Her responsiveness towards the man was a little odd, as she was no one to develop any sort of ties with anyone, especially not after a single meal; yet, here she was wishing there was just the slightest reason to get nearer to him.

This could all be due to the fact that she had been without company for so long. She could not even remember the last time she had spoken to someone at length, much less someone who was genuinely kind--if a little cautious, and understandably so--and most willing to listen to what she had to say. In fact, the passage of time between her last memorable social interaction and the one she engaged in at the moment was unbelievable in span. Not since her mother died, and even then socializing had been strained due to Nikesh’s illness. Then, of course, there was this: Victor bore some resemblance to Ucoige, in that both the boxer and the farmer were strong of build, plain of feature, and full of masculinity. True, there were more than enough differences to mark them as completely different men, but Kaia was certain that Ucoige would have approved of Victor and made him one of his friends. If her were not forced into serfdom, that was, and if he were not so busy with a new wife, but that was a different story and not something Kaia was prepared to consider, especially now.

Having reasoned why she felt in such a way, the anxious unease that had set in the girl’s breast was a little less, but it still persisted, throbbing like a dull ache. She would just have to endure and hope that it went away, or that she got more used to the fighter. There was no other option. She was not about to make a fool of herself over something so trivial, but she did hope that this little meeting between strangers would continue for a bit longer. There was no telling how much longer the two could get away with claiming a table once they when both had finished with their meals. And then he would go his way into the unknown and she would go her own, into the woods to overnight in a makeshift camp. All the more reason to hope they went undiscovered for a while longer: the weather was getting cooler and the animals more active at night, and there was just not enough padding between her and the rough forest floor.

She was broken from her train of thoughts by Victor’s gentle refusal for more healing--a refusal, because she did[/] know there were more injuries elsewhere by the virtue of common sense--and that to keep the proffered herbs. This caused her to shake her head just a little and then tip it to the side as she regarded him, but just as her lips shifted to form the vibrations conjured by her throat, he interjected with an imploring note, the barest trace of hopefulness. She listened intently as she leaned back into her chair, folding her hands in her lap as she straightened her crown so as to seem most interested, which she was.

It seemed that there was some use for her, after all, and here was this one-time-dinnermate giving her the choice of a feast set upon a silver platter. It was just too tempting to resist, and her mental mouth nearly watered at the idea of it. Here was her opportunity to get herself known in the world by attending a fighter at one of his exhibitions. She would be in plain view of all, and the spectators would see what this herbalist was capable of doing. At the very least, someone would need a potion or two for a headache or to cure wine sickness, but even that was something. The publicity this match offered was too much to resist, and it would give her a chance at grasping at the very thing she wanted most in the world. With luck, someone might take her on as their personal herbalist, and she could earn the coin needed for that little cottage in the wood she had always envisioned. True, there was no point in getting her hopes up, but Kaia was an optimist most of the time, and this offered to much for her to view it in bleak desperation. If only the man knew what he was giving her.

There was also the money, which was more than enough incentive to bite the juicy hook he bated before her. When it came down to it, it [I]was all about the money, but only to get the good and wholesome things Kaia truly desired. There was no denying the fact that her traveling was all due to the fact that she needed finances to acquire the things she wanted in life, and she was not about to ignore or even falsify that very truth. It was a simple fact of life that everything costed money, and without currency there was little chance at happiness, unless you were a religious hermit, and Kaia was far from that. She needed money to get that little cottage in the glen in the heart of some distant wood, just as she needed money for the wood and the supplies with which to build it. It all had a cost, and it was up to her to find a way to pay for it all, and this venture would prove most beneficial to her, for the coin he offered up would be more than welcome to her personal coffers.

And, lastly, there was the fact that this would require her to be with Victor for at least another night. She desperately needed a friend, even a fleeting one, if only to stop her from venturing to the bleak madness inflicted upon those who were refused the chance to interact with others. Kaia, although shy and reserved, was also keenly social, and she thrived on these sort of chance meetings. That was why her profession appealed to her so greatly: she was always meeting people and forging alliances and even friendships. This is what she wanted almost as much as that cottage, as much as her own village to attend. She became all the more aware of how much she wanted to be near this man, if even only as a friend, as surely she would remain by her own reservations and the simple call of Fate. But there was joy in that, as well, and she needed someone who she knew better beyond a half-forgotten face.

It was all this that caused her eyes to sparkle with glee, alighting the little motes of green hidden amongst the light brown so that they danced and gleamed. That generous mouth spread into the widest of smiles, exposing those straight, white tiles to the warm glow of the tavern. And this was how she gazed at him, quite pleased with his offer and more than pleased that it was even made at all. “I would be most grateful to you. You have no idea what that would mean to me,” she answered honestly, trying her best to hide the sudden urge to break into one of her dances. “But there is not much I can do about the face,” she added with a more compact smirk and a flirtatious wink, the mirth still touching her eyes as she chuckled to let him know she was not being mean, she was just in such good cheer that she was indulging in her own sense of humor, something she was not able to do for some time. To soften the remark, she offered another broad smile, then extended her arm to clap him companioning upon the shoulder, a gesture adopted by the Avanin people as the equivalent of a friendly handshake, the first contact between peers.

[The Cinderella Man]

“And I always thought I could read people and foresee their reactions...”

He expected a reluctant ‘yes’ at best or a courteous apology and a timid refusal of his proposition at worse. Kaia was sweet to the core, there was no doubt about that in Victor once he got a chance to venture into the recondite gleam of her eyes. But unlike the majority of the do-gooders that walked around with a woolgathering expression on their faces, she was not a dewy-eyed innocent lass that would jump into deals with strangers. Especially not the ones that looked like they just got out of a bar fight. She was a stranger in a strange land talking to another stranger. There was too much strangeness in that encounter by Victor’s reckoning for something good – like a temporary alliance – to be born of it.

And yet shortly after he finished and awaited her probable rejection, Kaia’s lips stretched into a divine smile. She seemed genuinely jubilant with his proposition, almost like a child that just received that birthday present that she wanted during the course of the previous year. Her entire visage was once again lambent, as if there was suddenly a source of light that illuminated it, and it seemed to him that her entire being joined in that smile. Her eyes squinted gently, her cheekbones creasing in a sweet, feminine manner, her hands suddenly restless.

Needless to say, the boxer was rather blown out of the water with this gleeful reaction. Five hundred gold pieces was a formidable sum, but it was not that formidable, and it wasn’t even ensured. In fact, chances were they would wind up with a hundred each and that only if the ref didn’t call it a no contest bout. And Victor got quite a few of those gut-wrenching rulings lately, together with a torrent of profanities from the crowd. And as if that wasn’t enough, there was the fact that she had to be actually present in The Pit which was everything but an idyllic environment. People beat other people there. People even killed other people there. The place looked like a portal of pain and anguish and hatred that had the horrible smell to boot. Given her profession, Victor suspected that she scarcely ventured into such edifices. And yet, there seemed to be nothing that could efface that manifestation of mirth that was painted all over her face. She even leant over the table to clasp his shoulder genially, as if the peculiar greeting was supposed to conclude their deal. Victor, seeing no reason why not proceed with this, followed her example, placing his hand on her shoulder.

“So I guess I won’t be wooing the ladies from the front rows during then?” he countered her jest, returning a heartily smile as well as the gentle squeeze on the shoulder. He retracted his hand before the touch became awkward, moving his bulk back against the backrest. “Now, the rules about wounds tending aren’t very strict in The Pit, but if they sense there is some magic involved or some instant rejuvenation potions, they not only kick you out and rough you up, but you’re barred access to the arena for life. So none of the fancy stuff is allowed. If it was, the battles would last for days and that’s not good for the crowd, if you know what I mean. Nobody wants to see two people going at it for the entire evening.”

He paused, allowing her the proper time to assimilate all the info while he managed to tear his eyes off her face and do a quick survey of the ever-bustling surroundings. The Peaceful Promenade was a beehive at almost any time of the day, but that went double for the evenings. Dusty travelers with their dubious faces, locals with weariness in their eyes and social smiles on their faces, random gents in search for the next female victim to charm and probably bed within the next hour, they all sought refuge in the far-famed Underwood inn. And they all eventually wanted to take a seat, which meant that the longer you lazed, the more frequent the ushering gazes of the attendants became. And while they didn’t reach the critical level yet, Victor thought it might be their cue to leave.

“The bout is tomorrow, after sundown. I reckon we meet about an hour before sundown just to be safe. I hate being late for appointments.” he spoke again, reverting his eyes – that were both relatively operational now – to Kaia. “We should probably get going now though, before they kindly ask us to give up the spot for more paying customers.” the boxer added with a mild smile before he got up, pocketing the pair of bottles that the healer girl left for his further application. From below the table, he picked up his worn gym bag, a sad looking leather thing that he considered somewhat of a lucky charm. Of course, it seldom brought him luck, especially since he left Scara Brae, but old habits were a bitch to kill and he couldn’t just discard the very thing that followed him through all his wins and losses. It saw more losses though.

“Where are you staying, by the way?” he asked her, already noticing a rather tipsy trio of burly men eyeing their table from the bar. He waited for Kaia to get prepared before he started to plow the way through the mass and towards the door. “I found this rather cheap place out in the outskirts. It’s not the loftiest inn you’ll ever find, but it’s good if your money pouch is light.”

[The Emerald Hind]

In all reality, Kaia’s rather jubilant reaction was quite a well-known facet of her personality, for even if she did seem to be a bit skittish—which she was in the presence of strangers—and seemingly knowledgeable about the ways of the world, she was a true optimist at heart and knew a great deal less than it seemed she did. She was always cautious, for that was her very nature, and still, she did not trust this man fully, but she was desperate for some sort of companionship, and she was fairly certain that if this man meant her bodily harm the Earth Stone about her neck would indicate something. (Even if the thing did have a habit of getting her into trouble that was quite likely to land her in physical danger, it was always something she could handle and it was always to serve the greater good.) Thus, as far as she was concerned, there was no harm in tagging along with him for just one more night. He showed no sign of wanting anything more than a healer at his side, and perhaps a little bit of company, as well, but she rather doubted he would do anything ill against her. A bit naïve on her part, perhaps, but nothing seemed to go against this fellow.

And even if the money was not much, Kaia did not know that. She was thrifty with coin, true enough, but she was somewhat knew to the local rates. Even so, even a mere two hundred in winnings would get her quite far, as little as it was. The girl did not typically eat at taverns or stay at inns, unless she had no other choice, such as when she had no time to hunt or the weather was particularly foul, so she often pocketed what she won and kept it out of sight, even her own. She was quite good at stretching currency, often by being as cheap as possible, or simply not investing it at all. So, two hundred at the very least was prime winnings for her, especially since she had only accumulated a coin or two along the side of the road. Five hundred would be grand, and, since she usually looked at the brighter side of things, it was just as likely to take place. At least this time the fighter would have a healer on his side.

She continued to smile at him as he returned the clasp a bit awkwardly. It was then that she recalled that her customs were out of place around here and the meaning of the gesture might have been lost to him, but he seemed to figure it out for himself. That was well enough, and after he exchanged the touch with a clap on her shoulder, she released her grasp and let her arm fall.

At his mention of magic, she raised a brow and swiveled a sideways glance to eye him judiciously. So, he did think what she had done was some sort of trick, a miracle of sorts. At this she sighed and looked to the rafters above, trying her best to hold back a little bubble of laughter that wanted to meet his words. He dared thing she was a mage healer? It was a humorous thought, even more so because there was not a hint of anything magical about her. Magicians were beautiful to look upon, graceful and lithe in build, and did a whole number of tricks. They would not have to use the employ of prepared herbs from a bag to do the simple healing she had just done. No, all the magic that took place was that of Nature and her herb-children. All she had done was prepare the oil and the salve for use and let the plants do their work. There was nothing illegal in that, now was there?

She said as much as she brushed back an unruly bit of frizzy, brown hair. “No worries there, prizefighter. I have no ties to magic, nor do I have any miracle potions. That bit of magic you just experienced was the sort anyone with the memory for plants and recipes can do. So, unless they have issue with natural, herbal remedies, I will not run into any trouble.” She was certain of that, and the look she pinned him with said as much. Her growing cheerfulness remained, but there was that cold glint of seriousness to touch those hazel depths, yet again. At this point, she was rather tired of being considered a miracle worker of any sort, and she wanted to make it quite plain that she was not of that sort—nor of the magical sort, either. But then she shrugged gently and let the issue fall.

When Victor gathered his things, the girl took his lead, standing up and recovering her own items. She gave her dusty cape a good shake before fixing it over her shoulders, then pulled on the backpack, followed by the workbag, which she slung across one shoulder while the bulk of it rested on the opposite hip. A few moments were taken to adjust everything and ensure she had all that she needed, and then she looked to the not-so-distant door, an ear trained on Victor's voice as he spoke of the night's boarding. Well, she was companionable enough with him, and she was quick enough to join him in a money-making venture, but that was where ties severed. She was in great need of company and would enjoy staying with him for some hours more, but as far as sleeping in the same housing situation as him—even though she was dead certain they would be rooms apart—was a little more than she liked. Not only that, but there was the matter of money, and she wanted to keep on with the streak of not using any.

So, as she walked after the man past the drunken patrons and the disgruntled tavern workers, she answered him as kindly as she could. “Actually, I am staying out in the wood tonight,” she began as she stepped around a man who managed to overturn his chair with him and his petite friend still in it. “I do not want to spend what little I have at the moment, not until I find something a little more permanent.” This time she had to stop to allow the beginnings of a squabble to rage before her, twin arches raised in slight alarm as a rather large fist came dangerously close to her nose. Once the two men had fallen onto another table, she took the time to dart over to the cleared floor before the doorway, and then hurried to where the boxer waited, holding open the door, which she stepped through gingerly just as a gaggle of rather colorful women pushed their way past.

Free to speak at a more civil level, a level that made her accent a little less apparent, she turned around and waited for him before making her way to the trail that had led her The Peaceful Promenade. “I scouted a place earlier in the day that would make a proper camp for me. It’s not far from here, and it’s even easier on my pouch, even if it has a far harder bed. I thank you for letting me know of the place; however, I'd still prefer my bedroll and the forest.” She gave him an apologetic look, but it was obvious she would not be swayed. She liked Victor well enough, and she did want to be in his company for some time—she needed to talk to someone other than herself—but there was being naïve and then just plain stupid, and even though there was no indication of malice or even the odd attempt at wooing her, she wanted no chance with any of it. She may have surprised him with her quick actions on his business offer, but it was to her advantage. This was not.

[The Cinderella Man]

“Goddamn, Padre, that little missy has more guts then you.”

And considering Victor’s line of work, in which he had to face-off some of the meanest gorillas in the vicinity, that was bound to be a formidable amount of guts. But exchanging punches and fending off overgrown pugilists while trying to clench your teeth tight enough to make them cancel out the pain and weariness was one thing. Taking a nap in a Concordia forest after nightfall was an entirely different, spookier thing. The benighted wilderness didn’t exactly tincture him with fear, but there was no doubt that every encounter with woods mantled in inky, nearly impenetrable darkness was a disquieting sensation. He was a wandering prizefighter for a while now and a majority of that time was spent without a definite home to call his own which in turn meant no roof above his head. But he would trade a night in the forest for a park bench and a title of a bum any time. And yet Kaia – who was by his reckoning still a blossoming girl – seemed to have no qualms with spending the night under the canopy made out of tree crowns. If he had a hat, he probably wouldn’t pull it down for her, but he would definitely feel a tendency to do so.

“That’s gutsy. The nights in the forest creep the hell out of me.” Victor said once they both stepped past the inn threshold and left the smoky, clamorous interior behind their backs. The sound of perpetual tumult was silenced now as it got filtered through the thickness of the large double doors. Outside the night firmly claimed reign over the entire dome above, coloring the entire town with dark hues and thick shadows that seemed almost tangible. The main street was illuminated by two lines of lamps, but on average every second actually emanated a shimmering, oily flame tongue that chased away the complete dominance of the night. The moon was three quarters full, just peeking above the horizon with its incomplete, orange hue. Victor always remembered his grandmother, Yanya, who never failed to mention that there was something awry in the night if the moon was hued in that way. What his grandmother did fail to mention was that there was always something awry in the night.

That only added to feeling uneasy about letting Kaia spend a night out there, where god-knows-what prowled through the shadows, lurking for a late night snack. The goody-goody two-shoes side of him wanted to have another go at changing her mind, maybe even offering to cover the expenses. Luckily, even though he got in the head quite often, there was still a semi-smart side of him that knew the difference between being benevolent and being rebarbative. There was a delicate line between offering the solution and becoming a part of the problem and given Kaia’s sugarcoated determination, he reckoned that he just reached it. If he kept pushing, his amicability would only make the brunette push back. So he gave it a rest.

“It’s the silence that always gets to me. The not-so-silent silence, with hundreds of sounds and hoos and shuffles and branch-cracking and the fact that you don’t know what’s doing it. It doesn’t help if you’re a light sleeper either.” he continued in a somewhat distant voice, his head thrown slightly back and his eyes gazing at the stars above. He adored the night sky, despite his discomfort with the wild life. The unfathomable vastness, the amount of those silvery twinkles that was beyond count, the eerily flutter in his chest when he realized just how insignificant a man was... He could spend his life gazing at the stars and it wouldn’t be a wasted life. No wonder that he was classified by most people that knew him as a dreamer. “Then again, having the night sky as the last thing you see before falling asleep is something amazing.”

Victor sighed and dropped his eyes on something that currently looked even more awing then the sky above; Kaia’s face. It came as no surprise that he didn’t want them to part ways yet, that despite his lack of deftness in socializing he wanted her company and an extension of the palaver. But every other option except walking away could and probably would be misinterpreted as a come on so he put his emotions under control and did the gentlemanlike thing to do.

“Well, I ought to get going, get some rest and tend to the eye a bit more.” he finally said with a pinch of wistfulness in his tone. However, when he continued, he effaced this deviation in his voice and continued in a friendly, lively voice, even if a fragment of those emotions was a bit forced. “It was a real pleasure meeting you and spending the dinner time with you, Kaia. I wish you both luck and a good night in the forest. Until tomorrow.”

He finished with a smile and a mild, courteous bow of his head, offering her a parting handshake and hoping that she would either change her mind or make a proposition that would prolong their companionship. However, once neither of the two happened, he turned away from her rather lethargically, his usually slightly hunched figure advancing down the smooth cobbles at an unvarying but fatigued gait.

[The Emerald Hind]

The girl had to smile at the man’s confession of unease when it came to a night without cover, although, much of her expression was enfolded in the fragile veil of advancing night. The pale flicker of amber lamps touched her visage minutely, reaching the contours of her round lineaments while surrendering the rest to blue-grey shadow. But her eyes caught the light as it skimmed over those liquid pools, dancing about merrily to alight the chromatic rims and lit them like earth-toned glass. These Gemini spheres caught the boxer’s image and distorted it so that his own image shone back at him, attesting to the fact that she was most intent upon listening to his last words of the evening. She wore a half-smile to hear his reasons for not wishing to remain in the distant wood, but then her expression softened once more—although it remained greatly concealed—as he wistfully ventured for a star-studded night.

Reflexively, she gazed upwards, as well, and the pale shimmer of star glow caught her attention as she took a few moments to take in the empyrean splendor. But it made her shudder for just a moment, for it was all expanse, that sky, and it held no end beyond the worlds throughout. It was just too big, and the world was large enough for Kaia. Up there, there was no end to light or to darkness, no end to life or to death. It was the ethereal home of the Sky Father, and it was a place she never dared entertain to venture. Especially at night, for it was then that the grandeur of that void was most apparent, concealed in a beauty that was unattainable. It was far too much to consider, and far too much to enjoy, she who preferred to witness day turn to night, rather than play host to the great expanse above. But it was that very firmament that would stand as her roof this night, just as it had every other night, and although it dumbfounded her and even intimidated her, it still bespoke of pleasant memories and half-forgotten dreams.

“The night it too grand for me, but I cherish nights such as these all the same,” she intoned with a half-hushed voice, her focus still trained to the considerations of an eternal heaven and all that it encompassed. “But it does not frighten me, not the night or her music. No harm has come of it yet, and if it should I am light enough a sleeper to know music from warning.” This she added as something of an attempt to soothe the boxer, in the event that he worried over the girl’s bedding arrangements. True, anything could happen in that forest, from a raging aurochs trampling her while she slept to a crazed lunatic slicing her throat, but Kaia was confident in her ability to detect danger—as well as that of the Earth Stone, which seemed not to want her to come to harm—and so slumbered well enough in her camp of stone and tree. It brought her all the closer to the land she cherished, to the growing green things that she loved with all her heart, and it made her feel as one with them. So there was never any sorrow in missing a more comfortable bed, not when she had all the earth to commune with.

However, her interests were torn from the thought of that never-ending night and her ties to the Mother, and she looked again to the boxer, his soft sigh having pulled her from her own distant reveries. He seemed to pause for a moment and then his deep tones spilled forth so as to end their time together this night. There was something in his voice that seemed reluctant for this—a sentiment she shared—but it could not be helped. She stood firm upon nights spent in different lodgings, and she doubted that he would trade his cheap little flat for her chilly, hard camp; not that she would allow for such a thing to occur, either. She trusted him enough this evening to engage in a venture of fiscal gain, but there would be nothing more beyond that, and the night was a risky time to forge anything beyond such things. It was the way of the darkness, the way of human nature, and she dared not tempt it.

So, when Victor’s voice took on a seemingly artificial cheer and bid her farewell and goodnight, she did the same, smiling at him gently, if not a bit longingly, and nodded her head in return. “May the Mother and the Father watch over you, Victor,” she said simply enough before he turned and went his own way. And there she waited for some moments, watching his bulky frame evanesce into the growing darkness until not even the reach of the roadside torches touched his figure.

For a few moments more she stood there, wrapped in the chill of the night and the din of the rowdy tavern, still looking after the dark without thought, as if caught by the nocturnal shades. Then she sighed, as well, and shook her head slowly. “The folly of a night’s dream.” Then she turned to the forest beyond and shrugged her shoulders to get a better grasp on her bags. To the wood she went, stepping over the road’s border and into the foliage beyond, fading into a world of tree and leaf, and venturing to the clearing she had secured earlier that morning. And it was there she laid out her bedroll and dropped her little tent over a low branch, and made her fire and set her tea. There she lay for some hours, simply looking into the green earth cast in shades of blue and black, and wondered of the kindly man she had met that night, and what the next day might bring.

[The Emerald Hind]

The next morning…

The eastern horizon was set ablaze with fire, touched by the sparkling crown of a king, the dancing flames leaping from the torch of the morning sun to race across the firmament. Light frolicked as any youth, turning this way and that in jubilant bounds, arms wide as it twirled, head cast back in a full bought of laughter. All the cheer and joy that was the world broke free of its nightly bondage and surged forth to join the growing illumination, splashing the grey sky with bright streaks of citrine and amethyst, lining every cloud with a golden halo just as it cast them with rosy shades. And so the procession continued, as guided by the sun as he rose from his bed, smiling down upon the world below with a grin so dazzling it threatened to blind all that gazed upon it.

It was of these first rays of light that touched upon many a sleeping child, awakening the farmers and the other laborers and reminding them it was time to begin yet another day of tedium. And amongst these the gracious warmth of the late-summer tides touched upon Kaia, awakening her from her own dreams, which had begun not so long ago. She awoke to the touch of heat upon her visage and the brilliance that invaded her locked lids, but she neither sighed nor grumbled at the kindly touch of the Fire Lord, but broke free of her bedroll and tumbled to the chilled forest floor. The girl yawned and stretched luxuriously upon the earthen pelt, breathing in the scent of fresh loam and listening to the songs of birds. At this she smiled, and then she got to her feet, dusting her garments free of the dirt she happened upon.

Fully awake and ready for a fresh day, Kaia readied herself through her usual preparations: the building of a fire, the steeping of tea, the making of breakfast, the cleaning of the previous day’s clothing, and the washing and clothing of herself. It took some time to finish with all her tasks, but soon enough she was fresh and pink from a hard scrub in a nearby stream, clothed in a pair of dark brown trousers and a light green tunic, and her hair pinned back with the typical green sash. She then took the tea along with the pan of eggs, which she procured from a nearby bird’s nest, and broke her fast, filling her belly with warmth. Once finished, she cleaned all the items involved and packed them into her travel bag along with her bedroll. Then she finished her grooming—cleaning her teeth, brushing her hair, trimming her nails—followed by the dismantling of the rest of the camp.

Once satisfied that the fire was out and all her belongings were gathered, Kaia threw her backpack across her shoulders along with her work bag, collected her staff, and went on her way. Later on this day she was due to meet up with the boxer whom she healed the night before in exchange for a meal, but there quite some hours before she was due to see him. She would have preferred to find him before the match he agreed to take her to—so she could act as his corner-crew healer—but she had things she needed to attend to, just as she was certain that he had certain preparations that required seeing. The girl would have the chance to see Victor soon enough.

With that in mind, she smiled happily enough and marched out of the forest and to the very road she had stood alongside the day before. Just as the day before, she intended to cry her wares: the various herbal remedies she had gathered and made along her way. Normally, she would have gathered fresh herbs to offer, as well, but she wanted to get to the road early so as to meet those individuals driving their flocks and herds to pasture, or those who were going to the nearby market to sell their goods. All tended to travel early in the morning, and she intended to meet them there.

It did not take long for her to reach her destination, and once there she set up her makeshift stand. She took out her bedroll and laid it flat upon the hard-packed ground, then set all her various items upon it—the jars, the tiny pots, the bottles, and all the other containers, each of a different size and color, each containing some herbal concoction of one sort or another. Once readied, she looked across the near empty road at the few people who were already making their morning trips and called out in a loud, clear voice, one touched by a foreign lilt. “Herbal remedies for sale! Cures for common ailments!” she harkened, pausing for a moment before hailing again. A few people looked at her as they passed, but none stopped, just as the day before. Once again, she was the discounted miracle healer. Still, she was determined, and she would not give up until it was time for her to leave to meet up with Victor, and so she stood resolute, enduring the odd glances and poignant stares, calling to her much sought after customers in a sing-song voice.

It seemed that hours had gone by, and sure enough they had, for the sun was very near its zenith, but still Kaia cried on. Her voice was a little softer now, as it was strained from two straight days of calling, but she would not give up. Little beads of perspiration dotted the child’s brow and her hair was now bound in a tight knot at her neck, the rag that usually bound it employed to mop the moisture from her eyes. She bent down for a moment to secure a water bag and took a gulp of it as she came back up, letting the water splash into her waiting mouth and satisfy the parched domains. But the water never reach her tongue but was forced from her grasp, spewing its contents into the air and then upon the earth where it landed. The force of its departure stung her hands and the side of her cheek where its spout collided with her face.

Confused, she looked before her at a rather angry looking man with bright red hair and an even redder nose. He was of thick build, although, not a particularly healthy one, and he loomed over Kaia like a mighty bear. He even snarled like one as he took a step forward. “How dare ye com ‘ere ‘n’ sell yer cures without permission,” he growled angrily, his words forming an accusation rather than a question. “No un can sell their cures ‘round here without first askin’ my permission nor before payin’ homage to me!”

Kaia backed away from the man, nearly stumbling over her own feet in an attempt to get away from him. Already she knew what this man was about. He was the town’s apothecary or their healer, and he felt threatened by her presence, a girl along the side of the road selling herbs no one wished to buy. How dangerous to his business… But those of his kind were territorial by nature and would not tolerate any sort of competition, even that which failed, and so they were quick to shoo off the riff-raff, securing the local patronage all for himself. As with all the rest, the man felt more secure in being aggressive rather than polite, and so was driven by the need to assert his masculinity upon a small, ineffective female. It made for quite a show, really, as he advanced upon the girl as she continued to back up, bowing her head apologetically as she looked up at him with frightened eyes.

The girl was not the type to fight one who easily outweighed her, nor did she want to stand trial for assaulting a local. She was foreign and competition, at that, and this man probably held some weight in the town politics, so there was no chance in her being saved by virtue of age or gender. So all she could do was mutter her apologies and back away from him, cringing as he got all the closer. Then he grabbed at her and caught her arm, giving her a good shake as he spat with his angry curses. But still the girl did nothing for fear of being punished by the populace, and she merely fell into a submissive posture, something she was quite loathe to do; yet, this had worked in the past, and after the man’s fit was over she would be well enough to gather her things and run off with her tail tucked between her legs.

But then the man got particularly mean and threw her to the ground, a fist poised to strike. Well, this was too much, even for her, and the girl struck out with her closest weapon—her staff—and clunked him across the ribs. This only enraged him further and he batted the pathetic weapon from her inept hands, ready to deliver the blow he meant to give just moments before.

[The Cinderella Man]

“Do yourself a favor, Padre, and don’t fall in love with this one.”

It was easier said then done. Victor, despite his thick skin and phlegmatic disposition, was deep down inside a helpless romantic. Not the kind that read the two-gold-piece novels that rambled about the mushy, touchy-feely relationships that all ended up with the fitting happily even after, but still a romantic. He believed in true love even though it fled from him as devil fled from incense. He believed that the beauty was in the eye of the beholder even though beholders were mostly blind to anything that wasn’t superficial. And he always fell in the same trap of proximity infatuations, getting all riled up about something that seldom actually existed. His encounter with Kaia was no different from the archetype in which he always got tangled up, his overzealous, premature emotions trying to come on top. And even though the voice of reason spoke wisely in his head, alerting him that jumping the gun got you shot in the face, when he walked towards the Three-and-a-half Stags Inn, all he could think of was the tiny herbalist girl.

He tried to sneak past the innkeeper – a scrawny looking weedy geezer that seemed at least three hundred years, puffing on his pipe and seemingly seeing everything with his one healthy eye – but no dice. “Hey there, Padre? Diddya win this time?” the gray-hair with a wrinkled visage said, stopping Victor just as he set his foot on the first step that led to the first floor. The foyer was a shabby looking thing, nothing but a rather spacious room with a wobbly coat hanger, several chairs with torn padding and a makeshift receptionist’s desk patched up from uneven boards. The petroleum lamp that hung above was set on the lowest flame possible, conserving the fuel just like the thick candle on the desk that burnt so low, it nearly ran out of fuse.

“Do I look like I won?” Victor replied, pausing his ascend and eyeing the man with a rather insipid look. His thought ventured too far into Kaia-land to really acknowledge the old man and his inquires tonight.

“Ya look like somebody rode ye all night and is about to put away wet.” the man said, chuckling dryly at his own joke.

“Well, you can’t win ‘em all.” the prizefighter replied, pulling out the friendliest demeanor and the accompanying smile to rid himself of the pesky innkeeper.

“Quit while you’re ahead and have both eyes, that’s what I always say.” Alain said, again thinking his jest was a mighty fine one and gurgling a throaty chortle. Victor just waved off with his hand and fleeted up the stairs and out of sight of the good eye of the proprietor of the Stags.

The only thing that differentiated Victor’s room and the lobby was that fact that it was smaller and had a bed. And the fact that there were no lame jokes in here, except the prizefighter told them to himself. Everything else had the same crummy, weathered look, as if it saw several decades too many. It was a poor man’s hostel, catering only the absolutely necessary for the absolutely lowest prices. The boxer didn’t mull much on what to do. Throwing his gym bag next to the bed and taking off his leather coat, he collapsed into the bed with gravity giving him enough force to nearly break the bed. Luckily, the bed held on. However, it was then that he remembered what Kaia said. He had to tend to his eye before sleeping otherwise he would be at a serious disadvantage tomorrow against Bricktop. So even though every muscle in his body wanted him to drift away into sleep slumber – and that went twice for the muscles around the left side of his ribcage – he did as the doctor ordered. He lumbered his ass out of the bed, treated the wound the best he could and then passed out on the bed that smelled like cheap soap and those gut-wrenching chemicals that were used in hospital hygiene.

******

The morning wasn’t kind to Victor. It was the time when the muscles made a stand against awakening, reminding the prizefighter that yes, they were still sore, and yes, they wanted to remain dormant for a while longer. He expected for his eye to join in these protests, refusing to open up due to the bruise, but Kaia’s medicine worked miracles, making it open up in sync with its companion on the other side of Victor’s face. His ribs picked up the slack though. Even as he made a move to turn away from the sun that blasted through his grimy window - announcing that it was near noon - the sore that now looked like a big, red-blue blot on his skin sent a jolt of pain straight through his spine, eliciting a muffled groan.

“Shit, that’s some wake up call.”

It really was. It was also bad news. Bricktop was a good body puncher that liked to go for the liver shots and drain you by hammering your torso all night long. Luckily, he was a south paw, which meant that most punches would land on Victor’s right, uninjured flank. He’d just have to cover his left a bit more and circle to the right if possible. With those thoughts of tactics and strategies he would have to utilize today in order just to stay on his feet, the boxer pulled himself out of the bed. The morning routine followed, but given his way of life, there wasn’t much of a routine to follow. He changed his socks, washed his face, combed his hair with his fingers and stepped out of the room in order to get some breakfast. Or lunch, whatever was closest to the current time of day. The only thing he took from his gym bag was his “Widowmaker” which he tucked behind his belt before he stepped out of the room.

“Morning, Vic. You missed the breakfast and the lunch ain’t done yet. Tough luck.” Alain said, but Victor merely shrugged his shoulder and yawned wide enough to swallow a baby’s head. He ate in the Stags restaurant once and suffice to say, he was positive that he didn’t miss much for breakfast and was actually lucky that lunch was still in the making.

“Tough luck is better then no luck at all.” the boxer muttered, waddling towards the door like a drunkard, still under the effects of the sleep that even now, as he exited the inn, persevered on continuing.

Outside, Underwood was everything a person could expect from one of the largest towns in Corone at noon. The sun was relentless, the bustle was peaking and the streets were river beds through which people passed like accumulated water drops, moving steadily and generally in the same direction. He hated these crowds, hated them even when he was a squirt back in Scara Brae that opted for the shadowy side alleys and country roads over the busy cobblestones of the urbanized areas. But if he wanted to eat something nutritive, he would have to go with the flow. So he did, injecting himself into the stream of people and starting the rather careless search for something cheap and good to eat. Unfortunately, those two prerequisites didn’t exactly go hand in hand.

His prospecting eventually made him come upon a small crowd of gathered people that all focused on something in the middle of the half-circle that they formed. It didn’t take a brainbox to realize that there was a scene going on, somebody either beating up somebody or robbing somebody or quite possibly both. Victor wasn’t a lawman though and he was quite skilled at minding his own business, so he decided to make a detour around the huddled mass that wanted something juicy to happen. That is, until he heard...

“That little herbalist is going to get a sound beating.” somebody from the crowd mumbled, and the words stopped the pugilist as if he was struck by lightning. Underwood was almost a metropolis – a metropolis of yahoos and sassy elves, but a metropolis nonetheless – but it was highly unlikely that there were two diminutive herbalist girls trying to peddle their wares on the streets at the same time. He pushed through the crowd vehemently, rudely elbowing a couple of people before he broke the surrounding ring of bodies and faces that craved for violence.

In front of him, a mountain of a man was looming over Kaia who was about to get clobbered by the meaty hands of what was bound to be some of the local competition in the curative department. Victor didn’t deliberate on what to do for a fraction of a second. He charged at the man, tacking his flank with his shoulder and sending him sprawling on the hot cobbles, face first. Laughter and cheers came from the sporadic audience, especially once the pompous, territorial healer got up with blood oozing from the cut in his brow. “You goddamn brute! You’ll regret doing that. I have friends you can’t even imagine!” he bawled, dusting off his attire doggedly, trying to preserve some of his dignity. Victor disallowed it, pulling out his revolver.

“Oh, yes? I have six comrades here that can run faster then your friends.” he said, cocking the hammer and eliciting a round of awed sighs from the mass. “Now scram or I’ll give you something you won’t be able to patch up. That goes for the rest of you too! Nothing to see here!”

After the clear warning and the displayed weapon that was scarce on the streets of Althanas, most got the message and suddenly remembered that they had some important meetings to attend to, restarting the constant flow as they made their way through the streets. Victor, satisfied with the development, eased the hammer back and holstered the gun before he turned to Kaia. His deadly serious frown that seemed almost sinister when he fought mellowed down into a mild, friendly smile.

“Are you alright, Kaia?” he asked in a sincerely concerned tone as he got a step closer, studying her pretty visage, but finding no visible injuries. “Bloody rich bastards. They’re always like that in large cities here in Corone, thinking they own the place. Tell you what? You look like you need a break from work. Why don’t I help you pack up your gear and then we go grab a bite to eat? My treat.” he added, hunkering down and picking up one of her ointments before firing a squinted glance towards her.

[The Emerald Hind]

The girl had cringed at the sight of a big fist, and curled into a little limp ball, one arm outstretched—uselessly—as if that might defend her from the blow she was about to receive. Braced and waiting for the overly aggressive healer’s onslaught and with all her senses focused upon that prospect of pain, she did not notice that a crowd had gathered about her and the brute who dared call himself a healer, nor did she perceive the arrival of a familiar—friendly—face. Even as Victor sent the redheaded monstrosity to the ground, she remained as she was, only faintly aware of a shift in pressure that marked her champion’s arrival and the displacement of the shadow that had loomed over her just moments ago. But when the expected clout she knew was due to her did not come and the rallying cry of the crowd broke the bubble of confused spectatorship, the herbalist was made aware that something had happened, and so she opened her eyes and shifted her hazel gaze about, only to see Victor before her in place of the healer.

The prizefighter stood there protectively, his body poised for the attack, and it seemed every fiber in his being was pulled taught and stiff. And there in his hand was the strangest thing Kaia had ever beheld, a relatively small device with a handle and a long shaft, which was pointed at the flustered apothecary. Whatever it was, it made the man remain where he was and caused the crowd to draw a deep, gasping breath, punctuated by strangled cries of alarm; yet, a still silence claimed all and suspended over the audience like a fog, binding all to the spot as if their mouths and feet had been set with glue. Then Victor threatened the man with six friends, which confused the Avanin as the boxer was the only one there truly defending her. It seemed enough to truly stun the man, and the crowd, which Victor shooed away with a similar peril. As quickly as they could, the men and women that had gathered to watch Kaia get beaten to a pulp scattered like flies brushed away from milk. It was a rather disgusting realization, and it did not improve the girl’s mood as she watched them flee like scolded children.

“Uncaring, worthless fools,” she sneered as she watched the last scurry to his mule and cart, her usually cheery eyes narrowed as her fear transformed to anger. How could they just stand there as she was assaulted like that? How could they let such a thing happen? What sort of cruel, insensitive people just grouped together to gawk at her plight as if she were some sideshow at a carnival? She could not understand it, and because she lacked the facilities to get a handle on the group-mind she became all the more infuriated. She was practically shaking with the tension brought on by the emotion, and her visage took on a rather heated shade of rose under her deep tan.

The force of the emotion washed over the girl even as Victor approached her with that smile, studying her to assess her injuries with kindness in his gaze. Of all the people, he had been the one to help her, this man who had just met her the night before and fed her in exchange for a meal. He who had offered to help her further with lodging, and now offered a respite from the recent ills of the day. His genuine compassion was enough to convince the anger to retreat into its lair, even though it did so with great reluctance, for its mistress’s pride ached and her sense of justice was bruised. But it was tamed, nonetheless, and allowed the other sentiments to flow, even though each one had taken on some form of damage from the onslaught, leaving a rather low-keyed girl in the place of the usually cheery and helpful one.

She did managed to smile at him with feeling, a pained smile, but a grateful one. But then it warmed to something a little softer as she continued to look up at the man and receive his kind offerings, and she recalled all the benevolence he had extended to her in the past two days. “I am alright,” she answered with a weary voice still harsh from two day’s worth of crying wares. “I have just never seen a healer get so…aggressive… That is not how healers should be: they should not strike others when they have sworn to heal others. I have been chased away before, but never like that… They, well, the healers have always either asked me to leave or pushed me out by accusing me of witchcraft, but they never meant me physical harm… Not before…” The pain and confusion she felt was plain in her voice as she tried to explain her rather dour mood to the man. A bleak sigh escaped her as she gazed at Victor.

Then she got to her feet and dusted herself off, then reached over to her workbag, which was now some measures away. It had been upset during the healer’s tumble, and several of its contents were now sprawled across the road, along with those bottles and jars she had set upon her now-dirty bedroll. But there was Victor stooped down to help collect her things, reigning in the chaos and trying his best to make her feel better. She had to smile at this as she dropped into a crouch so as to get to the wayward containers of precious tinctures and oils. As she grabbed the last of her things and tucked them away into her workbag, she peered over at Victor and tilted her head to the side to consider him. She could not help but smile as she watched him help her track down her various herb stuffs.

“Thank you, Victor. I really appreciate all this. Saving me from that man and all… You really are the kindest person I have met since I left Avani.” Green-brown twins met his squinted gaze as she considered the man who helped her so amiably.

She could really grow to like him more than she already did, and, strangely enough, she thanked the healer for what he did, for it might have been hours more before she ran into the fighter. By that time, he would be due for his match, and their relationship would break down into the tedium of business partners—a lucrative arrangement, but she sought more than just a superficial partnership, something that was bound purely by coin and prestige. True, those were always considerations in any of her ventures, but she really wanted to be friends with this man. She wanted to know more about him than what she could gather from polite conversation and surface observations. There was more to him than what there seemed to be, and she was curious of what lay beneath the surface.

Perhaps she desired his company merely because it was the only kindly companionship she had experienced since the Southern Lord’s conquest. He was the first sentient being she established civil exchange with for more than a brief moment. It was only natural that she clung to the first person that presented some form of normality into her chaos-inflicted life. He reminded her so much of Ucoige, and Ucoige represented all the things she sought in life: security, stability, friendship, and love. All such aspects were found wanting her in existence now, and it was more than enough to make her feel lonely and distant from the whole of the world. There was no one with whom to talk of the world, no one with whom to enjoy the pleasures of the day, no one to help her along her way. She needed that, she desired that, and without it she felt hollow, empty.

And here was Victor, reminding her of all the things she had lost along the way, all the thing she wished to reclaim. He looked so much like Ucoige, and although he was not handsome, he was not ugly, either. Really, he was rather pleasant to look upon, in her way of thinking: he was real, tangible, not a beautiful man she could lose to the whims of the breeze. And he was genuine, kindly and more than willing to help out a poor herbalist who kept finding her way into all manners of trouble. Yet, she knew nothing of him. It was enough to frighten her, for he was someone unknown, despite the little time they had spent together. She could not afford to develop any deep affection for him, not yet, not for a while.

But that does not mean I cannot enjoy his friendship? And did not everything have to begin with that?

Indulging in yet another sigh, she allowed the last of her torn emotions to fade and finally got to her feet, at which time she scooped up the soiled bedroll and gave it a good shake. She stuffed the dirty thing into her backpack without much thought—she could always wash it before bed and let it dry over the fire—for her mind still wondered upon the boxer.

Still looking at Victor with warmth in her gaze, she quirked her lips into a wry half-smile and tiled her pate so as to look at him diagonally. The cheer she had not felt like expressing just moments ago bubbled to the surface like a babbling brook, and a lighter spark lit her eyes to a brilliant green. “Let us get away from this road, then? I’d rather not see what trouble I can stir by merely standing here, even though you could probably use the practice for tonight. That, and my stomach was listening when you said something about a meal.” And she offered her hand to him so as to help the fighter steady himself when he felt the need to get to his own feet.

[The Cinderella Man]

“You sure know how to pick ‘em. Sweet as cherry glaze with trouble following in their wake.”

It wasn’t like he actually had a choice. As defensive and reluctant as he was to socialize or intervene in public, violence and dames always aroused that flyspeck voice of conscience that started as a whisper and then continued to nag and nag and nag until he did the right thing. The right thing. So far doing the right things always left him feeling like a shortchanged customer that forgot to take a receipt and got bonked on the head on the way out. And yet he always came around for more, jumping into another endeavor with a female protagonist because that voice wouldn’t stop hen-pecking and he couldn’t play deaf. Because, unlike the average passers-by who grew so indifferent that they didn’t even fake looking away anymore, Victor still had that voice that made him the good guy. Though, how much good consequently came from his quasi-heroics was a can of worms he didn’t want to open because usually he wound up battered, lamentable and alone.

But it wasn’t his choice. One look at Kaia and the mellowing of her visage that washed away the fright from moments ago ensured him that stepping in wasn’t just worth the effort, but was practically the only option he was left with. Unlike the spectators that had cold shoulders and concealed disdain in abundance, seeing the healer drew in and at the mercy of the self-proclaimed official healer of Underwood made Victor’s finger itch almost enough to blast the man to kingdom come. Not to mention to spread some hot lead over the yellowbellied crowd. How could anyone lift his hand on something so frail looking and beautiful and utterly amicable? No money was worth such a despicable act.

She bounced back to normal relatively fast though, first expelling some of justified anger, then shifting to a rather baffled, mildly irritated state before she reconciled and thanked him for interfering. The pair of hazel eyes looked at him from above, grateful and packed with genuine emotions to the point he felt like he could die for them, and again he felt a bit awkward for no apparent reason. “Don’t mention it. I’d say ‘any time’, but I sincerely hope that there won’t be another pickle like this on for you to get in.” he replied, cautiously collecting the items that got scattered during the squabble and handing them over for her to pack it diligently.

It wasn’t exactly true though. He wouldn’t mind coming to her rescue any day of the week and twice on Sunday if necessary even if it didn’t get him an inch past the business camaraderie that they currently shared. Partially it was because, despite the fact they acquaintanceship was less then a day old, he truly cared for Kaia just as he would care for any unfortunate individual that was having a rough time learning the ropes. Partially it was because the more he observed and studied her, acknowledging her little idiom, memorizing her smiles, cowering in front of her incisive eyes, the higher the throne was on which she sat in his mind. Mostly though it was because Victor desperately needed somebody to fight for. Alone, he was a broken man that fought like a bum that only collected consecutive losses. But when there was a pair of eyes watching him, rooting for him, concerned for him... Well, that was simply something that got his motor running. Hopefully, Kaia could be that fuel, but he knew it was such a long shot, he didn’t even see the target.

“Yeah, you’re right. That bastard might come back and I might yield to the urge to perforate his ass. And I don’t like shooting people.” Victor said, ascertaining that the healer got her equipment packed in her oversized work bag and accepting her aid to regain his footing. However, looking at the size of both her backpack and her workbag, he reckoned he ought to help her with one of these items given his empty hands. He opted for the larger, heavier looking rucksack. “Here, let me help you with that. No need for you to carry both.” he said, gesticulating towards her pack before slinging it over his right shoulder. It was a seemingly trivial gesture, maybe even an over-the-top display of his eagerness to assist her in any ways possible, but when it came to benevolence, the boxer operated in a simple manner; he either went all out or he didn’t even bother.

“I guess you’re not too fond of Corone after that incident back there with the local ‘welcoming committee’. Can’t say that I blame you.” he started to speak as the pair was in motion, ambling against the stream and evading collisions with the folk as much as possible. “I’ve been traveling around a lot lately and I can assure you that the bigger the town, the bigger assholes you can find lazing around. It’s the greed that gets to them, I think. They don’t want a single gold piece to slip from their pocket even if their pockets are already stuffed enough for three lifetimes. Wretched hypocrites.”

After several minutes of maneuvering through the sea of nameless faces and chaotic clamor of one of the main streets of Underwood, Victor finally led the way into a less populated side alley. Narrow enough for maybe half-a-dozen people to walk abreast, the back street was a refuge from both the bustle and the heat-spewing orb that just passed the peak of its arch over the cloudless sky. There were no hawkers here, no stands and no shops that people frequented. Above their heads, several ropes burdened with drying cloth hung, announcing that they were entering the residential area of the town. “I hope you don’t mind eating with your hands.” he finally shifted the topic to something less sinister. “This place isn’t exactly a fancy restaurant... Well, it’s not exactly a restaurant at all. But the food is good and the river bank is right around the corner to offer a nice view.”

They swung around the corner, entered an even tighter alleyway and at the end of it came out on the road that went parallel with the waterfront. Beyond it, a modest-looking river gurgled merrily, cascading down the myriad of oblong and spherical stones. To the left of them, in one of the ground-level loges, was a long wooden counter with a rather short, mustachioed man standing behind it with a spatula and a chef’s hat. The smell of seasoned, grilled meat was prominent in the air, invading his nostrils and urging his mouth to water. Victor approached the stand doggedly, taking out his money pouch. “We’ll take two.” he said to the man, counting the necessary sum – ten gold pieces – and placing them on the counter. There was no need to elaborate on what he was ordering; there was only one dish in “Marco’s”. The man behind the counter nodded wordlessly – as far as Victor knew, Marco was either a mute or he just preferred to keep really silent. A pair of round buns, almost as large as a human head, was split horizontally, opening up for several kind of sauces and spices on top of which finger sized rolls of grilled minced meat were placed until they covered the entire bun. Covering it up with the upper half and wrapping it in butcher’s paper, Marco handed it over to the pair with a deep nod of appreciation before he pocketed the money.

“Come on, let’s take a seat on the river bank.” the prizefighter said, exchanging the hands that held the freshly acquired repast that was steaming through the creases of the paper. Leading the way across the street, he passed through the lush grass and advanced until the ground became slanted and there was a half-dead pine offering a rather flaky shadow. Here he put down Kaia’s backpack before he took a seat on the ground and started to unpack his meal that rested on his lap. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, Kaia, but where do you come from? I heard a lot of Tradespeak accents, but yours seems genuinely foreign.” he asked, his hands busy with the food as he took off the top half and let the steaming meat to cool off a bit. It was his poor attempt at making small talk, the dreaded thing he was always so miserable at. He had this weird tendency to ask about something that people generally didn’t want to talk about. He hoped today that would not be the case.

[The Emerald Hind]

It seemed to the girl that Victor was quite used to taking the lead in situations, for no sooner had she helped him to his feet—something that was more a friendly gesture than actual help, considering the drastic difference in size between the two—he had relieved her of the heaviest of her packs then began leading her from the hustle and bustle of the common road to smaller, less populated alley ways. Normally, she would have objected to all this and reclaimed her baggage, at the very least, but there seemed to be something about Victor that brooked no argument, and she was certain that to object would somehow tarnish this little adventure of theirs. For her, carrying such weight ensured that she acquired some form of exercise, and kept her body relatively trim and fit, as she was prone to a bit of plushness around the middle; so, she hardly even thought of the double burden as unbearable and merely lugged the weight about as a necessity, never complaining, not even to herself. But, she had to admit, it did feel good to have some of the heaviness lifted from her shoulders, if even for a moment: yet another reason not to object to the prizefighter’s generosity.

And generous he was. More so than any person she had met thus far. Even her father, who had always been free with money and time, might have looked at this man as someone different, and then he would have whistled appreciatively and tipped his hat to the man who showed a woman such kindness. Already, in less than a day of knowing one another, Victor had provided her with a place to sit in an overcrowded tavern, allowed her to do some work on his wounds in return for a meal, given her a business venture guaranteed to win her even a small cache of currency, saved her from an overly territorial healer, and now lugged around one of her bags and was paying for yet another meal. Before, she was lucky if someone scooted around her along the road rather than shove right past her. Why, in all this crudeness was this one man standing out like a shining gem? Even if he were a diamond in the rough, he was of far better quality than any of the lesser rocks that passed for people, and the light he cast through his many facets was bright and clear, even beautiful. But rather than make her wonder at his motives, Kaia accepted this as a part of the man’s character, for there seemed no falsehood in what he did. She was not a Mind Reader nor was she a Body Reader, yet, there seemed nothing amiss in all this. So, instead of distancing herself from him, expecting some demand made upon her in return for his good will, she cheerfully walked beside him, taking his cues as they wondered through the back ways into the depths of the town and to the riverside, appreciating this man all the more.

Once they had reached their final destination and Victor had delicately placed her bag upon the ground, having adopted a suitable place on the grassy riverside as his own, she, too, sunk to the emerald blades and settled her other bag next to the one the boxer had carried for her. Her own seat was to the right of him—she always preferred to be on a person’s right, for some odd reason—carefully poised close enough to confer friendly intimacy but far enough not to hint at anything more. Even if she did wish to be physically closer to the man she dared not, or else risk a scene of any sort.

For one, she had only known him for a night and a day, and despite what she had gathered of his character, which was of good standing in her mind, there were still great chunks of the puzzle missing, allowing for only a perforated view of this seemingly gentle man (well, as gentle of a man a boxer could be). There was also the fact that he did not know much about her, and he could quickly find her dull, as many had noted of her in the past, especially once she became comfortable with a person. She liked routine, she liked things to stay as they were, and these were not qualities most people sought in those meant to be more than acquaintances. What man in his right mind wanted to become involved with a girl whose sole goal in life, even from the age she could talk, was to settle down and have a family? The folks she had met along her way seemed to prefer the spice of change that adventure brought, not the sort of living she preferred. And, lastly, there was the great chance that he had no interest in her whatsoever, not even as she felt a pulling towards him. All this concern about her welfare and this attempt at establishing a friendship may be universal to all, and nothing held her in special regard. She was just another girl like so many others, as surely this man had come to see his fair share, and he was merely being polite as he would be to any person, especially a business partner, no matter how temporary the fellowship.

Such thoughts made her want to sigh, but she suppressed the urge and tucked away her rather dim revelations behind that always happy shimmer of smile. Really, it was easy to hide the dimness that threatened to overtake her as she was still truly happy to be in Victor’s company. At least he had interest in her, and even if this were for only a day more, she would relish the time with another human being without overshadowing it with her own stupid and unfounded assumptions. And despite the question posed to her, which could have very well dragged some notes of grievous melancholy, that happy grin persisted and her eyes sparkled with treasured memories. “Is my accent that obvious?” she replied with a chuckle churning the very edges of her question. At this she shrugged and merely grinned. Yes, nothing of Avani would completely leave her.

Despite what had happened in her home country, Avani was still her home, and if ever she could she would return there, if only the Southern Lord would come upon some horrid mishap. Avani was where she was born and raised, where her father took her hunting even as he shook his head at taking a daughter rather than a son, and where she and her mother would take long walks through the woods and identified plants and their uses.

For some moments she did not speak as she looked back upon those happy times, momentarily forgetting she had an audience. Her expression grew warm with the pleasant reveries and she let out a happy breath, a soft whir of musical joy, only to replace it with a deep intake of air before she looked up at Victor with glitter in her gaze. “I am from Avani, or, to be more exact, I am from Vaeltres, a lordship of Avani. It is far from here, some distance to the northwest and across the ocean. It does not seem that many have heard of the country, and those that have know little and say it is a small place.” To this she shrugged yet again, her gaze shifting a little to glance at the river. A note of longing entered her voice, but it did so without disrupting the placid joy that enveloped every word. “I miss it greatly, for all I did to get away from there.” And so she was silent for some moments more, lost in her own thoughts, for the tendrils of sorrow threatened to invade the land of pleasant recall. But she allowed it no conquest for she cut the enemy off with a deft maneuver, looking at Victor expectantly, a quirk to her lips.

“And you? Are you from here, or from another land, as well?” She titled her head in question and so she regarded him with avid curiosity. This might clear some mystery that surrounded the man, and she was eager to resolve the issue as quickly as possible, for she was most intrigued by him, even if he were not with her.

[The Cinderella Man]

“Remember, small bites and try not to make yourself look like a pig.”

Even though his stomach insisted on ingestion of the meal that sent redolent scents of grilled meat up his nostrils as fast as possible, Victor ate cautiously, almost reluctantly. He liked Kaia, perhaps even a bit too much given the shortness of this interlude in which they met, and because of this undue partiality the boxer wanted to be at his best. And looking like a damned barbarian with greasy fingers and lack of manners certainly wouldn’t be able to accomplish that task. So as he listened to her speak, his fingers slowly picked up one of the tiny meat rolls, introducing it to his mouth before he took a bite of the bun. Usually, the piquant taste of pimento and sweet basil and a myriad of other spices in which the meat was marinated before it was grilled would’ve captivated his full attention, make him relish in the taste of the dish. But today it was just fuel that his body needed to burn, just food and as such completely fading in comparison with the sweetness of the petite herbalist lass.

His suspicion of her foreign roots proved to be correct once Kaia shared a fragment of her history. Though never a geographic man – geography wasn’t exactly a prime prerequisite for studying to be an architect – Victor recollected enough of his classes during his schooling years to recognize the name of her country. Unfortunately, years filled with vagabonding through Corone and head traumas effectively effaced any other information about Avani. He didn’t mind much. For him – and his utterly ridiculous mind that fell into the affection trap all too often – the best part of that faraway land was sitting next to him, struggling a bit with wistfulness and nostalgia that these recollections always forced to the surface. And there was much more where that came from. Victor maybe didn’t know an awful lot about reading women – or people in general for that matter – but he knew quite well what it felt like txo keep some memories in check. And how the good ones always hurt more then the bad ones. So he decided not to push his nose where it didn’t belong and accepted the ball she threw in his court.

Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, the prizefighter met her inquisitive glance with what he hoped was a friendly smile and pushed aside the disturbing realization that the number of smiles on his usually sullen face grew above average in the last twenty-four hours. “No, I’m not a Corone native either. Corone, it seems, is a perfect refuge for people who are running away from something and looking for a fresh start.” he said, then allowed his eyes to drift away to the river once he realized how right those words described him. Only he didn’t find a clean slate in Corone. It was a slate covered in mud and he was forced... No, that was not right. He accepted crawling through it as a regular aspect of his life. He accepted the hits, the mockery, the losses, the boos and curses and snooty looks of those around him that saw nothing but a common hobo. Back in Scara Brae he was somebody, a champion, but Scara Brae became off limits after his heart got massacred by the lovely Delilah.

The unnatural pause caused by the memory of his one true love and the crashing and burning that followed afterwards lasted a bit longer then he intended, and when he continued there was somewhat of a dreamy tone to his voice. In front of his eyes, the crystal water bubbled and cascaded and flowed through the sun-basked landscape, allowing a distorted glimpse of the rocky river bed and the sporadic trouts that swam against the current. “Scara Brae is... Well, was my home until several years ago. It’s and island realm less then two hours of sailing from the Corone’s westernmost point. Some say that Scara is basically Corone, only in a smaller package and I can’t say I disagree. Corone has everything that Scara Brae has only it has more of it. More roads to trek, more woods to get lost in, more strangers to meet...” With this spoken, he finally diverted his eyes from the river and turned to Kaia with another smirk. “Sometimes this is a good thing. Then again, sometimes I miss the homey feeling of Scara Brae. After all, there’s no place like home.”

He wasn’t certain that he fully believed in that conclusion. True, sometimes, when the day lost another battle to the oncoming night and he sat on some random bench in some random Corone town, tired of another day of survival, the remembrance of the years past made his eyes water and his heart ache in his chest. And he would remember the family he left behind, the reluctant worry in his mother’s eyes, the concealed affection in his sister’s demeanor, the weather-worn inscription on his father’s tombstone, the uneven cobbles that led to the front door of the house in the outskirts, the rooms he could walk through blindfolded. And he would remember her, of course, his Delilah that he still loved, to which he still wrote occasionally, for which he would still die. And then, after hours of this melancholic struggle, he would remember that it was an anchor that was dragging him down, an anchor to which he willfully held on to even though it was not his home anymore and the faces that stood etched in his head changed, moved on. It left him in a limbo, with no place to return to and no hope ahead of him. Home was where the heart was and Victor’s heart was wandering from one day to the other nowadays.

“I was once one fight away from being the Scara Brae champion, you know? They called me the “Architect of Destruction” back in those days.” he continued with a forced smile that was supposed to make a sad memory a bit easier to digest. “But then things happened and brought losses in tow. Nobody wins them all, I guess. So I looked for new shores and picked the closest ones. The competition is tougher here, but the earnings are better. Hopefully one day I’ll get hit in the head enough times to earn enough shinnies for a decent place to live.”

Victor finished on a lighter note, making somewhat of a jest out of his profession and his goals and trying to chase away the clouds that were gradually gathering inside his head. After all, everybody had their own problems and he didn’t want to burden Kaia with his own worries. So he turned his focus back to the meal that was losing heat with every word they exchanged. “If you don’t mind me asking, but why did you leave Avani? You seem rather young for a solo wandering healer.” He was probably being overly nosey, but the boxer got tired of his own story while hers intrigued him greatly. Besides, it seemed like a perfectly reasonable continuation of the palaver. Waiting attentively for an answer, he took another piece of meat and bit on it, chewing slowly and observing the calming constant flow of the water.

[The Emerald Hind]

Bright hazel spheres remained trained upon the rugged features of the prizefighter, even as her fingers wondered to the cache of food to pick her share of the meal. Daintily, she retrieved a meat roll and began to nibble on it, one hand placed under it so as to catch any drippings before they splattered on her clothing. Suddenly, food was not so important, and in the back of she wondered why she had been in the first place. All that really mattered to her at this moment was listening to what this man had to say about himself, to receive every scrap of information about him without hindrance from other tasks, even those as essential as eating. After all, she could always hunt down a rabbit or two to satisfy her appetite later on, if it returned.

At that thought she wondered if Victor enjoyed the occasional self-caught meal. He had provided her with two meals thus far, and she could do well to repay the favor. She was not the best huntress, but she was decent, and given enough time she could lay down a trap or two and with any luck strike down a couple of nice fat conies. But rather than chase such thoughts, she abandoned them for another time and settled all reflections to the very back of her mind so as to clear a bit of gray matter just for the boxer. She wanted to learn as much as she could about Victor while she had the chance, for there was no telling if whether or not the two would remain in contact after this night. The girl desperately hoped so, because she enjoyed his presence and the sound of his voice was most comforting. One never knew, not really…

As enraptured as she was by the man, the girl made certain that she hung to every word and noted every rise and fall of his voice. But after no more than a few sentences it seemed something dark fell over him as his features seemed to fall slightly and his eyes saw beyond what lay before him. A long pause ensued, and it hung heavily, as thick as fog rolling in before the tremble of thunder. It seemed to Kaia that she had touched upon a nerve, a long remembered memory of the sort she could only guess at. All she could do was wait as the burden of it weighed down upon the man, all the while damning herself silently for having ever asked him the same question that was posed to her. The quiet grew, filled only by the faint babbling of the river, and the distant song of birds.

Just as she grew restless under the haze of his meanderings, when she had finally prepared herself to charge into the still miasma of the pause, he broke it himself, shattering the pall of wordlessness with a slightly wistful tone. His continued story relieved her greatly, and her mind ran forth to capture his personal account, leaping up and cupping gentle hands about each trailing sentence only to press the jagged little pieces into a collage of jumbled facts.

So, he was from Scara Brae. She had heard of the place from snatches of conversation milling about the populace. It seemed that all manners of strange things happened there, if what she recalled from that odd little man she had seen just days before this gave her any clues. He was fretting over his home village, which had been overcome by some illness. And then there was some talk about a beast with the head of a man and the body of a lion. Strange and stranger, if such events were the sort by which to judge the land. But Victor’s account was far more ordinary, and from the little bit he said of it the place did seem to be a copy of the continent she wondered through now. Then he ended the short description with a wondering note, one Kaia could only nod to in agreement, as she felt the same way about Avani. Oh, what she would do to go back home, if only she could.

Then Victor surrendered more about himself than she had hoped he would, and with his renewed dialogue she was led into a glimpse of who this man was, of the glory of his past. She whistled appreciatively when he told her about his success in his homeland, but he followed it up with a sobering sketch of his fall from fame. Even then, he looked at it from the higher road with better earnings, and he found both that and his hope to find a permanent home commendable. To her, such were the greater virtues of life, and to set a goal—so much akin to her own—as simple and homely as his was only more proof that Victor was a rare, good man. Every male she had ever known other than her father had wanted nothing more than to travel about and see the world, to go gallivanting around like a rogue with no aims or convictions. All fruitless dreams that ended one’s life far too early, which never afforded stability or a chance to revel in the purest joys one could indulge in. To have a little home, and, for her, a family, was the highest peak one could reach in life. It was most refreshing to meet a man who would rather a decent home than the endless stars as his roof.

Nibbling absently on her roll, Kaia sat there looking at Victor and absorbing what he had told her. She smiled at him as he ended his answer to her question, then finished her half-forgotten meal with one clean bite and wiped her fingers clean. But then his voice bubbled up again—how she enjoyed his deep, vibrating intonations—and this time in the form of a question. At this she met his gaze again, the hazel shimmer dimming a little just as a sigh escaped her lips. Then one corner of her wide mouth quirked into something that was part wry grin and part pained grimace. She could not escape this, though. He had given so much in answer to her, much more than she thought he would, and she could only return his generosity with some of her own.

I would have preferred catching twenty rabbits for him to this…

She pushed the thought aside, however, and allowed her gaze to wonder to the river just as Victor had just moments before. Taking her time in this to collect her thoughts, she leaned back a little, positioning her arms like pillars behind her and pressing her weight fully upon them. Then her eyes traveled from the river course to the horizon and then to the clear blue sky where she shut all light out of her vision, perceiving nothing more than the crimson glow of the sun through her lids.

“One does not normally get a choice as to when something befalls her in life,” she intoned softly more so to herself, her sweet alto voice brimming along the edges of a whisper, which swept back upon the wind in an evanescing shimmer. Another breath was drawn and this time she lowered herself to the ground fully, her back pressed to the cool flesh of the earth, her lithe frame stretched out like a cat with arms tucked neatly behind her head. She opened her eyes and swept a sideways glance at Victor, giving him a soft smile to cushion her words. “Things happen, like I said before. I lived in Avani with my mother and father, on my father’s land, which was passed to him through the generations. Our land was bought from our lord when my great-great grandfather came upon some lost treasure or something and used it to provide for his family for many generations after. We were well provided for, and we did well, no want for anything in the world. Something like you may find in what you call fairy tales?” Her eyes fell from Victor and climbed to the clear heavens, taking some time to think of how to tell the story as quickly as possible.

But no matter how brief the pain was still remembered, and it lanced through her with an agonizing shiver. It cut through her like the sickle carried with her, and it sank deeply into her heart, only to wrench back out with flesh and emotion, letting the crimson waters to dribble down into a dark abyss. Suddenly she felt cold despite the warmth of the sun pouring down on her, and all she could see were those flashes of horrid remembrance of that day: the sneer Lord Rarce wore upon his too-handsome face as he pounded on their door, demanding to see her father; the wooden cage in which they threw Saviv so they could deliver him to the manor’s goal; her own screams as Rarce forced himself into her, invading her sanctity; her mother lying on that dirty little cot, shriveled and grey from fever, her eyes wild with day terrors. Reflexively, one hand was drawn from behind her pate and clutched at the large stone that dangled about her neck and rested between her breasts, and for some time more she wondered in her own awkward pause.

“But fairy tales never last, and our lord and his family were usurped by a greedy youth from the south. He discovered that he did not own the lands my family held, that they had been sold to us long ago to fuel the efforts against his grandfather’s invasion of the Vealores’ lordship. So he did what he had to do in order to get the land back by taking my father to goal for not having paid his taxes, which he had done for so many years. The land, the animals, everything was taken, and my mother and I were forced to work as his servants. That was not so bad, but we fought against him when he made us more than just servants, so he threw us to a serf like scraps and told Diosoih he could do what he pleased with us. The serf was kind to us, though, and as long as we did our share of the work he never bothered either of us. But then Mother came down with a fever I could not heal and she died soon after. It was too much for me, so I left, but I’ve been declared an outlaw and a deserter throughout all Avani, so if I am ever discovered I will meet the same fate as my father. I had to leave…”

She did not tell him about how it was the Earth Stone that her mother gave her that caused her to run away, that it was within the odd powers the thing possessed to coerce her into actions she later regretted. Really, those thoughts never touched her, not when the gravity of her plight struck her and stole over the girl like a storm, lashing at her angrily so that she wanted to cry out, to yell and scream at Fate and all her cruelty. All that she loved and cherished was gone. Her father died of a broken heart in goal, her mother died of a broken spirit in the hut, and Ucoige abandoned her for another woman he took to wife. And she was left to wonder this strange world under the guidance of a soul-possessed stone that wanted nothing more than to get her into all forms of danger. She was alone, alone with their faces still burned in her mind, the memory of heartache still strong and pungent, ready to rear up should ever she falter from the light.

It was enough to make her weep, but she refused to, especially in front of Victor. None of this was his fault, he who was merely as curious of her as she was of him. An innocent question it was. Why punish him with her grief for what he wanted to know? She could have denied him, even, and since she had not she brought this upon herself. He had no part in that. Stifling the urge to free her emotions from bondage, she rolled up into a sitting position and forced a smile upon her lips. The storm still thundered in her heart and clouded her eyes with a faint mist, and against it she fought and made herself laugh in response as one hand swiped at her eyes to banish any tears that might have escaped the corners of those desolate eyes. “But that is over now and I am here enjoying your company—I really am. Please don't feel bad for me reacting this way: it's all still fresh, and none of it is your fault. So, whatever you do, don't appologize. I can’t change what happened, no more than you, and all I can do is hope for a future when Lord Rarce is overthrown, or when I can greet him with a knife in one hand and his heart beating in the other...” And the last was said with such bitterness and conviction that she could not bar it from intruding upon her tongue, staining the last words with sanguine lust so that it was almost a prayer, one she had not meant to utter.

[The Cinderella Man]

“Heroes and princesses... They only live in fairytales...”

He expected the usual, a story of a rebellious daughter that ran away from home because nobody understood her or she reckoned there was more fortune to be found on the dusty roads of the world then in the rustic safety of her home. And even if that wasn’t the case, the worst case scenario that occurred to him was maybe a significantly more disturbing story of a father that beat her, mother that didn’t care and family that treated her like deadwood. It was the way the world was nowadays; nobody seemed to have a quaint, old-fashioned childhood and both living parents. Tragedy was as common as the cold, always different enough to affect you and always producing the same woeful side effects.

But even before she disclosed her actual story, Victor could see that there was something more sinister in her past, something that brought gloom on her face like a translucent veil weaved out of dark threads. Her smiling face morphed into a perturbed expression, her clear eyes managing to filter out the jubilance of the sun and make it clear that there was something brewing behind them. It seemed that he set in motion a machine whose sole purpose was to retrieve the pain from the past and make Kaia relive it. And he was instantly sorry for asking the question. “Things happened...” she said to him before, and he of all people should’ve known that some stories were best left untold or risk opening the dormant wounds that never fully healed. He had his share of these emotional scabs and from what he could read from her reaction, she had hers as well.

But before he could withdraw his question – and try to do the impossible and unsay what was uttered – the herbalist lass started to speak. Her sunbathing figure seemed serene, but the sadness from her comely face couldn’t be disputed by the smile she forced on. The food in Victor’s mouth suddenly became flavorless, the meat almost too dry to slide down his gullet, his hunger gradually substituted by this really rotten feeling in his gut the more she spoke of her past. It started nice enough, with the house, the family, the whole nine yards, everything it took to make a nice story that finished with the cliché happily ever after. But somewhere along the way things happened, bad things with bad men whose duty was to turn dreams into nightmares. A bunch of names she mentioned meant little to the boxer, data that would probably get lost in his memory, but the doleful tone of her voice, the reflection of the events of the past in her eyes, the tidbits that he could read between the lines... It was something that made him both sympathetic and furious. Now that he heard her story, he wanted to help her even more and now that he heard her story, he wanted to take his revolver and shoot this Lord Rarce in the ass. Yes, straight up his ass, because he heard that if you shot a person in the ass, he was in for a long and painful death. And whoever did this to a wonderful lass such as Kaia didn’t deserve a quick death. He deserved a long and nasty death. A bad death.

Unsurprisingly, he lost his appetite during the course of her story and despite her courageous attempt to appease with the whole situation in the end, he had to struggle with his desire to apologize for luring this sadness back to surface. But what else could he say too all of that? What, other then he was sorry that it happened and that she had to relive it because of his curiosity? The truth was, Victor didn’t have a clue. When it came to being sympathetic or offering a shoulder to cry on or condolences, his ability to speak always seemed to hide its face and he was left as dumb as if he had no tongue. He let the silence linger for a while, the bitterness of Kaia’s conclusion making him feel antsy, making his fingers play with the paper that contained his meal, making his eyes reluctant to meet her own. Once he summoned enough boldness to do so, he knew he had to say something.

“I... I don’t know what to say, Kaia.” he finally spoke reluctantly. He really didn’t know. Compared to the dire events that transpired in her past, his own story of desperation and lost love seemed unworthy, almost trivial. “You ask me not to apologize and I won’t. But I will say that I’m truly sorry to hear about your parents.” The prizefighter paused again, diverting his eyes from her own as his hand plucked on a random dry grass thread. “You know, my father was a preacher and he always said that if a good person died, he went to a better place. I know it’s no consolation and frankly I’m not as pious as him to believe in such religious ballyhoo. But what I do believe is that the departed aren’t trapped under six feet of dirt. I believe they’re with us every time we remember them, every time we tell their story.”

She probably heard it all before, all the words that were supposed to make you feel better but failed to do so. But it was the best he could do at this time, it and a faint smile that was supposed to offer some comfort as Victor looked towards her again. After several seconds, that comforting smile started turning into an awkward one, fueled by the silence, so he turned his attention to the half-eaten meal that grew cold and unattractive in his hands. Uninterestedly he folded the paper over the remnants of the food before pocketing it in the insides of his coat. The day around them was still far from the evening, but the lack of activity in the streets meant that the afternoon siesta commenced. Everybody seemed to throw in the towel around this hour, digesting the food and just relaxing. The boxer had other plans.

“Well, I think I’ll head to the arena, get myself some time with the punching bag.” he said, getting up with a muffled grunt that reminded him of his ribs yet again. The prizefighter dusted himself off sloppily, not terribly concerned by the several threads that stuck to his pants and coat before he continued. “You’re more then welcome to join me. Afternoons are slow on the streets anyways so you won’t be losing much money, if any. And it will give you plenty of time to prepare, maybe even get some training yourself.” he finished with a wider, more heartily smile, offering her a helping hand as aid in getting up. The whole truth was that he didn’t want to part ways with Kaia, not even if their next stop was a smelly, unsightly interior of a fighting arena. Because after a long while he actually had a sensible conversation with somebody, a dialogue that didn’t deal with superficial themes such as the weather and the fine round ass of a random waitress.

[The Emerald Hind]

All the acid that trickled from her tongue just moments before subsided, touched by the contradicting forces that coerced the girl’s ire into neutral submission, banishing the wildfire that, just moments ago, spread through her heart so as to sear away all hope of revival. It was senseless to tarnish the quiet and pleasant surroundings with the darkness of a shattered heart. It was cruel to call upon a distant storm so that it roared its fury into the bright sky before overtaking the evanescent beauty of such a tranquil field. Once more, it was selfish to continue in such a bleak and melancholic mood when another was trying his best to resolve the situation as best as he could. Thus, with a stifled exhalation that spoke of long-known despondency, Kaia banished away the last of her gloom and rage with a smile, which she returned to the boxer after his own awkward reassurance.

“Thank you, Victor,” she uttered in a slightly warmer voice. With it came a more convincing grin—although, one that remained faint along the edges—she looked up to catch his eye, hazel struggling to meet with a deeper brown. “I’d forgotten all that…” In that glance she hoped to convey her appreciation for what he said, for though she had heard about the passage of souls to a greater realm (for her, The High Star) from her town’s priest for more years than she could recall, it was the first time anyone had reminded her of such a thing since that black day her mother’s spirit slipped away. In her agony and self-pity she had forgotten the words of the Tearveki and how it promised to deliver all good and pious souls to a paradise beyond all others, where the departed feasted upon honey and fruit for all days, enjoying the bliss and peace The High Star emanated.

All she thought about was how she had no one else in this world. Her mind dwelt upon that stark emptiness that consumed her heart, especially when she was alone, when she made her camp for the night had nothing but that intimidating night sky above—it with its endless darkness punctuated by a sprinkle of stardust. She had overlooked the Brightest of Stars where hope and love presided as faithful lovers, singing to the ancient souls of the past with their clarion voices, singing the Hymn of Eternity, that which brought understanding to all. Never did she stop to think that her parents resided there, happy and content with one another, reveling in everlasting joy. Instead, she thought only of herself, of how they were gone and she was left with nothing, wondering through the world like a vagabond.

Could they look upon her—she who still resided upon the flesh of the earth—with pride when their precious daughter forsook all her Teachings and abandoned hope to despair? Would they love her—she who still held breath and life flowing through her lungs and veins—for giving into the blackness of hatred? No, they would turn their backs to her with heads low in grief, mourning the loss of their cheerful child. True, she seldom thought of such things except at night or during her lonely travels, when her heart grew heavy and cold, and, true, it did not yet consume her so greatly as to over cloud chance meetings such as the one she held with Victor, but the time she did spend in misery were but the seeds that sowed a larger being, a gnarled and wicked tree of lone desolation. Killing Rarce would not bring them back, it would only bring her grim satisfaction, and in doing so she would ruin all chance of joining her voice to that of her parents’ in the Hymn: she would be lost.

So, with all the revelation spinning through her head in a dizzying whirl, falling upon her in a span of just a few broken moments, she shrugged away the last shreds of that tattered cloak and returned to her more usual cheer. She was still here, just as she said, and like she told the boxer, she was there enjoying his company. There was little hope in remaining in his comforting aura if she continued to spook him with shadowed accounts of a time not-so-long passed. His curiosity may have been the catalyst for her moment of emotional plight, but he was by no means the cause of such things, and she had no right to continue with this unfeeling torture and subject him to a sinister mood.

One more look at him as he towered over her with a helping hand, offering to take her with him while he practiced, and she forgot about her episdoe, allowing it to slip away, to tumble to the good, green earth, where it was absorbed and disbatched. The man's affable nature was enough to make her timid smile stretch a little further, and she took his hand gratefully, hoisting herself up while using him as a balance.

Once to her feet she let her hand drop and put it to use, along with its companion, in dusting herself off. Faint dirt smudges lined the portions of her clothing that touched the earth, along with a few loose grasses. She swept away the offending loam with a few quick motions, and then she moved for her bags, which she gathered up before Victor had the chance to do so.

“I still don’t believe you about that eye having been the only injury you had,” she said sternly, eyeing him with a look that told him she had heard that little grunt of his when he had gotten to his own feet, “so no more lifting for me. I’d rather not risk compounding the issue, if there is one, as I assume there to be.” Hefting both packs over her shoulders and jerking forward to adjust the weight properly, she continued to look at him a bit critically, then tilted her head to the side and smirked. “With that in mind, I must go with you to watch you practice. Someone has to make sure you don’t continue to damage yourself. Well…err…I mean, damage yourself before tonight.” At that she raised a brow. Then she just shook her head and sighed, muttering something about boxers trying to inflict damage as opposed to healers trying to tend damage. It was still an odd concept after all.

But any other murmurs were set aside as she began to follow the man through the winding streets, which still confounded her greatly. This way and that, in and out, down dark, narrow alleys, and up open, bright avenues. All very confusing, when one was used to open land, thick forests, and the occasional tiny town or village. The tall brick buildings and overcrowded streets were still a mystery to Kaia. Who would want to live on top of one another like these people? She was all for socializing, but the conditions here were a bit extreme, forcing people into intimate contact. It was suffocating and confining to her, but that was only because this was not her way, the child of the field and wood.

So, while she followed the prizefighter through the bowels of the town, her eyes flickered this way and that, observing the people of Underwood and their domestic structures. “How ever do you remember your way through this place?” she asked absently as the sight of two dusty children careening past them vanished around a corner, at which point she refocused her vision to the man she found so very interesting.

[The Cinderella Man]

“So, are you going to tell her or are you going to keep bullshitting?”

Victor decided to do a bit of both. His bruised ribs persevered at constantly reminding him that they weren’t in mint condition, sending jolt after jolt of dull pain through his muscles with every step he made. However, it wasn’t that bad. He was a big boy; he could handle it. And even if he couldn’t, his pride – the usual, bullheaded male kind – refused to allow him to come off as a whiny sissy that called himself a prizefighter and couldn’t handle the repercussions of another workday. Besides, even though Kaia was as sweet as candy, ever since his father succumbed to his illness after visiting every healer, cleric and shaman, Victor wasn’t too fond of being a patient. He could handle his medicine when it was absolutely necessary, but he wasn’t limping and he wasn’t bleeding and he could still see straight and that meant it was too early for the doctor’s table.

“I should’ve known better then trying to fool you. After all, you are an expert in fixing what’s broken.” the boxer responded, meeting her quirked brow with a somewhat embarrassed, uneasy smirk. He always felt like a child when somebody caught him in trying to conceal something, like he was ten again and he just lost the money his mother gave him to purchase the daily groceries. Luckily, Victor grown from a scared boy into a callous man and with it came the ability to shrug the predicament away which in turn enabled him to continue in a more unstrained tone as they advanced through the narrow alleys of Underwood. “But it’s really nothing important. My ribs took several awkward hits yesterday, but nothing cracked in there so it’s just a superficial bruise. I fought with worse injuries.”

“Not many, though.” his mind cued, always eager to bring some hardcore realism in the world in which Victor’s head floated. It would usually support the supplement with scarce examples of the occasions when he fought this hurt and tired, but Kaia supplied another theme for their conversation and the pugilist was more then happy to switch the forbidding thoughts off.

“It’s not that difficult once you get used to it.” he began, turning around another corner and leading them into a street that smelled faintly of half-decayed vegetables. The back alley that ran parallel with one of the main streets was usually a perfect place for the stores to discard their spoiled goods. There wasn’t much of it – merely sporadic cracked crates with open lids and swarms of flies buzzing around it ceaselessly – but it was an efficient way to get rid of the unwanted sundries. Between the bums, the rats and the rain, there was seldom anything left in the shadowed alleys after a short while. Naturally, that didn’t make these secluded pathways the prettiest sight ever, but on the flip side, they weren’t as frequented and usually shaved off several minutes from your journey from one side of the town to the other.

“I grew up in Scara Brae that is about as big as Underwood, and though Underwood isn’t urbanely planned as well as Scara Brae, most of these large cities follow the same concept. You have large streets going from east to west and from north to south, creating a web. So if you have a vague idea where you want to go, all you need to do is keep going in that direction and make as many left turns as you do the right ones. And eventually...” Victor paused, swerving around another corner and emerging in a rather vacant street with smooth cobbles that emanated the accumulated heat that the sun sowed with its beams. Across the street, a rotund arena made out of crude wood and sloppy plaster work dominated the sight, a weathered sign above the double doors declaring that they stood before The Pit. There was, of course, another arena in Underwood, a glorious edifice made out of gray marble with flags of all baronies fluttering from its towers, but that was a place for high rollers and champions and it was closer to the main square. “...you get to the right place.” he concluded with a satisfied smirk, glad that he didn’t take a wrong turn and led them into a blind alley, effectively making an ass out of himself. He didn’t go to the arena immediately though. Instead, he led the way to a modest inn adjacent to the arena where he resided, successfully slipped past the snoozing old fart and returned with his gear.

The Pit wasn’t a nice place. Even as he pushed the creaking doors inwards, the scent of stale water with which the cleaners washed the floor slapped his face, daring him to gag. Adding to the wretched outlook was the illumination, dim to the point where it seemed sepulchral, coming from the low-burning oil lamps. The inside walls were made out of unhewn bricks, somehow managing to give out an impression that they were closing in on them. The hallway seemed endless and the only sound besides their footsteps was the tapping of feet on the canvas in the distance and the bawled curses of a trainer. The arena itself wasn’t a spectacular sight; wooden bleachers smoothed by countless behinds, low spherical dome made out of wooden beams that seemed sloppily aligned, barely withstanding the weight of the roof above it. In the center of this dour picture was an elevated ring with ropes rough enough to be used on navy ships. Currently, two younglings that couldn’t be far into their teen years were heaving and struggling to remain on their feet, their scrawny bodies caked with sweat, their faces mildly swollen.

Besides two rather elderly gents that stood in opposite corners, advising their trainees in the correct way to knock out the other, there was only one spectator. Dressed in a dark-blue suit with black stripes that seemed two numbers too small and two years past the retirement due to wear and tear, a huge mountain of a man sat, observing the fight with attentive eyes. He was Donald Kingsley, “The Tzar” during his fighting days, the owner of the crummy arena and the organizer of bouts. Rumor had it that Donald preferred young boys over lasses. Rumor also had it that he made annual contributions to charity. Victor didn’t care for either of that the first time he met the man and he really didn’t give a damn now either. He wasn’t here to make friends, but money.

“Padre? Well, slap my ass and call me a donkey; I didn’t think I’ll see you for a while after the walloping Mervin gave you yesterday. You forgot something?” the large man asked, noticing both the boxer and his diminutive companion the moment they entered the arena and advanced down the aisle. He didn’t keep his eyes on neither for too long, reverting them to the boys in the ring and supporting one of the rumors mentioned.

“No. I came to fight Bricktop if the spot is still open.” Victor replied, readjusting the gymbag that rested on his shoulder. Donald didn’t even look at him. Instead he chuckled dryly, his imposing figure shaking a bit before he turned the stifled laughter into a quasi-courteous cough.

“Yeah, it’s open. But I need somebody who can actually fight him. The crowd doesn’t like one-sided bouts and quite frankly, I think they’re tired seeing you lose all the time.” the battle organizer said, his voice emotionless. Victor was both furious and embarrassed, both because Kaia was standing next to him and listening for this over the hill bastard call him a loser to his face.

“I can fight him.” the prizefighter finally said, his tone calm despite his upheaval but the leather of his bag’s straps whined beneath his clutched fingers. “I can beat him.”

“Right, sure.” the uninterested, unimpressed response.

“It’s not like you have a choice. Better to have some audience seeing me bleed then none at all.” Victor tried to reason with the man, reminding him why they were here after all; money. And it seemed to tickle Donald’s interest as well. The Tzar might’ve been a proud fighter once upon a time, but now was an emperor of this large, often profitless arena. But there was money revolving around the bouts, money for the tickets, money for the bookies, money for the booze, the whores. Victor was right; he didn’t exactly have a choice. And it wasn’t like he had a reputation to uphold; The Pit had such a simple yet descriptive name for a reason.

“Ah, alright, fine. Just don’t make me regret it, Padre.”

The boxer merely nodded in response, moving away from the battle organizer before he changed his mind. The arena didn’t have a locker room, so after he followed another much more narrow gangway, Kaia and he found themselves in a training/preparation room. It was significantly smaller then the actual arena, with a low roof and a floor made out of uneven planks and an odor of an interior of a worn boot on a hot day. Six large punching bags were lined up near the far wall, all patched up so many times it seemed that there was more stitches and patches then the actual leather from which it was originally made of. To the left stood several benches, one of which was occupied by the belongings of the pair that was going at it in the ring. Victor moved to the first vacant one a lowered his gym bag, reluctant to look at the healer girl. She probably thought he was the bona fide loser by now, a bum who fought in some shitty corner of the world for a fistful of coins because he was too dumb to do anything else.

“I’ll beat him. Don’t worry.” he squeezed through his clenched teeth, forcefully opening up his bag and procuring a pair of boxing gloves, “Architect” written on the left, “Destruction” on the right. He proceeded to take off his coat and his shirt, leaving him in nothing but his pants and revealing the unhealthy looking bruise of his ribs that looked prominently red and slowly turning into a hue of dark purple.

[The Emerald Hind]

The girl did not know what to expect as they made their way through the labyrinth of dingy, garbage-lined alleys like a pair of trained mice looking for the much coveted cheese at the center of the maze. She had never been to a boxing match, much less to the arenas they were held in. Such things were not typically to her liking for various reasons. For one, seeing two men beat each other until they were both bloody, swollen lumps went against her nature. Her mother had taught her as a child to never do harm to another living being unless absolutely necessary. She did not even take the life of a rabbit or reel in a fish before asking the Hunter of the Forest for permission, and then she honored both him and the animal that sacrificed its life for hers. So, to even consider participating in violent activities, even as a passive observer, was completely unlike Kaia. She agreed to be at Victor’s corner for the chance to get noticed for her skills as a herbalist and a minor healer, and to possibly get to know the boxer, as well.

However, despite all that, the reason she had never attended a fight lied in the fact that the lordship she grew up in did not cater to such entertainments. The towns and villages were few and small, their commerce slow and held strictly to the business of selling and trading their produce and beasts. Not even her own town—which boasted a busy market—did exhibited much interest in supporting amusements beyond the annual festivals, a tavern, and a few street women who frequented both. Wasting coin in a bet placed on the man most likely to go through a beating without falling was of no interest to the community, not when they had greater concerns, such as meeting their tithe quotas for their lord and the higher vassals. And other than the Avanin circus’s strong man who defeated a troupe of dwarves—all in mock, of course—she had not even come close to watching real combat, not until Lord Rarce’s defeat of the Old Lord and the brawls she witnessed in Corone. So, organized fighting (if it could be considered as such) and its associations were completely beyond her realm of knowledge.

Without the proper background, the girl was ignorant, so when she finally came before the arena after the detour to Victor’s hostel she was quite shocked at the sight of it. Somehow, she expected something a little nicer than the crude building before her. It looked as if it had been constructed by the filth of the local gaol with the cheapest materials available. The wooden boards appeared warped and filthy, as if the dust that clung to them was rinsed away only during the heaviest of rains. The plaster was flaking off in spots, and in others it was absent, allowing one a look into the skeleton of the squat edifice. Instantly, Kaia was put off by the place, and it took all she had to repress the urge to cringe at the sight of it. She was not one for grand pavilions, and she never put down on the shabby little taverns she was forced to visit during her travels since Avani, but this place was ragged and worn, and from a healer’s point of view it promised little in the way of hygiene, and considering men spilt their blood within the bowls of the arena—suitably marked as The Pit—it worried her.

Then she entered the place, following behind Victor, and what she found within was even worse. The smell hit her first, the stench of old water, unwashed bodies, stale sweat, and dried blood forming a barrier almost as solid as a wall, and she walked right into it. She resisted the urge to cover her nose for fear of offending Victor and the other boxers, but only after insisting to herself that the pungent odors were no worse than what could be found at any tavern or inn. But she had never perceived such smells as strongly as she did within the arena. She took a few moments to acclimate herself to the stench, concentrating on taking small breaths followed by deeper ones so as to introduce her olfactory system to it.

And by the looks of it, the arena was in no better condition within than without. The place looked as if it had received years of miseuse and abuse without any attempts made at renevation or even general upkeep. The floor had probably received nothing more than the cursory scrub down, nothing that constituted proper hygiene. The roof looked like it was quite likely to cave in, and she suspected that some of the darker spots lining the warped portions of rafter boards were from rain water. The ring itself was a tattered dias linked off by rope. She doubted the rope did anything more than mark the boundaries of the platform, and one misjudged step or hard knock would land some poor fighter on the ground with a busted skull.

If these were the conditions in which Victor fought, she greatly admired his courage, or his ability to ignore the filth of the place. To her as a woman of the Wise Art, it greatly offended her, not so much because of the smell and the look of the place, but because it was surely the breeding grounds of disease. Should any poor fool manage to get more than a few racked ribs and some ugly bruises, his system would be invaded by the ills of the place. The likelihood of a wound becoming septic in the destitute conditions of the arena was great, and even the smallest cut would fester with infection. She wondered how many times the boxer she had followed to this place had found himself with a contaminated wound. How many boxers had been overcome by sickness from the taint of a foul-smelling cut received in the hope of making money? It made her anxious, and again she looked at Victor through the corner of her eye, looking him over with apprehension lurking in her vision.

She had not the chance to delve any deeper into her unease as the lumbering image of a man some sizes too large for his suit came into view. It seemed that he was the owner of the establishment, for Victor spoke to him about entering the night’s fight, but not before receiving a few rude remarks from the brute. As soon as the first snide remark fell from his greasy mouth, Kaia forgot about the unsavory surroundings and its vexations and fixed her sights upon him. She listened intently as he broke the boxer down about the previous night’s failings and his doubts about Victor’s bout with this Bricktop character. It was enough to win the man a glare from the girl as they left him to enter another section of the arena, but other than that she did not acknowledge what the man had said, not in front of Victor.

It did not take a scholar to realize that such remarks would bruise the prizefighter’s pride, and there was no sense in salting the wound with words of encouragement that would doubtlessly ring hollow in the man’s ears. She had never seen him fight before and to say that she knew the man could beat his opponent would be futile. From what experience in boxing could she draw such a conclusion? She was a wisewoman, not a trainer, and she could not rightly say anything about Victor's chances one way or another. Still, she did not think of him as a loser, but it was not safe to say that either, not without justifying herself, and that would lead to her admitting the fact that she had more of an interest in Victor than just their business partnership. She was not about to put herself in that position, either. There really was nothing she could say in response to the arena manager's remarks or to Victor's self-affirmation. It led to a rather awkward silence, one she could not fill with any words of comfort, not safely, any way.

Instead of talking, she sat down on a nearby chair and put her things down, then turned around to watch Victor ready himself for practice. In fact, she was most observant when he began pealing away his clothing, revealing his strong, solid build, the meager light surrendered to the preparation area casting dark shadows and bright highlights to his musculature. Kaia could not help but steal a look over his body, noting his great bulk of well-trained sinew, which did all the more to accent the rather pleasing facial features that piqued her interest upon first meeting. He may have been rather plain, but she found him more than satisfactory, and to see more of him caused her to smile warmly as she leaned back in her chair, taking the chance to admired his physique. As she indulged, she tryied her best not to look too interested, forcing her gaze to wonder else where every now and then, but when she replaced her inspection of the punching bags with Victor's frame, yet again, the bold declaration of his ribs struck her and demanded a critical inspection.

She got to her feet and she put her hands on her hips, her brows knitted together; but as soon as she assumed such a posture she realized the repercussions of it—for once, thanking the stars that she examined everything—she shook her head and sighed, letting her overbearing motherly pose slide into one of friendly concern, head lowered slightly and arms falling evenly with her body. “Victor,” she began, her tone carefully neutral yet still holding a falling note of worry, “I know you already told me that your fine and all, and I know that within all reason you have been boxing for years without a healer before without fault, but please let me have a look at that bruise.” She stepped around her discarded things and came to his side, even though she wanted to bar his access to the training equipment. She turned her tone to slightly plaintive and allowed her unease to surface across her face in tense lines across her brow and between her brows. “It kills me to see your ribs abused like that…” Then she tensed, hoping he would not mistake her concern for his wellbeing for any disbelieve in his ability to survive in the ring.

[The Cinderella Man]

“Well, ain’t that precious? This is the part where they get all sympathetic and look at you like a horse that should be taken out of his misery.”

It should’ve been evident from the tone of Kaia’s voice and the expression on her visage that his reflexive, acerbic thought wasn’t on the money and definitely wasn’t something the tolerant lass deserved. But filtered through the anger provoked by Victor’s spited pride, her benevolent offer was transformed into yet another – albeit much more docile – assault on that one thing that still held his head above the water; his pride. He explicitly told her that he was fine and dandy and her refusal to let the matter rest registered in the same manner that wiseass remarks of people that just knew what was good for you would. Of course, it was completely unfair to Kaia, but Victor was no mind reader and he didn’t know her nearly long enough to acquire an ability to read past her expressions and intonations to get to the bottom of what really went through that pretty little head of hers.

“Just leave the damn ribs alone, alright? I told you it was nothing.” the boxer responded, his tone coming out more curt and acrimonious then he intended them to be. But even as he spoke those words, guilt swept over him like a cold shower, making something in his chest squeeze without even looking at the reaction his scolding elicited on the herbalist’s face. But his pride still endured, as unyielding as a gangster with a vendetta to fulfill. So instead an instant apology, Victor tenaciously plopped down on the bench, puling out several roles of thin bandages. He coiled them over his palm swiftly and with far too much force, making the protective bandaging around his knuckles almost tight enough to cut of the circulation in his fingers. Feeling this mistake as a pricking sensation on the tip of his fingers, the prizefighter was forced to unwind the damn thing and do it over again. And all the time he did this, guilt was digging through his gut like a mole, reminding him of the hazel eyes that were probably painted with disappointment now, maybe even sadness. Victor couldn’t force himself to look up at them. Luckily, his tongue extricated itself just enough for him to speak in a much softer, repentant voice.

“I... I’m sorry, Kaia. I know you’re just trying to help.” the prizefighter said, his eyes and hands busy with the wrapping of light gray cloth around his mitts, but his mind bent on the well-meaning lass. “You must think I’m a real loser, fighting in a crummy backwater place such as this one and losing on regular basis. But I didn’t always lose. And I won’t always lose again.”

“Damn right I won’t!”

Victor’s inability to win was a rather peculiar thing. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to box anymore. He still had the moves, still saw the punches with enough time to duck or block or evade, still had the same destructive right that could tear down man-mountains that stood against him in the ring. But the flare that was once radiating from every aspect of his personality waned after Delilah, turning into a smoldering ember. So while he still had the goods, he severely lacked the drive to actually do his best beneath the spotlights and display them. There was no reason for it anymore. Back in Scara Brae he boxed for love, he fought for a chance to be with somebody who threw him away like a worn sweater because of cultural differences. Arslan, his trainer, always said that what he lacked in technique and finesse, he made up with heartiness and bullheaded determination. So when that was ripped out of him and thrown into the gutter, Victor was efficiently disarmed. Hence all the loses and the down-and-out label.

But today's bout was different. Today Kaia would be watching, standing in his corner, rooting for him, tending to his wound in those crucial fifteen seconds between the rounds. And even though he barely knew the girl and her support shouldn’t have been as important as when he fought for true love, and even though they would probably part ways after tonight, her presence was invigorating, animating the parts within him that were dormant for far too long. To know that somebody stood behind him, regardless of the platonic acquaintanceship born out of a business proposal, it was something that he didn’t have in a while. That was why all these jabs at his pride hurt so much; because Victor could feel the motor starting inside of him and Kaia was the fuel.

With the bandaging finished, Victor stuffed his hands into the scarlet gloves and gave the leather straps at the bottom a good yank to fixate his fighting apparel. He would need to tie them before the battle commenced, but for now they were secured enough and he punched them against each other twice to clarify that. It was only then that he steered his eyes towards the healer, offering what was supposed to be an apologetic smirk. “Well, I’m going to blow some steam. Not too much though. I need to save some for Bricktop.” the prizefighter said, getting to his feet – this time subduing the grunt – and walking up to the closest punching bag.

“Maybe you should try taking a few hits as well.” Victor said in between salvos of punches and three-hit-combos as he circled to the right and around the bag, surprisingly light on his feet for a man of such stature. His punches were everything but light though, catching the bag as it swung back at him. Arslan always said that it was a good way to break your wrist by hitting the sack as it came at you, but Victor was still riled up about the “L” letter that Donald painted on his forehead, so he disregarded this piece of advice. Still, his voice managed to remain rather soft as he spoke. “So the next time some pompous money-hungry healer starts pushing you around, you could shove back.”

[The Emerald Hind]

No, Kaia’s eyes did not fill with disappointment when those words fell so sharply from Victor’s mouth, nor was there sadness to fill the void of warmth and concern that had left them so quickly. Instead, what stirred the luminous pools was a flash of light, a brilliant spark that charged across those watery surfaces like a bolt, sizzling angrily as it bounded across the green-tainted motes. In its wake followed a deep coldness: a frigid gaze that held back the glint of anger that had arose as an instant response to the callousness of the prizefighter’s words. Frozen were those hazel eyes as they held back a greater emotion—or, rather, a stronger passion—barring the gate so that none of that irritation touched her face. And for some time that was how the girl remained, sinew tense and expression glacial, all shocked to an icy composure for those passing moments.

But none of it betrayed her—neither those distant eyes nor that taught poise—for she quickly schooled away her agitation, reasoning with herself that she had simply damaged an already wounded pride. She was a patient creature, and even when attacked by a sudden spat of disturbed feeling she would not react beyond steeling herself against her own emotions, a means by which to protect not only herself but those in her presence. The shell remained cool and genial even as the core boiled with conflicting tides, and for that time as the two layers battled with one another, a higher force set order amongst the chaos of an indignant heat, the mind taking hold of a heart’s misunderstanding and easing it back into the usual cheer of her nature.

And such was what Kaia did, telling her self that Victor was merely hurt by her insistence to help him even after he had told her no several times. After a few moments it began to work, and the ice that glazed her eyes slowly melted away, looking upon the boxer with a softer light, closer to how she had regarded him before his acidic retort. The last of the cold ebbed away when the man spoke again, this time in apology, which she accepted with a dim smile and a nod of her pretty head. But then came his concerns about how she might see him, and at that any lasting hints of her personal winter evanesced into a gentler season, and in the absence of the bitter cold came the compassion and care of the forest child.

“I do not think you are a loser, Victor,” she said gently, looking at him as he continued to bandage his hands, an activity she suddenly found interesting, as she knew nothing of the preparations for an organized brawl. The girl said nothing more than that, however, as she did not know what else to say without risking the boxer’s ire yet again. She doubted that his mood was completely improved despite his apology to her, and she had no desire to test his defenses, nor her own fortitude against short-temperedness. It took a lot to get the girl angry, but it was not a condition she wished to reach any time soon, especially not with Victor. She was not one to be cruel or biting in her ire, yet, damage could be accomplished through an artic veneer.

With nothing more to say and Victor giving rows to the bunching bag—an odd object in Kaia’s mind—the Avanin settled herself to her herb bag, which she collected from the floor with a deft sweep of her hand and settled upon her lap. She was busy rummaging through the various bottles and jars, trying to decide what she might need for quick repair on the boxer that night, when man’s voice piped up again. A brow was quirked in response to his suggestion, and she let her bag slip back down to the ground. She considered him for a moment, trying to figure out if he was speaking in jest, but after careful observance of the following notes and his posture she found him to be sincere. A little bubble of nervous laughter rose from her throat as she shook her head. “No, that is fine. I dare not damage my hands by cracking some bull across the jaw…”

Hazel droplets stuck to the boxer as he changed positions and began punching at the bags with renewed vigor, working away some of the pent up frustration he had spoken of just moments ago. She watched him intently as he did so and continued to follow his motions even as he left the bags completely and went to the ground, where he invested some energy in a few pushups. That dainty head shook as she watched (admired) him, wondering how many of pushups she could have pulled off—probably no more than two—then looked back at the sacks of sand still swinging from side to side. “Yeah, I think I will leave the hitting to you. I will just find someone to teach me how to use that star-blasted staff of mine.”

“Oh, I bet you can find uses for that staff, honey,” rumbled a gritty voice from the direction of the entrance way, trailed by a horse chuckle that sounded faintly like the purr of some jungle cat. “Or I can give you a hand with it.”

Incensed by the remark and still holding to a few stray memories of a recent irritation, the herbalist’s head snapped about, chocolate tresses swirling and hazel eyes wary. Once again her muscles tensed, pulled tight by the surrounding tendons, but she forced herself to relax, to ease away the anxiety held in her posture as she rose to her feet, forcing away the little flame of anger that rose within her again and replacing it what the same coolness previously donned. She reversed a pace, closer to where Victor stood, having abandoned his practice at the new presence that dominated the doorframe like a mutated wraith.

“Pretty company yer’re keepin’ these days, Vic. But I don’t think ya suit her,” the shadowed figure said with a touch of twisted humor coloring the deep baritone voice. Then he stepped away from the entrance and into the dim light offered by the prep room, revealing a large man who would have fit perfectly well with the apes depicted in Kaia's favorite picture book from her childhood. His flint-cold eyes focused neatly upon Victor as the beast took another step towards both boxer and herbalist, but then his gaze switched back to Kaia, and one flicked in what the girl assumed was meant to be a seductive wink. It only made her grimace in distaste, her senses assaulted by his repulsive appearance and revolting manners. Then he came closer to her and she could perceive the mingled stench of cheap musk and fresh sweat. He looked her over and emitted a low whistle, after which he reached out with a claw of a hand to touch her hair.

She side-stepped before he could catch hold of a single lock and rounded Victor so that she was on the other side of him, instinctively seeking protection against the brute while also making it quite clear that she was present for the boxer’s benefit. The herbalist then stepped away from Victor and shot down to collect her things from the chair she had occupied just moments ago, slipping both the travel bag and the herb sack around her shoulders and grabbing the little walking staff she carried with her, the one she had used to pop the aggressive healer earlier that day. After taking possession of her things, she slipped back and away from the nameless man and placed herself just measures away from Victor, her orbs trained upon the offensive brawn that began to circle them.

“Well, I guess she ain't much if'n she clings to a loser like you.” At that the bully smirked, revealing two uneven rows of off-white tiles, of which one or two were missing. “But may'e she’ll change her mind t'night when she sees ya lose. Again…” He strode towards the bench Victor had sat at before and straddled the end of it, placing his hands on the edge of the plank and he leaned forward, staring at Victor with mirth in his eyes. “Don’t ya ever get tired of it? Losin' all the time? Must 'ave lost tha last bit o' brain you had in that fight last night, or ya wouldn’t be up 'gainst me t'night…” The man’s—Kaia now assumed that this was the “Bricktop” person Victor was up to box that night—tone turned biting and his lineaments assumed an ugly sneer. “When ya lose t'night, I’ll take that pretty lil' thing ya got there. Let her know what it’s like ta be with a real man, a real winner.”

At that point it was too much for Kaia to withstand, and she stepped away from Victor once more. The veil of cold reservation evaporated, melted by the heat of her rising anger at having been so insulted. Everyone had limits, and this was Kaia: she of unyielding patience shed all need or desire to remain in placid disregard, and she let her anger be known. This man had insulted both Victor and her more than enough, and she would not permit him to do so any longer, not without recourse. So she struck with zeal, passing from under Victor's protective shelter and placing herself into the line of fire with one well placed smack.

However, she did not strike out physically—that would have been a mistake, for she would only hurt herself by striking the thick mass of man, and she was certain her neck would suffer a crack in return—but, rather, slapped the man verbally, a rare assault from a girl who preferred silence. But this was an extreme case and her honor was being attacked and her friend’s pride was being torn down: it was too much for her to put up with. She looked at Bricktop with caustic indignation, then quickly donned that cool facade once again, letting her voice drip down like ice, cold and distant, but only to obscure the underlying heat. “If I could even succeed in lowering my standards to your sub-human level, you still would not know what to do with me once you had me, you brainless dolt. Just because you are as strong as an ox doesn’t mean you are blessed with its intelligence, and I think it would be more worth my wile to consort with an ox than with you.”

[The Cinderella Man]

“Why did the fly fly? Because spider spied’er.”

Victor wasn’t exactly certain why this infantile word game jumped into his head just then nor did he have the time to dwell on the thought. But the safest bet was the fact that the contrast between the forbidding brute and the diminutive, gentle herbalist depicted the situation from the quasi-proverb. Bricktop was a big man, an ugly man, a muscle-bound caricature with an emphasized lower jaw (Ape Jaw, Victor dubbed it) and a macho sense of humor that only his buddies and hookers understood. He and Victor never met in the ring, never even had a proper conversation, but they knew of each other; Underwood wasn’t that large when it came to boxing. And while there was no direct animosity between the two, it was rather clear that chance of something other then that was slim at best. John Chivas was everything that Vic despised in a man, from the utter lack of manners to the boastful, show-offish demeanor common for jocks such as him. So it was pretty damn probable that the only exchange between them would be in a currency consisted of fists and insults.

And that became doubly apparent when the daft bastard went after Kaia. Victor expected such words from Bricktop, the tasteless innuendoes and the cock-a-hoop demeanor befitting the boxer’s character to the letter. But Vic knew what was the real reason for this little pre-bout visit. The man was trying to provoke, using aspects of his idiotic personality to anger his opponent, to irritate him to the point of detonation. Because wrathful fighters charged like mindless beasts and they made mistakes by the dozen. It was an edge he was trying to achieve, and even though Arslan once tried to teach Victor that words were like dandelion puffs, he was succeeding. Going after him he could handle. Going after Kaia was venturing into the territory where the stoicism gave ground in front of righteous anger.

However, even though Victor got up from his push-up position and did his best to position himself between the avalanche and its diminutive target, the healer lass seemed to be somewhat of a cat. Serene and amicable while undisturbed, yet hissing and clawing when push came to shove. Her response was brusque and cold, her insults striking home with little subtlety. Victor couldn’t stifle a chuckle at her words, his mocking smirk aimed at the savage that seemed taken aback by the garlic on Kaia’s tongue. His mouth opened up hesitantly, his semi-intelligent brain trying to come up with a witty retort and coming up empty. “What’s the matter?” Victor thought, his wiseass smirk still present as Bricktop’s eyes angrily looked from Kaia to him and back to the feisty maiden. “Cat got your tongue?”

No, it wasn’t the case. Because in several seconds the muscled spider screamed: “You little bitch! I’ll teach you!!” and came lunging after the fly with a piledriver that was bound to swat her into the nearby lockers. Victor doubted she could fly away from the punch. He bolted between them, extending his right arm so the crook of it caught the crook of the incoming one, impeding its advance efficiently. But Vic took it a step further. Using the momentum of his advance, he yanked on the man’s trapped arm, bowing forward and sending Bricktop sprawling on the ground over his own back with a throw. It wasn’t exactly a boxing move, but the current situation wasn’t exactly sanctioned by the refs either.

“What is it with men here in Underwood? Didn’t your parents teach you not to hit ladies?” Victor said, standing firmly between Kaia and John who didn’t seem too happy with the fact that he was knocked down before the battle already begun. Bricktop pulled himself up hurriedly, as if the abruptness of it would somehow iron out the crease in his pride, his fists balled and ready to wreak havoc. It appeared that there would be a bout way before the starting bell sound and Victor calmly took off his boxing gloves, readying himself for the bare-knuckle clash.

“You two cease this monkey business right now!” a loud, guttural voice came from the door that led back to the arena. Donald and his large gut stood in the frame, the round face of the Tzar failing to hide even a fragment of dissatisfaction with this little backstage encounter. Victor and John heard the voice, knew who it belonged to, but kept their eyes on each other, both as taut as bowstrings. The battle organizer noticed he’d have to reiterate and make an ultimatum out of it. “You two blockheads hear me?! You stop this right now or I’ll make sure you never fight in Corone again!”

It was highly unlikely that Donald had so much influence to ban them both form legal bouts all across Corone. However, he could send out a word about their conduct and rumor often did more damage then a written word ever could. Whether this reasoning came through the brick-thick skull of the brute or was there something else behind his obsidian-black eyes, Victor didn’t know, but after those words Bricktop lowered his guard. Still, he found it necessary to fire several non-literal jabs before he slipped past the rotund arena owner. “I’ll so you later, sugar pie.” he said to Kaia with a wink. “After I beat your no-good boyfriend into the ring floor, me and my boys will teach you how to use a staff or two.”

“You won’t be breathing after the fight, you...!!!” Victor made a move after the man, but a hand with meaty fingers and hairy knuckles steadied him, catching his shoulder.

“Easy lad. Save it for tonight.” the battle organizer said, the wisdom in his eyes clashing with the fury in Victor’s. Once he was satisfied with the boxer’s calm and Bricktop disappeared behind the bleachers in the arena, he walked out of the gym with a cryptic expression on his face. He thought today was going to be another easy victory for the champion of The Pit, but from the way sparks were flying between the two, he might have a real battle on his hands. Or even better, an all-out war.

Once again Kaia and Victor were alone in the gym, in the calm after the storm, with the only sound being the shouts of the trainers and the glove-meets-flesh from back in the arena. The sweet-faced maiden still had her firm face on, the unsmiling, concerned one that seemed troubled enough to the boxer for him to feel inclined to offer some reassurance. “I guess this wasn’t what you expected from this deal.” he said, collecting the gloves her earlier discarded and placing them on the bench. “I won’t let that piece of horse dung come close to you, Kaia. But I’ll understand if you want out after all of this.”

In all truth, Victor was slowly starting to regret ever proposing their alliance back in the tavern. This was no place for the likes of her. The Pit was the gathering place of the losers and lowlifes, the reckoning of the scum of Underwood that found a gold piece or two to waste on watching someone beat the life out of somebody else. In here she was the lily amidst the thorns. And he’d be damned if he let somebody ruin her. Stranger or no stranger, she was enough of a friend to him for him to care. In fact, given his rather solitary way of life, she was the only friend he had in a while. So tonight the bout wasn’t just about his pride or his reflection in Kaia’s eyes or even the money, but for preserving something precious, something beautiful.

[The Emerald Hind]

Her countenance shed its strained lines just as her body fell from the defensive posture, the tension slowing seeping from the girl as she watched the antagonist storm out of the practice room. But the visible calm was not a proper reflection of the battle waged within, where the fight continued between heart and mind, the struggle to return to normalcy. It was not often she succumbed to such vile and base emotions. She was seldom provoked beyond a frustrated word or a weary shake of her head, for she stood resolute, determined to keep company with a placid veneer. To have given in to the unstable flares of anger was against her better nature, and it shocked her no matter how well deserving the man was of her wrath, if only in the form of acerbic slurs. It was not a savory reaction, and the taste of that moment did not bode well on her conscious.

Still, that anger seethed in restless abandon, making her eyes flash in dangerous pulses so that sparks struck the green-tainted rims in a lightning storm parade. Kaia fought against that fiery channel that careened through her body, struggling against the thrashing ire that scratched and clawed at her otherwise mellow exterior, trying to break to the surface in some discernable manifestation. She would not allow such to happen, and so drew back the bull whip and cracked it across the flanks of that rising fury so that it roared in defiance. Another mental snap and the frayed tail of the whip licked its back, bringing home the impending threat. That rage bowed its head in obedience and fled from that terrible, inner stare, seeking refuge in the dark folds of emotional perception.

Slowly, the calmness the girl usually expressed—and felt—returned, filling the void bored into her by the evanescing anger. She drew in a deep breath and pushed it out rapidly, and with it went the memories of her antagonist’s tactless jibes and the ire is spawned. With the last of the negative emotions banished, she was able to look up at Victor, who glanced back at her with worry in his eyes. To this she smiled softly and shook her head.

“Actually, I did not know what to expect from any of this,” she replied, her voice smooth and serene once more. All evidence of the acid she spat at that lumbering fool had vanished, erased. She walked over to the seat she had surrendered earlier and cemented herself to the spot, where she fixed Victor with an unrelenting gaze that communicated her intent to stay. “But I have struck a deal with you, and I stick to my word..” He had no choice. She stayed, for better or worse.

Assured that her message was properly conveyed, she relaxed on her perch with a little more ease, although, she kept her things in her grasp this time. Who knew when another daft imbecile would blunder in and make threats? It seemed that this place was crawling with hostile males all intent on bruising her to match the boxer. She wondered what it was about her that attracted such aggression. It was not a situation she was at all fond of, more so, because it cast her in the role of the damsel in distress. True, she was not the strong warrior female that seemed to plague these roads—she had been tailored for the life of a “proper” woman, made to cook, clean, and sow—but she did not think of herself as helpless, either. Then, at every turn, she was in need of rescuing, first from that greedy pig of a healer and then that oaf fighter. She was more of a liability with each passing moment.

The concern—and perhaps doubt—that clung to Victor’s words hardened her. Now, more than ever, she would prove her worth to him, make it clear that she was not a silly, accident prone child looking for an easy meal. She was an herbalist healer, and a fine one at that, if not in need of some refinement. She could be of use to Victor and she wanted to make her strengths plain. She was not just some hapless maiden who needed a bodyguard—well, not normally, any way. Most situations she could handle. Things were just unusual at the moment. Back in her element in the wood and field she could show her knowledge, at the fight she could showcase her skill. Now, if she only made it that long.

As she buried herself in a mental blanket of myriad thoughts, Victor returned to his training regimen, grabbing a long rope with handles on both ends. A sudden flash of curiosity pushed her thoughts away and she sat up straighter, tilting her head to the side. She watched as the boxer flipped the rope around in an arc, above and below, his legs kicking out as he skipped in place, never once landing on the rope or getting tangled. She raised a slim brow as she watched him. She had never seen a rope employed for such a use and she was marveled by the fact that he did not trip as the serpentine thread beat around him in a steady one-two, one-two.

From the rope, the prize fighter switched over to push ups. He would stop for a moment for a rest, at which point they exchanged a word or two about what he was doing, mostly sating her inquisitiveness. All the while she admired his physique, watching his muscles ripple as they flexed and relaxed as necessary to each program.

But her musings were cut short, as was the man’s exercise, for a voice piped up from the doorway. “Ring’s ready. Time fer tha match.” Kaia snapped her eyes around to catch the silhouette of a youth—one of the two in the ring when she first followed Victor into The Pit. He nodded at her but looked expectantly at the boxer. When he received confirmation that his message was received, the boy bounded off. The healer watched him vanish then looked up at Victor expectantly. “I’ll try not to be a bother out there. Just tell me what I’m allowed to do and I’ll make sure to keep out of trouble.”

[The Cinderella Man]

“Do your best now, chickenshit. Prove you’re worth a damn.”

Arslan, a gray-haired trainer that taught Victor the ropes of boxing, liked to say that losers always bitched about giving their best, clenching to the false comfort and sympathy of those words. It was false because when you actually thought about what those words meant, you realized that you went all out and you were proven inadequate, unable to stand up to the challenge. And there was no comfort in knowing you were inferior. And yet those words always forced themselves in the front row of his thoughts when the bout beckoned, offering their sympathies even before he took the fall and kissed the canvas with his ugly mug. That’s why he decided to change it today. He gave it his best yesterday. He gave it his best in every fight that followed his break up with his Delilah. And it got him where he was today, in The Pit with a negative score and a big fat “loser” sign hanging around his neck like a millstone.

“No, not your best. Win, maggot! WIN!”

Yes, win. The last time he did that was so long ago that he forgot what victory looked like, what it smelled like, what the roar of the bleachers sounded like when the ref raised his arm up. But he would feel that today. He would win because Kaia was in his corner. It had nothing to do with affection or some foolish crush or even her healing skills for that matter. It was because she was there, because somebody was there, and that made her a whisper that initiated an avalanche. Once again he felt alive, energized, slick as a fox, light as a butterfly and as devastating as a thunder. Once again he was the ‘Architect of Destruction’.

“If all goes well, all I’ll really need you to do is give me some water in between rounds.” Victor said, taking a seat next to her and concluding his final preparations. His shorts – a classy looking thing made out of velvety scarlet material with a light blue lily sigil – were already on, his sleeveless training shirt off, his boots fastened tight. He was about to tighten the straps of his gloves the way he usually did, using one hand and his teeth, but Kaia offered her assistance in this rather simple procedure. “If all goes... well, the way it usually goes, then I’ll probably need something to stop the bleeding at least temporarily. Also, if you have any ointments that are really slick and slippery, they could help diverting a blow or two from my face. Other then that...” Vic concluded with a smirk just as she was done fastening his gloves. “...just cross your fingers.”

***

The Pit wasn’t packed. For every seat taken there were at least two vacant ones and the hooting and cheering and applauding that greeted the pair of pugilists was as meek as if they were stepping onto the stage of a theatre. Indifferent faces of bored people that had nothing better to do on this evening seemed to be the only attendants of the forthcoming bout. In the front row, with a smoldering cigar as fat as his fingers, Donald wasn’t terribly pleased about it. But Victor was surprised by neither the spectators nor Donald’s mood. This rundown arena wasn’t exactly a glorious place to begin with. People didn’t come here for the first-class entertainment that the fancy places offered with their ornate chandeliers and cozy seats and clean canvases. They came here for the blood and the pain and the cringed faces of the fools that stepped between the ropes.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!!!” the announcer began, a stocky little man that raised his hands as if he was a preacher that tried to animate his audience. His voice was penetrating though, overcoming every other sound in the arena with ease. “Tonight we have another contender facing our champion. You saw him lose yesterday, and the week before that, but he just keeps coming back for more.” It wasn’t exactly an inspiring intro, but Victor was past the point of caring. He stood in his corner, jumping restlessly in one spot, waiting for the usual litany to finish. “In the red corner, coming from our neighborhood Scara Brae as a former vice-champion, with a balanced score of fifteen victories, sixteen losses and three draws... Architect of Destruction, VICTOR ‘PADRE’ CALLAHAN!!!”

The claps and cheers were as scarce as they would be if somebody told a bad joke, the crowd impressed by neither the introduction nor the boxer in the red shorts that raised his glove to them respectfully. But their bland faces and hollow eyes were irrelevant, because there was one face that cared and it stood far closer to him right now then the rows of the bleachers. He turned to Kaia, offering her a reassuring smile that looked toothless and ridiculous with his black mouthpiece already set to protect his teeth.

“And in the blue corner! You know him, you love him, you saw him pulverize fighters night after night after night... Born a mere stone’s throw from this very place... With a remarkable score of twenty victories, two losses and no draws... The Champion of The Pit... JOHN ‘BRICKTOP’ CHIVAS!!!”

The crowd went as wild as they could given their limited numbers, shouting bloodthirsty words of encouragement as their fighter stepped onto the ropes in his corner in order to elevate himself and greet his fans as if he already won the bout. This made Bricktop’even more formidable-looking then he already was, a wide-shouldered gorilla with hair covering most of his torso almost like a fur and a face that reflected the vacancy behind those abysmal eyes. He was bigger then Victor, stronger then Victor, had a longer reach then Victor and didn’t go twelve rounds against Mervin Dindane yesterday like Victor. The bookies – keen eyed, shady-looking individuals that always sat alone in the corners with several pieces of paper in their hands – already knew how this was going to end. Or rather, how this was supposed to end.

“Alright, you both spent enough time between the ropes to know the rules, but I’ll repeat them all the same.” the ref said once both fighters met in the middle of the crummy ring, peering at each other with eyes that screamed murder. They knew the rules, of course, and they knew how to bend them as well, so the words of the official barely registered in their heads. As per protocol, they touched their gloves at the end of the speech.

“You’re finished, Padre! Yours and hers ass is mine!!” was the last attempt at intimidation that John uttered as he backpedaled to his corner, pointing his glove at the herbalist with a wry smirk. The crowd brought on some noise again, filling the arena with the incomprehensible mixture of yells and whistles, their faces blurry in the dim illumination that contrasted the brightness of the elevated dais where the battle was a bell ring away from beginning. It was in these moments of commencement that Victor always tried to clear his head, be as cool as ice, focus and erase everything except his opponent, but like always he failed in achieving that equilibrium. The heart in his chest raced wildly; his fingers, lost in the warmth of the gloves, were restless, itchy almost; the thoughts in his head were jumbled and inconsistent, bringing a thousand vexations simultaneously. He wasn’t calm. He was a storm waiting to be unleashed.

And then the bell rang.

[The Emerald Hind]

The diminutive girl took up a place just behind Victor’s corner, eyes glued to the prize fighter’s image as he raised his glove to the unremarkable crowd. The silent void that met his arrival was unnerving, but she tentatively stepped into the abyss, calling out his name in a voice she hoped was encouraging without drawing any undue attention to her person—she had enough notice placed on her for one day. She clapped so as to cover the ground she did not wish to trek with her voice and hoped that her smile was enough to show her enthusiasm. She truly did hope he would win, as much as for the proffered winnings as to see the man bathed in the bright glow of victory.

While the announcer introduced Bricktop, the ape masquerading as a man, Kaia averted her attention to the ring. It was not a pleasant diversion, but anything was better than looking upon those cruel features or catching those dumb, perverted eyes. The platform was even shabbier than it appeared when she first entered the arena. The crude wood and canvas stage upon which the boxers now danced about in anticipation was rickety and looked to be in dire need of a long session with a sanding board. Old, dark stains splattered across its surface, resistant to the administrations of the local janitors.

Those dried, bloody smears stood as minute memorials to battles of the past, the unwritten history of decades worth of sanguine lust. It made her cringe to think that Victor’s blood probably saturated that ring as much as that of other fighters. Now, there was a very real chance that he would sacrifice more of that crimson liquid to the merciless arena, surrendering himself in drops for the entertainment of bored, debased men. An unsettling thought, but it was something he subjected himself to willingly. He knew the consequences of an organized fight more completely than she dared to intimate, and she had no right to think unkindly of the situation. It was the combatant’s way of life. Just because it directly conflicted with her own self-purpose did not give her the privilege to look down her nose as the sport. This was simply another way to earn one’s meat and mead. No worse than her own.

Even so, the concept of pitting oneself against another was difficult for her to grasp without compunction. Why subject the body to the torment of crushing, disfiguring blows? It was so violent, so senseless—so animal. It was one thing to fight for one's life, but another merely to support an existence. Where was the virtue in that? Were there not better ways of accruing wages? Was there not some other way for a man to make a living? Did these men—did Victor—have to lock themselves behind the ropes and beat one another until they were bloody pulps?

No, they did not, but they chose to. The sweet, gentle man with whom she had made this business arrangement did not have to live his life as a boxer, but he did. From what he said on the subject, he was good at it, at least at one time, and perhaps that was where his only skill lie. Her own skills lay in being a Wisewoman, like her mother, so could she forsake her abilities to become something else? She was trained to be a good woman, a good wife. Would she surrender herself completely to that and never go to the wood and field and collect her herbs from which she made small miracles? No, she could not, no more than Victor would cast away his strengths and become something else. Oh, both were capable of taking different lives, of that she was certain, but why do that? Why should either one of them? Why should he? Just because she thought this business of violence and bloodshed was without purpose? How hypocritical of her.

However, even after considering Victor’s angle she remained against the carnage due to erupt. There was a better way than this! There had to be, even if she could not change it. Although she remained on Victor’s side as his healer, his lone supporter, she did not agree with what was to take place. As a follower of the Ways of the Wise she could not see the sense of any of this, and she would not try to challenge her own position on the subject. It was simply how she saw it. This was wrong. And it was becoming even more wrong the longer she stood on ringside, watching Victor and the other man pace the lines like caged wild cats. The reality of the brutality would soon manifest itself and the blood would flow and bones would break. A war in miniature, and one that was just as meaningless.

But as absurd as she found this match to be, she could not turn her back on it, not now, not on the man who had saved her twice that day, the man who had showed her the first bit of kindness since she left her homeland. For him and the bargain they struck she would stay, standing there on the ready, the herbs and other supplies she needed in hand. She would cheer for him, raise her voice for him, and encourage him to win. She would not avert her eyes to the ruin of man against man no matter how much her stomach turned at the thought of civil beings engaging in the primal clash of blood just for the sake of money. At least, she did not plan to, not if she could help it.

Bong!

Kaia was startled from her thoughts as the resonate tone of the bell sprang into the rising din. She did not jump, however, but merely looked up with wide eyes, latching on to Victor’s figure as he circled the ring, his gaze locked firmly on the monster before him. Her hand clutched tightly to the bottles and things she drug up from her bags. Those hazel eyes never left the man with whom she was temporarily aligned, not even as the first punch was thrown, no matter how much she wanted to turn her back to the fight and pretend that she was not acting as a witness to the brawl. Like the others, she watched the boxers with a distant, cruel fascination.

[The Cinderella Man]

“No style. No finesse. You’re the Architect. Outsmart him. Plan.”

It was a plausible tactic. John Chivas wasn’t the brightest set of fists that ever graced the boxing world and his technique – or rather the apparent lack of it – was crude, rudimentary. Victor saw lame drunkards with better footwork and his guard – when he actually bothered to put one up – was held too low. Usually, it was the strategy of speedy pugilists with sharp reflexes that would neutralize all the punches that flew above their guard with catlike evasion, but Bricktop was about as fast as he was clever. And his wits failed to get him even halfway through the alphabet. He had no technique, no footwork, no quickness, no guile. But he had power. Oh yes, he had that in abundance.

What John would do was so simple that it shouldn’t have worked in the ring. And yet it did, and with devastating effects. From the moment that the bell was stricken, there was only one direction for him, one vector that his bulk followed, and it was forward. It was a heedless way to fight, mindless, almost self-destructive the way he would stare with those bottomless black eyes and keep on coming. Most boxers couldn’t handle the charge of this one-man stampede, their resolve to make a stand crumbling within the first round together with their battered bodies. The few that actually endured the initial onslaught – usually the youths with rubbery feet that managed to dance away with their fancy maneuvers – found out the reason why Bricktop held his guard so low. No, it wasn’t because he had eyes of the hawk that would enable him to dodge the incoming blows. It was because he could take a punch, and another and another and another until the muscles of his opponent’s arms grew jaded and turned into lead weights. And then the execution followed. The man had no finesse, that was uncontested. But neither did a battering ram.

Most of this Victor knew from the one scouting he did about a week ago, when he was too weary to do anything save slump on the arena’s bleachers after his bout. The rest was a tale that went around like a bad sewage odor, spreading slowly amidst the spectators, fans and fighters alike. Combined, it should’ve been a warning enough to chase him back into his crummy room, licking his wounds like a beaten dog. But here he was, his gloves up, and between them the sight of an animal that wanted to turn him into another bloody notch on his belt.

The thought from the beginning of the battle faded, chased away by the resonating brass bell and its singular ring. The only tactic was to survive.

John failed to deviate from his tried-and-true strategy, stomping from his corner with his black gloves held wide and low, almost as if he was about to commence a street fight instead of a sanctioned bout. For a fraction of a second Victor considered taking a defensive route, cover himself up and circle to the right, but it was a gutless, craven tactic and as such unlikely to get him anywhere except the infirmary before the next bell sound. Instead, the seemingly inferior boxer moved directly at Bricktop. The left jab ricocheted off Vic’s right glove, the right hook just slow enough for him to duck beneath it and just as the crowd started to anticipate another quick victory of their champion, the counter came. Victor buried his right into the man’s plexus, slid backwards one step and away from a pulverizing strike, then came back in with a two hit combo. The left-handed punch connected with John’s forehead, the substantially more powerful follow up crashing against his jaw and snatching his head sideways. It was a strike that decked bigger men then Bricktop. The unintelligent oaf merely took a step back, spat a glob of blood and grinned.

“Nice. I actually felt that.” a voice penetrated the oohs and aahs of the spectators, its owner static and slamming his dark gloves together while Victor circled counterclockwise, sniping an opening. Before he could find any, John charged at him again, more unhinged and maniacal then the first time. Again Vic tried to act preventively, nip the attack in the bud, but even though his left-left-right combo once again connected with the face of his foe, it wasn’t enough. He managed to squeeze by the ropes and away from the advance a fraction of a second before getting trapped in a corner. “You can run, Padre, but you can’t hide!”

“You can’t keep charging like a bull all night long, bub.” Victor thought, once again establishing a perimeter between himself and his adversary and waiting for another bullheaded attempt. To his surprise, Bricktop did no such thing. Instead he shook his head and turned to the crowd, faking a disappointed look, thus mocking Vic’s “cowardly” tactics. Victor didn’t waste any time fighting his hurt pride. He was called a coward before, that and a lot titles more harsh and acerb then that, and by now he was well practiced in the art of brushing such insults aside. Instead he moved forward, using the current lack of focus of his opponent and descending on his right flank. A hook at John’s liver was blocked at the last moment, a left to the gut connected albeit weakly, but when he moved to finish with the right at the temple, John moved as well. The physically dominant boxer moved into the strike and below it, clinching to Victor with both of his arms. Victor automatically dropped his elbows, covering his sides, but it was too late. The black glove struck the already existing bruise with vehemence, eliciting a cringe of pain on Vic’s face.

“You felt that? Huh, you felt that?!” John shouted in his ear, proceeding to pound on the ribs. Luckily by then Victor’s elbows were already down, covering the damage. The ref pushed his arm between them, yelling at them to break, and with a minute delay both of them obeyed the instruction. His ribs were dormant until that punch, the pain dulled by the adrenaline and the heat of the battle, but now they were awoken and they were screaming in his head. And somehow the bastard knew. Even though Victor put on his best mask on, canceling out all the emotions from displaying themselves on his face, the bastard could almost smell the pain. And he came at him once again. Distracted by the ache that crept up his left side and threatened to numb his arm, Victor didn’t have time to counter the attack and John was on top of him, firing his punches in salvos, pinning him to the ropes and barraging his torso. The ferocious assault would’ve probably been the end of him right then and there if the bell didn’t sound itself again.

The ref separated them. The crowd was getting what they wanted, their boxer mercilessly hammering the other. Only a handful of them seemed dissatisfied. Probably those that placed their bet on the first round kayo. Victor made his way to his corner as casually as possible given his current condition, simulating a walk of a man who passed through the round unscathed. Once he took a seat though and saw Kaia’s face at his side, the mask deteriorated significantly.

“I should’ve listened to you, Kaia. The bastard knows. He knows my ribs aren’t healed. Can you do something about it?” He doubted it. The girl was a healer, not a miracle worker, and only magic could mend his ribs in fifteen seconds.

[The Emerald Hind]

Her eyes never once left Victor’s form as he engaged his opponent in battle, those obsidian cores shrinking against the brutality of the event so that they were nothing more than twin pinpoints, barely discernable from the rich, green-flecked rims. Her gaze moved this way and that, trailing behind him as he sailed around the reigning champion, pausing as he let fly a few solid blows. When he connected she was torn between groaning in misery at the thought of needless fighting and the sudden urge to jump in gleeful celebration. However, somehow, she managed to abstain from outbursts of any sort, clinging to her healing paraphernalia as a neutral substitute.

Forcing away the inner conflict between condoning the event and cheering for Victor, she continued to watch, her body tensed as the fighters continued to wage war against one another. She clutched her things tighter than before, her knuckles growing white with the pressure she exerted on the number of bottles and cloths. All thoughts locked upon the two men in the ring, her eyes wide with worry, her pupils constricted against the appalling thrill of violence.

Then those flew wide with dread as the minotaur monstrosity that was Bricktop pounded at Victor’s side, connecting with his battered ribs with single-minded determination. It was as if the brute knew Victor was hurt and so targeted that single spot with a number of vicious strikes. She was unable to see the man’s side clearly, but she already knew that it was shot with crimson streaks as new bruises rose to greet the old. The man would not be able to hold out for long.

She wanted to look away and spare herself the pain of watching the beast play upon Victor’s weakness, but she could not. Kaia’s commitment as a healer steadied her gaze and kept it trained upon the warriors even as the one to whom she was bound struggled against the punishing blows delivered by the hands of a crazed animal. It was excruciating to watch and every thought in her head tore away from previous concerns, demanding that the girl scramble onto that ring and stop the eventual slaughter. But she knew the consequences of such an action would only make matters worse for Victor. If she managed to put a halt to the event then the ridicule the man endured in the practice room would be nothing compared to the blood thirsty protests and belittling abuse he would have to endure from that day forth. It would be a death sentence for him, perhaps even for her.

So, although she desperately wanted to end Victor’s pain, she secured herself against the notion and instead focused on what she could do to help him once she could administer her medicines. Unfortunately, nothing came to mind. The herbs she held in her possession would not take effect for some hours, and he needed an immediate remedy. All she could do was numb him to the pain, but event that would take some time, and at the risk of numbing his senses, as well. She was limited to tending cuts and suppressing immediate swelling, and it was simply too late for his pulverized ribs. He would remain a target.

Just as she came upon the unsettling realization that she would be of no use to Victor, his pain was temporarily ended with the resonating scream of the bell. She threw her things onto the ring and scampered over the edge of it, slipping between the ropes, then set herself to work as quickly as she could. There was not much time.

“I’m not going to lie to you, Victor. There is not much I can do. Everything I have takes time, and those ribs are too far off for even a high dose of comfrey.” She spoke in a rush as she handed him some water from a bucket provided to her before the beginning of the match. Then she crouched low and lifted his arm away from his side to assess the bruising. With a deep sigh, she shook her head and grabbed a bottle of comfrey and sweet clover oil-blends, dabbed it onto a square of clean, white cloth, then pressed it to his ribs. She wished she had a cold compress to help bring down the swelling, but wish in one hand and—well, there was no sense in wishes.

She wiped away the excess oil and quickly dabbed on a salve of similar composition as the oil and smeared it over his ribs, her cool hands light but firm as she stroked downward the length of his side. Then she took the rag she used moments ago and pressed it hard against his side, staunching the progression of further bruising at the cost of more pain inflicted upon him. Then, without ever relieving the weight she pressed upon him, she raised herself up and looked him over, growling softly as she murmured a heated curse at Bricktop, though, nothing Victor would understand as she fell back to her native speech.

“Theialre va den meal—” she stopped herself from speaking to him in Avanin, closed her eyes for a moment and reordered her thoughts to Tradespeak. “I doubt they’ll let me give you something to kill the pain, and even if they did I’m sure it wouldn’t work in time. I doubt what I just did will help, but it’s something, nonetheless.” She tore her gaze away from his ribs, knowing that her time was nearly up, and grabbed his eye, meeting hazel with deep brown. “I’m sorry… I wish there was more I could do, but everything takes time. As it is all I can do is try and stop the flesh around your ribs from swelling any more than they are, but once you go back in that ring I can do nothing.” Even though she spoke in a rush and much of what she said was slurred by her heavy accent, the pain and worry she had for him throbbed in the pulse of her speech, the defeat she felt falling thickly upon every word even as her eyes dimmed with the realization that she had let him down.

[The Cinderella Man]

“Pain is good. Pain means you’re still alive and punching.”

Unfortunately, pain also meant limited maneuverability. Not only would he have to flee from John’s right like the devil flees from incense, but there was also the issue of the effectiveness of his left arm. Every time he would put the left – the ‘architect’ – to use, Bricktop would have a free shot at the bruise Kaia’s cool hands tried to alleviate. And every time one of the savage body punches would crash against the tender flesh, it would be a bit harder to breathe, a bit harder to counter, a bit harder not to lose footing. It was the end of round one and already he was handicapped.

Kaia had a look on her distressed visage as if it was her fault, apologizing for his own dumbass mistake. Her small hands were busy with the cloth and the ointment whose aroma struggled against the stale stench of the arena and the fresh stench of sweat, but her words - her eyes - they were touched by the tone of uncertainty and regret. Victor couldn’t allow her to carry the burden of what just happened. “Don’t worry about it. No pain, no gain, right? I’ve been in worse pickles.”

“Not a whole lot of them, though.” a more sane and less adrenaline-psyched voice in his brain said, serving, as always, as a weight around his spirit’s neck, making sure it didn’t soar too high. Victor hated that voice. Not only was it dour and pessimistic and at times even sardonic, but in most occasions it was indisputably right. It knew Kaia couldn’t do wonders and reminded him of what a nuisance were ribcage injuries. It even drew his eyes towards the opposite side of the ring, introducing him once again to his nemesis. Bricktop was calm. His cornermen worked around him diligently, his trainer kneeling before him like a servant, his words obviously failing to find a home in an otherwise vacant head. His black eyes were peering across the ring with what seemed like a genuine malicious intent. His lips were curved in the annoying wry smirk of an evil man who knew something you didn’t.

“At least he didn’t hit me in the head yet.” was the last thing Vic had the time to utter, a farewell jest before the bell rang once again and the second round was initiated with a round of cheers. He got up doggedly, appertaining his unhurt mask and clapping his gloves together once before he stepped into the fray. Arslan always liked to say that half of the victory has nothing to do with the body. Half of it was in the head that commandeered the muscles and bones and extremities and perception, and the other half was in the heart that put all those things in motion. With the right amount of heart and mind, even a weakling could coldcock mountains of flesh. Like John Bricktop Chivas.

However, it seemed that no such thing would happen in the second round. Either John overheard the jape that Victor offered to Kaia before leaving his corner or it was just a queer conjunction, but the hirsute grotesque started aiming for the face with those meaty mitts of his. The slow ones were dodged, the fiercer ones blocked, and one landed on Vic’s ear, semi-deafening him to the sounds around him. In return, Victor kept working the body, kept landing punches so hard that it made his knuckles and wrists ache. It wasn’t flashy, it wasn’t effective to the naked eye, but it was an investment, and one that Victor hoped would pay dividends if the bout went to the double-digit rounds. The goddamned ribs reminded him of their unwell state every time he would move his left, and as if that wasn’t enough, Bricktop made sure to remind him every time they clinched.

The second round went rather smoothly, rather evenly.

The third one was a disaster.

It was a rookie mistake, something a wet-behind-ears whelp would do in one of his first official bouts. The round started like the previous two, with John Chivas doing his stampede move and Victor circling to the right, still light at his feet. But after two charges the fight turned into a slugfest, punches and combos flying, hitting the block, hitting the body, blows exchanged by the dozen. It was the kind of a fight that the physically dominant fighters liked, and the kind that Victor should’ve evaded. But his pride got the better of him. His pride, Kaia’s sad eyes, the crowd, the ghosts of the past, everything said him that he could outpunch this creep, that he could win on strength and determination alone. He had the heart. He had the mind.

Bricktop had a wicked right hook.

One of these lengthy exchanges forced Padre against the ropes and before he could squeeze past the salvo of body punches, a left caught him in the jaw, disorienting him just enough to make his forget about the right that detonated against his ribs. He leant on the ropes, dodging the left jab, but the right hook that followed struck the left side of his face, sending him reeling a pair of steps before collapsed on the canvas. The sound was distorted. The picture in front of his eyes blurry. He could feel the roughness of the floor surface on his elbows as they pushed against it, trying to get him up. It took him several seconds to realize that the small scarlet pool beneath him was blood that oozed from his mouth.

“FIVE!” he finally understood one word from the mush that pounded in his ears. Five already? He had to get his bearings, get up before the count. “SIX!” Get up and pay John Chivas back with interest. “SEVEN!” He knocked him down?! Nobody set him to the canvas since he was a greenhorn. He’d show him. Oh yes, he’d show him.

At eight Victor was up, shaking his head once vigorously and wiping the blood against his glove. The ref was asking him something, but a nod sent the man in black-and-white away and restarted the bout. Unfortunately, the resolve from back down on the canvas was swept away by another onslaught. Vic’s punches seemed to bounce away from Bricktop’s head, his arms, his torso and before long he was against the ropes again, taking two hits for every one he parried. John had the momentum now. And once again the only plan was to survive.

At the end of the fourth, Victor had a broken nose, a swelling above his right eye, one sore set of ribs and what could become a dislocated jaw if it took a couple of more of those blistering right hooks. The mask that he could put on and off at will during the first two rounds was gone, eviscerated by the sheer amount of hits that he took and when he managed to find his corner, he collapsed onto the chair, heaving for air. He was so stupid, stupid to allow the stubbornness and pride to lead this dance of death and turn it into the kind of battle that Bricktop wanted. He should’ve known better.

“Well, that was fun. I think I’m wearing him down.” Victor said in between his inhales, spitting a thick mixture of blood and saliva into the bucket. It was another sarcastic joke, a crimson smirk a confirmation of it to the herbalist girl. “You need to plug my nose. Otherwise the ref will stop the fight.”

[The Emerald Hind]

She had been watching the fourth round as fixedly as a cat stalking the movements of a mouse, her eyes as unblinking as that of a feline. Every blow that struck Victor echoed in her person, causing her to inwardly cringe. It was not the sight of blood or the thought of broken bones that agitated her so—if such concepts made her ill she would have made for a poor healer, herbalist or not—but the fact that Victor was engaged in such a ruthless battle. He was being beaten without mercy, and it was a wonder to her that he was still on his feet. A lesser man would have been flat on his back.

As soon as the bell sounded she was in the corner, the appropriate concoctions and other supplies in hand by the time she positioned herself before Victor. She set to work instantly, placing her fingers gingerly on either side of his nose so as to examine it quickly. Yes, it was definitely broken, but there was nothing she could do about that at the moment. Well, she could have snapped it back in place, as her mother might have done in a similar situation, but she did not trust her skills with setting bones. Her training had not gotten that far. She was restricted to curing illnesses, tending to minor injuries, and alleviating pain. The intricacies of the human body had not been properly explored, and without the proper experience in such matters she felt better with simply stopping the crimon rivers from cascading through his nostrils, as Victor suggested.

She grabbed an already bloody rag (no clean ones were left) and ripped off thin strips, which she then rolled into tiny, short cylinders as quickly as she could. Clutching them in one hand, she used the rest of the cloth to clean up the blood dripping from his nose, then gingerly inserted the makeshift plugs into his nostrils. It was possibly the oddest thing she had ever done, but it was the only available solution. There was no time to have him pinch it off until the bleeding stop, nor could she use any herbs to stop the bleeding and then allow him to go out in the fight. Cayenne would burn his sensitive olfactory system like fires of the Wasteland, not to mention it would probably send him into a sneezing fit, not a condition she wanted to inflict upon him.

The girl told him as much as she went about tending to his less severe injuries, using a pinch of powdered cayenne over his cuts. Liquid stopped oozing from the lesser scores almost instantly while the others took a few more moments to react to the herb. Despite the fact that the spice tended to set one’s palate afire when consumed, when used on wounds it had no adverse reaction with the skin and flesh. Instead, it stopped the bleeding with speed and soothed the pain to a slight degree. Thus, there was no concern as to whether or not it would cause Victor any discomfort. However, the nose was another matter, altogether, hence her aversion to such treatment.

With the nose and cuts attended to, she slapped on some more salve around his swollen eye, applying pressure as she did so in an attempt to divert the inflammation. Then it was the ribs again, but it was just about too late for them, as livid whelps rose against his flesh, compounding the older injury. There was nothing she could do about the jaw, either. Everything took too much time, of which she was nearly out. Those few precious seconds ticked away with breakneck speed, and not even her speedy attendance was able to compete. Thus, she had to leave the rest of his injures as they were, using the few precious moments she had to examine him.

She looked him over one last time and shook her head softly, her brown-green eyes taking a critical assessment of his situation. Even though her visage remained placid, almost serene, it was obvious that she was worried for her eyes were bright with worry and she kept drumming her fingers nervously against her thigh. Finally, she said in a thick Avanin accent, “That is all I can do. It is not enough, not nearly. There is just not enough time.”

Kaia bored into his eyes with her own, trying her best not to grimace at her own failure, at her shortcoming. She had let him down. She had told him that she would be of use and able to keep him in fighting shape, yet she had not. She broke that promise, returning his kindness to her with disappointment. However, the girl remained confident in her skills. It was not the fact that she was inept. She knew she was a fine healer. Unfortunately, she was just an herbalist, her skills limited to herbal remedies and curing symptoms. She was ill prepared to tend to Victor with such limited constraints on her time and abilities.

There was also the issue of the fight itself, something that went so completely against her nature as to make her stomach turn. Because of that, she had never exercised her skills on those who willing subjected themselves to such brutality, and in all her time helping her mother as she trained to become a Wisewoman and then later as a wondering herbalist, she had never come upon such a terrible complexity of physical damage inflicted upon a single person. When she had made the deal with Victor, she had assumed that she would not have to tend to anything beyond a few bruises and cuts. She never thought the match would go on for so many rounds or with such sadistic spirit. The lack of time and the severity of the wounds was far beyond her capabilities, as much as she hated to admit it to herself.

Then her gaze turned from internal concerns and upon the prizefighter even though her eyes had never left him. There was still one more chance to save him from this, one more way to get him away from the fight before he did any further damage to himself. As a healer she had to consider the rather unsavory route, and as such she was also obliged to recommend it. But, even as she spoke, she dreaded the consequences of her words. There was the matter of his pride, which she had already bruised once this day, for which she received a curt rebuttal. But what was pride in comparison to one’s health? Surely he was as concerned for his own person as she was for him. How could he want to subject himself to anymore pain than this?

“You don’t have to do this, Victor. This is torture, even if you did go into this fight willingly.” She spoke softly, her speech impaired by the low tone and the thickness of her accent, which was getting all the worse in response to her alarm. “That ape is not going to let you get out of this ring any better than you are now.” Those big eyes pleaded with him, begging him to throw in the towel and call it a night. She did not even care if he blamed all this on her. At least he would be out of the fight and beyond that beast’s grasp. Or so she hoped…

[The Cinderella Man]

“Why the hell not? It wouldn’t be the first time you threw the towel in.”

It was only half-true. When it came to boxing, even his coach – who believed that Victor may’ve just been the best pugilist he ever trained – used to tell him that he was too much of an idiot to know when to chuck up the sponge. Combined with his ability to take quite a few punches and hold his ground, the refusal to discern the difference between much and too much usually got him beaten to a pulp. But the heartiness – and the stubbornness – that he demonstrated in that square made out of ropes seldom reflected his idiosyncrasy during the time spent outside of it. Outside – in what people called life – Victor Padre Callahan threw so many towels in that the castaway towels might've just been enough to supply the entire Corone Armed Forces. When it came to life and people and socialization and all the intricate relationships that were mandatory in life, Victor seldom put up a real fight. In fact, whenever he looked back at his life, he could see as many thrown towels as he could see the chances that just whistled by him without him every taking a shot at them. He maybe was courageous in the ring, but outside of it Victor Callahan was a craven.

And here he was in a situation to be a craven in both. If he did what Kaia’s doe eyes pleaded him to do, he would fail to break away from the failure status that’s been following him like a fly followed a shit wagon. Because tomorrow they would part ways and Kaia would remember him as a loser, an openhanded and considerate one, but a loser nonetheless. John Chivas would become another spot on an already spotty win-loss record and by the time his bruises healed, all Victor would be left with was the memory of the night that made him even less of a man then he already was. Torture or not, this was his battlefield, his war, and he was determined to come out of it as either hero or a martyr. Heroes died in fairytales all the time after all.

Victor looked down at the blood-splotched towel in his gloved hand, the not-so-white flag that he was supposed to throw on the canvas as a harbinger of his forfeit, and then lifted his eyes back to meet the benevolent orbs filled with genuine concern. There was sadness in Kaia’s eyes, sadness and remorse and a bunch of rattled emotions that seeped from the mirrors of her soul. And regardless of their heaviness, they elicited a smile on Victor’s swollen visage. He threw the towel alright, threw it out of the ring and into the face of a redneck that sat in the first row with a straw hat and a patched pair of suspended pants. His right glove grasped the herbalist’s shoulder. “I can’t do that, Kaia. I’ll win us our money. But I need you in my corner, alright?” the pugilist spoke, his voice almost lost in the din of the crowd that by now packed the bleachers tight, leaving no visible vacancies. “They’re all behind him. I need you behind me.”

The bell cut their little conversation short, ushering the healer girl out of the ring with her salves that already did small wonders for Victor. He hoped she could read the gratitude in his eyes. “Have a little faith.” was the last thing he said before Bricktop was once again coming at him like a mobile landmass.

There were no miraculous changes of tides in boxing. In real life, fighters didn’t rise up from the ashes like some fiery birds of old, suddenly finding an extraordinary flare inside of them that tipped the scales in a single round. However, from the moment the conversation ended and the fifth round came to a roaring start, the momentum seemed to change the owner. It wasn’t rapid, it didn’t happen during the first fifteen seconds, but it was apparent even to the most obdurate fans of Vic’s opponent that Bricktop wasn’t up against a meatbag anymore. Victor smartened up, shortening his punches but shortening the exchanges as well, getting in fast and out faster, evading the slugfests that started to lose their ferocity gradually. This battle plan made the fifth round rather even with neither fighter sustaining much damage. In the sixth Padre returned the favor, breaking that big uneven beak that John called a nose, shouting: “Eye for an eye!” across the ring as they sat in their corners at the end of the round.

In the seventh the momentum turned almost completely. Even the crowd that was so far piously behind the man from their hood started to divide itself, the hardcore supporters of Bricktop opposed by the lot that admired Victor’s rise from the already dead. But there was only one fan that kept pushing him forward, one voice that mattered, one face that seemed to spread throughout the bleachers like a plague, turning every man, woman and child into Kaia. In his crosshairs, John was getting sluggish, his strikes still packing, but the maniacal flame that drove him to this point was slowly extinguishing, fading under the rivers of blood and sweat checkered by the flurry of strikes that Padre kept firing. During one of these assaults, with his back on the ropes and fists landing on his torso like a foul rain, Bricktop countered with a heedless hook below which Victor ducked just in time. In return, John got an uppercut in the chin with the left, setting him up for the smashing right that sent him staggering down the rope fence before his knees gave in, sending him on the ground.

“Whoa, that had some salt on it!” Padre said, lightness returning to his feet just enough for him to almost dance on his toes around the fallen body of his adversary. In truth, his legs felt as if his boots were made of iron and had a ball-and-chain attached to it, but the pretense of domination was as much of a blow as his right haymaker was. John would get up, there was no doubt about it, but he would be pissed off, hissing like a cat and barking like a dog, and that was more important then a knockout punch. Because he would come twice as hard, swing twice and powerful and make twice as many mistakes. And Victor only needed one.

It came some thirty seconds before the end of the round. Bricktop was like a steamroller, stomping forward like a drunken giant and allowing Victor to put chink after chink after chink into his armor in an attempt to set Vic for one final blow. As it turned up, he never got a chance to let loose his right again. He forced Padre into the corner, rifled two quick body punches and thought he did enough to make the flying right break Victor’s face. As it turned up, he overextended himself, sending the punch flying above ducked Vic that used the momentum of the strike to squeeze out of the corner and shove Bricktop’s back against the entwining ropes. Punches came in an uncontrolled salvo. Victor kept hitting the man, and hitting and hitting and hitting, landing blows on the body, on the bloodied grimace that was John’s face, letting loose the last bit of energy he had in his muscles. And when his almost animalistic fist-flurry was done, the ref had to push him away from John Bricktop Chivas that wound up sitting in the corner like a passed out beggar.

It was all over. And for a change, Victor won. The spectators that hated him seven round prior to the bloody conclusion of the battle now cheered in unison, but there was only one voice he wanted to hear, one face he wanted to see.

[The Emerald Hind]

Kaia endured the last three rounds in excruciating anxiety, her mind pointed to a thousand tattered worries, all focused upon Victor. She fretted about what could happen to him if that monster he waged battle with managed another lucky blow. What if Bricktop knocked him in the nose even once more? Those poor ribs, could they endure another onslaught as they had endured rounds before? Would her limited expertise be enough to mend all those shattered bits and pieces so as to make the boxer whole again? Would he even want her help after this?

Question after question swirled through her mind in a dismal eddy directed about the abyss of her apprehension, the liquefied remains of her thoughts strained to the point that they were no more than wisps of fluttering color, all shades of gray and black, the shades of dismay. All those concerns raced along the contours of her mental spiral with little hope, perpetuating her unease until it was all she had left to think about.

So great was this weight upon her thoughts that she barely registered the fact that the proverbial tides had turned in the roped off battleground. The impetus that had guided the two fighters along shifted ever so slowly during the fifth round, and by the seventh its power rang clear with a clarion roar, singing its jubilation for the change of its fickle heart. Somehow, when it seemed he had nothing left, Victor managed to resurrect some spirit deep within and used it against his tormentor, lashing out with faster punches and flashing around the ring in a whirl.

It had taken some time for Kaia to take notice, but soon enough she had no choice but to lift her head to the orchestra of his administrations. She shed most of her worries for the sake of the rising din that now called Victor’s virtues, and so lent her ear to the fanfare of an impending victory. Before her the drama unfolded like any fairytale, and the dejected man upon whom all spit charged through the cage society barred him in and escaped from its confines in triumphant. His foe was defeated in a flurry of punches and his praises were sung by the rogue choirs congregated in the bleachers.

The people of The Pit never saw it coming, and now they raised their voices in glee for the man’s success whereas before those who had even bothered to take note of him before subjected him to scorn. Now their capricious hearts worshipped Victor as an underdog hero, and so leapt to their feet and applauded as if they had not been for Bricktop just rounds before. However, the people’s joy was undeniable, and for so scant a number they managed to give up a cry worthy of any legendary champion, their gracious admiration giving light to the dreary confines that was the arena.

The small crowd’s elation struck Kaia’s senses like a tidal wave, washing over the petite healer in a froth laced surge that broke upon the arena with unexpected force. It drenched her previously dismal expectations and rinsed away the woes of a violence-intolerant healer for just a moment, allowing her own joy to shine forth in a brilliant smile that radiated with relief. Another swell arose and she was swept away, riding the surf like a piece of driftwood, and she dared not resist its momentum. Instead, she joined with the sonorous breaker and rode it with the rest of the surprised patrons, allowing it to carry her from the floor and between the ropes, pushing her along to the ring to meet the winner.

The girl walked up to the rope-bound warrior and grinned up at him, hazel depths shimmering as she regarded him in the glow of victory. But as she gazed up at the night’s champion she was struck with a sense of guilt. If he had listened to her after the fourth round and given into her he would have been denied his moment in the spotlight. He would have traded this brief delight for an age of degradation, all for the sake of her personal angst against violence. In her own defense, it was torture to witness such a good man subject himself to the rage of a fiend, and a part of her refused to back down from that view—she was right to persuade him to step down from the challenge, as he could have been injured far worse than he was—but she wondered of what greater harm might have befallen him had he bowed to her will. She was thankful for the fact that she knew him so little and so had not bore down upon him with greater force, as she would have with another, but for all those thoughts she still felt retched.

But it was wrong of the herbalist to ruin Victor’s moment with her melancholy, and so she pushed all such regrets and worries away with a shake of her chocolate-crowned head, steadying herself against her own darkness so she could bask in his light. With that resolved Kaia took another step towards the prizefighter and grinned up at him in a true expression of her happiness, the pleasure she had in seeing him win.

“It seems that you have put that ox to rights,” the girl intoned with smug satisfaction, breaking her visual contact with Victor just long enough to pass an unsavory glance over his defeated opponent, at whom she sneered. Then she looked back at him and smiled once more. Then she extended her hand and clasped his arm as she had the night before, a gesture that expressed her approval and her enjoyment at seeing him in such a glow. “And I think he had learned his lesson, just as has the crowd.” She paused and a bit of that guilt she experienced moments ago touched the corners of her eyes, but only for the briefest of times. “And you taught me, as well. I’m sorry I lost faith.” At that her expression sobered just slightly, but the sparkled returned to her eyes just as she looked over the ecstatic gathering of formerly bored boxing enthusiasts. “So, what does a winner usually do after a victory?”

[The Cinderella Man]

“Well, congratulations, Padre. You were down, but not quite out yet.”

The caustic, self-scorning side of him refused to give it a rest even now, when his scourge was still half-conscious at best with glazing eyes going in and out of focus at will. It reminded him that yes, he won by some inconceivable game of chance, but yes, even a blind hen plucked a corn seed from time to time. Victor liked to perceive this dismal whisper inside of his head as some sort of automatic reality reminder that cut off his wings before he started to soar too high, but right now, when the clientele of The Pit that hated his guts for some seven rounds swarmed around the ring as if somebody was giving gold for free, that voice was an unwelcome killjoy. Or at least it made an effort to be one, managing to sweep over the boxer only until Kaia squeezed past the ropes and entered the pugilistic battleground.

The mass gave out such a racket that it was difficult for Victor to hear her words - especially since one of his ears was still buzzing from one of Bricktop’s hooks - but compared to her presence, the words weren’t a priority. Her smirking face was divine after seven rounds of John Chivas and his close-ups, and what he managed to comprehend in her words was the most efficacious remedy to all his ailments. Well, most of his ailments. He still felt like a doormat of the Peaceful Promenade, but at least the acrimonious voice that always killed his spirits was eviscerated by the pacifistic herbalist maiden. The prizefighter smiled a bleary smile, repressing the desire to hug her (not so much because of it was mayhap inappropriate, but because he was well aware of the fact that he was drenched in sweat and blood) and placing a glowed hand on her shoulder as well.

“Hell, back in the fourth I lost faith the way bastard was hammering at me. We all lose faith from time to time, so don’t worry about it. You remained in my corner, I remained on my feet and we managed to win!” Victor spoke, his voice fluctuating between a shout and normal speech as the whimsical bunch called out his name from the other side of the ropes, declaring the new champion of The Pit. The dog-tired boxer turned to them more out of respect then from some craving to hear his name on lips of so many. He tried to lift both gloves in a definite confirmation and celebration of his victory, but only his right obeyed sluggishly, the ribs of his left flank slicing through his left. The pain damn near did what Bricktop managed to do only once - send him to the canvas.

“Winners usually go out and get drunk with their corner crew.” he replied to Kaia with another fatigued smile. He smiled an awful lot in her presence for some reason, despite the fact that his smile probably wasn’t the prettiest thing she would ever witness. Victor moved out of the ring with a gimp, paused to hold the ropes open for the healer, before he descended from the dais and started towards the gym from whence they came seven rounds ago. When he continued, the gradual dispersion of the spectators enabled him not to strain his vocal cords anymore.

“Me, I don’t like alcohol. And since you’re the only member of my corner crew, I think I can afford a nice dinner. A real dinner. None of that grub they serve in taverns along the main street. I’ll just go grab a quick shower and-AAAHHH!!!” Victor wasn’t certain was it a sudden gentle pivot of his upper body or just cracked ribs shifting beneath his skin, but another jolt of pain almost numbed the entire length of his left arm, quaking through the nerves like a streak of lightning. Luckily, they were passing through the door and the wooden frame provided the sufficient support to prevent him from falling down. His wincing face once again forced a smile in order to conceal the aching grimace. “Well, maybe you could patch me up before we go. That is, if post-battle triage is still a part of the deal.”

Even if it wasn’t, there was little doubt in his mind that Kaia would abandon him in his current plight. There was much good in the girl, far too much for the vile world through which she treaded and to which she tried to help with her bottled quasi-miracles. It was partially because of this concern for the amicable healer that he regretted the notion that they would be parting ways soon. Much more prominent, though, was a significantly simpler and mundane reason, and it was that he simply liked the girl. He liked her as an ally, a comrade in a joint endeavor, as a friend at the time friends were as scarce as flowers in winter, and perhaps there was a seed of something more in that developing affection. Perhaps, if the circumstances were different and he wasn’t who he was, if he was his father’s son and not a lowlife that fought for scraps, if he had a home that wasn’t made out of foliage and canopy and starry skies... Perhaps then the tale wouldn’t end here, in the town of Underwood.

But reality refused to change its face for anyone, regardless of how much somebody wanted it to. It was the fact that Victor knew well, and yet it was a fact that was more of a cold shower then the icy droplets that assaulted his adrenaline-heated body. Corone was a large realm, seemingly endless despite the sea that surrounded it. And in all the diversity it had to offer, a petite cleric lass could get lost as easily as a boxer at the dawn of his career. Chances were that after tonight they would never see each other again. Two travelers treading their own paths... Probability for those paths to cross twice was unimaginable, bordering with non-existent. And there was little that he could do to change those odds.

“Well, the least you can do is buy her dinner.”

Yes, that was true. If he was going to become nothing but an evanescing memory, at least he would go down as a nice memory. It was a small victory for him, yet as minute as it was, it was more significant that the one he won over John Chivas. What good is joy if you had nobody to share it with? No good at all. It was like smiling into the abyss and getting nothing but dread in return. That was why, when he returned to the gym where Kaia waited for him with her bag of healing goodies, Victor walked in with a faint smile, lowering himself on the bench next to her with a painful sigh. And at least for once his rather unattractive smiles weren’t wasted on nothingness.

“So yeah, as I was saying. I know this place up in the north part of Underwood. Maybe we could go there together. To celebrate. It’s not every day I win...”



((SPOILS:
Down, but not out! – This is an ability that activates itself when Victor is extremely fatigued and/or injured. When such a state occurs, Victor’s strength, agility and resolve increase to twice of what it usually is and he’s even harder to knock down off his feet. (As per usual, this must be approved by the RoG mod).

Also, Victor gets 500 GP for winning the bout.))

[The Emerald Hind]

Once the man was seated on the bench, Kaia set to work upon him in much the same fashion as she had before. Luckily, she could take the time needed to mend his various wounds and bruises without listening for the clang of the bell or fuss over the prospect of additional damage. Here, in the relative quietude of the practice room, the girl was able to work slow and steady—a pace she was far more comfortable with—and set Victor to rights, or as close to such as was possible. Looking at him it was obvious that it would take some time for him to recover from all his injuries (especially the broken nose, which could take a much as a year to heal completely), but she was confident that he would mend well and with speed, as long as he took the time to rest. Somehow she doubted he would have the chance, or the will, do so.

She listened to the night’s champion speak of dinner as she gathered her healing things, all the while smiling at the topic. Since she met him the night before it seemed that their activities were focused upon three things: food, fights, and cures. A chuckle passed her lips at the thought of such and she looked up at him for a moment, even as her hands continued to labor with the task of applying a poultice to his badly bruised wounds. “Dinner sounds great, but only if you promise to rest afterwards and give your body a chance to recuperate from tonight. You were in poor shape to start with, and now you are in worse. If you do not take some down time, I think you shall fall apart. Then you will not have to worry about another fight.” This was said with a light tone, which as partially felt, but the jaunty lilt was designed to smother her dislike for his sort of work. There was no sense in souring his mood over a difference in opinions, not to mention it could be argued that his sort of injuries were what kept her in work, never mind the ill and the old.

Banishing such troublesome thoughts, she set back to work without missing a beat, those hazel spheres flicking away from his face so she could take proper stock of the total sum of his injuries. There was not much she could do about his left side: it was horridly bruised, although, nothing seemed broken, but she could not give truth to such until the swelling went down and she could examine his ribs without obstruction. However, she could offer an herbal poultice to ease some of the pain and keep the swelling down, which would speed his recovery by a day or so. Later, before she left him for the night, she would have to see that he had a cool compress of some sort to keep over it throughout the night.

The lesser bruises that mottled his trunk and face were easily dispatched with a liberal application of the salve she had been using on him since the night before. In fact, she had used so much that she would have to make more. Her mind wondered towards the need to replenish her supplies. To supply Victor with the necessary concoctions, she had no choice but to harvest the appropriate herbs in the morning, if any were available. If not, she would have to either select an alternative plant, which might not be as effective in mending the contused flesh, or see a dealer in foreign plants and herbs. She did not look forward to the latter, since she would more than likely to have to see that apothecary from whom Victor rescued her.

All it took was that recent memory to refocus her thoughts upon Victor, and at that she had to smile a little more. She had enjoyed his company for the past few nights despite all the adventure they had encountered with the territorial healer and the bovine hulk that was Bricktop. So much had happened during the short time in which they were bound by their agreement, and it seemed impossible to her that most of it occurred at all. She had gotten into more trouble than was usual—well, since she left Avani, anyhow—and it seemed she needed Victor there every step of the way. That bothered her a little, but not because she did not like the man. On the contrary, she thoroughly enjoyed his companionship, but she did not like feeling so helpless, especially in front of him. She would have to repay him for all his kindness one way or another, of that she was certain.

That single thought was enough to get her mind to working and a goodly portion of that gray matter turned to that revelation. Over the past few hours, she had worried some about parting with the man, the first friend she had made since she landed upon this strange and confusing domain. He had shown her the first bit of kindness anyone had offered in a long time, and she was not willing to part way with him quite yet. However, there was no reason to keep company with him past this point without alluding to feelings that did not exist within her—not yet, at least—but now she discovered a legitimate motive to meet with him again. She owed him for a few meals, not to mention the two times he had rescued her from being beaten and scandalized. That was not something she could let pass lightly, but nor was it the time to address such thoughts. Perhaps over dinner…

She milled over the thought a bit longer as she shed her hands of the accumulated goop from her herbal concoctions and began to feel around the fighter’s nose so she could acquire an estimate of the carnage Bricktop had wreaked upon it. After a few murmurs of pain from Victor, Kaia left the tender spot alone, at least for the time being. “I will give you something to help dull the pain if you wish, but not until a little later, or else you will fall asleep in your food. As for the nose, I can do nothing about it for a day at least, if anything. You may have to seek another’s help for setting it.”

She knelt down in front of him and straightened her back so that she was level with his face and probed the flesh around his rather plain face, checking for any other breaks, not that facial fractures were easy to detect, and far less so by one with so little experience in bone healing. After a few moments of poking around, however, she was fairly certain that the rest of his facial bones were intact, if not a little bruised, and at the very least he had a nice facial from her administrations.

That seen to, she then went on to his cuts, which she sprinkled over with cayenne powder as she had earlier, covering the worst up with a wrap made from the bloody clothes recovered from the night. Now he was as put together as she could possibly get him, at least for the moment. The rest of his healing would rely on time and a few days of constant care, and then he would be as good as new.

She told explained such to him as she wiped her hands of the last of the medicines and gathered her things. After picking up and cleaning up, she shouldered her bag and extended her hand so he could steady himself as he ambled to his feet. Once he was steady, the two of them walked at a rather slow pace through the doorway and past the arena, she taking a moment to cast one last glare on the source of the evening’s chaos. She shook her head and sighed, then ushered the injured man away from The Pit, intent on putting as much distance between herself and that place as she could.

[Spoils: Kaia gains Soothe, a minor ability that alleviates some of the pain associated with lesser injuries, such as bruises and cuts, simply by uttering soothing words and encouragement as she touches the site of the wound.

Edit: Oh, and I forgot to add this part, but she also gets 500 gold, as well, since she and Victor split the overall winnings.]

[AdventWings]

Great job, you two. I was so caught up in the story, I actually missed my NaNo writing group today!

Oh, yes. With no further delays, let the judgment commence!

Story

Continuity - 8/10

Both Victor and Kaia did well in introducing each of your characters to the scene, setting up the story potential well and carrying things onward with consistency. There were a few times I had to look back and read things through, but that was just my bad eyes acting up. :D You two did great in keeping the story transition smooth and enjoyable.

Setting - 7/10

I must admit there were not many details to go by through the entire story, but there were enough to give me a sense of what the environment feels like and how it affects your characters. Most people would just make note of how it looked odd and shove it to the back of their minds. You two managed to avoid that pitfall and turned it into interesting tidbits that added realism to your story.

Pacing - 7/10

Not the fastest-moving Introductory I've seen, but who says fast transitions are always the best? The overall pacing was well organized and choreographed to give me a wonderful read, if maybe a bit long at times. The irregular pacing gave me the sensation of rising tension through the story and the fast-forward sequences were well thought out. Too bad it was too irregular for me to follow through without a hitch.

Character

Dialogue - 7/10

Victor: You speak well for a punch-drunk boxer. I would expect you to be blurting out random syllables than speaking in proverbs, but you were not exactly smacked across the head by a gorilla so that was understandable. The one-liners and such were OK as they are, but I am looking for a bit mor now - sensation. When we speak in real life, different people have little odd tidbits that make their speech memorable - most notably the speech patterns. At your current level, Victor appeared to have yet to develop a distinct speech pattern that someone else could imediately recognize. You did play on the language barrier that existed between Victor and Kaia, to which I applaud your efforts. Keep it up and add some unique flavor to your words. ((Hint - Speech problems or little quirks in the speech patterns should do nice since most people don't use perfect English when speaking in real life.))

Kaia: You did great to introduce the language barrier and acknowledge the difficulty inherent with being a foreigner speaking a unfamiliar tongue. Your dialogue patterns were also memorable because of those little chinks and quirks in the talking style. You could use some more in this department, but it is probably not an urgent need.

Action - 8/10

Not much to say here, except that you two did an excellent job at portraying your characters down to their tiny little quirks. When I saw them, of course. Knowing Victor, which I know oh so well, he is always acting as a hero wannabe and constantly gets hurt in the progress. As for Kaia, I have to admit I did not have much history to look back on. Still, her actions and mindset remained consistent and believable. That is a nice thing to see with character development on a not-so-grand scale. A larger, mre complex story would certainly bear changes, but a story like this one is in no immediate danger of losing your mind over.

Persona - 7/10

These two characters are OK - They have harsh histories, they both lost things that were dear to them and they felt gravitated towards each other i the process. I like the way Victor always tries to act tough and manly in front of cute girls - I think that is his only weakness. *Laughes* As for Kaia, her sincere concern for the injured remained a constant theme that guided me to know how your character ticks. The combination of these two mindset, working together in a boxing match that would leave one bruised beyond recognition while the other pleading to end, led to a very suspenseful read when the readers were thinking Victor would conk out at any given time.

Writing Style

Mechanics - 8/10

Nothing much to add, especially since English grammar does not seem to hinde you two at all. My only qualms was the fact that each post just had to be so long. It took me a while to read through all of them, but I enjoyed every little detail of it.

Technique - 8/10

A ton of higher techniques were used by both of you, from the start of this story up until even the last sentence. Kaia, you could tim down on the usage a bit as some metaphorical references were a bit hard to catch on. Just make sure you can understand what you were writing without having to open the thesaurus every time you come across the words.

Clarity - 7/10

The sheer volume of words and descriptions made my eyes sore. But I blame that for finishing reading this in a single sitting.

The overall story was easy to uderstand, though having a heck lot of lines to look through doesn't bode well for the eyes. Having large, fragmented paragraphs divided into smaller ones that jump from one to another effortlessly is a lot easier to read, as well as try and not embed your dialogues in the middle of the paragraph. Having those diaogues bolded, though, was a smart thing on both of your parts. At least I can still see straight to write this judgment to you guys. :D

Wildcard

Wildcard - 8/10

An overall enjoyable read with tons of story and character developments to boot. I would recommend this as a good read, but it might be too intimidating for first-time writers to use as a guide.

Total Score: 75!

The Emerald Hind receives 1150 EXP and the 500 GP share of the prize money. She also gains the minor ability Soothe for temporary usage which will be permanently rewarded upon updating her profile and subsequently approved by the RoG moderators.

The Cinderella Man receives 2100 EXP and his share of 500 GP. He receives Down but not Out ability for temporary use until it is approved upon update by the RoG moderators.

[Cyrus the virus]

EXP added!