Karuka
08-02-14, 11:07 AM
Chapter 1 (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?27850-Karu-s-maybe-weekly-book-chapter-posting&highlight=)
Right, so, there are a lot of passives in this chapter, so I know it needs a lot of work. Edit me up!
Only a few hours had passed since Elora had saved the lost nobleman from a certain thrashing and a possible death, and she had left the corner of East Gantrickford that she called her own. Toward the north end of the city, there was a plaza where the residents of East Gantrickford and the residents of West Gantrickford could mingle. By day, it was where the beggars gathered in hopes of charitable alms. Young children milled around with dirty faces and hungry, miserable eyes, with the hopes that some kind person would take them in and give them a family and a chance, or at least have purses within easy reach.
The lucky waifs were taken across the river before they were thirteen to be used as domestics, or taken out of town to work the farms in the shadow of the city. Of course, there were tales of what some masters would do in the dark hours, but if a rescued child was smart, they could stay on the western side of the river.
Elora would have given her left eye for that opportunity.
By nightfall, the children were huddled into whatever warm nook they could find, hoping to wake when the sun rose. The beggars cleared out, for the most part, to drink away the bits they had collected. Some stayed, though, to gamble them away. There was money to be made on the fights, after all.
At sundown, after most of the daytime rabble had cleared out, the night rabble moved in. Some of the Westerners liked watching the less fortunate brutalize each other for their entertainment. Some of the Easterners wanted the glory that victory brought. Some of them just wanted to feel flesh caving beneath their mighty fists. Then there were the rare few who found that it was the closest thing to honest work available to someone who wore a brand.
Elora was one of those few. She had first entered the ring at the age of fifteen, and it had earned her enough money since then to keep her alive. On most days, that was better than the alternative. On this particular evening, she was waiting for her turn to enter the ring, in her debut as a second-rung contender. In her hands, a pair of sharp, heavy daggers whirled around, almost on their own. She may have been ragged, but the blades were in flawless condition. Each was nearly as long as her forearm, and each had a small emerald set into the pommel. They were worth more than she was, the Viper’s Fangs, and she cared for them lovingly, so that they could do the same for her.
There were seven rungs, or levels, that a competitors could be at, in the rotting underbelly of Gantrickford. The seventh was the lowest level, where inexperienced or poor fighters tried to scratch out a name for themselves. The more promising ones moved up quickly, while the less talented ones could linger there until death. That tended to come almost as quickly as promotions, at that level; hand two morons sharp objects and they tended to kill themselves.
Moving up a rung was always intensely exciting...and intensely dangerous. It meant that none of the boys at the previous level was good enough to take her anymore. It also meant that she was going up against guys much better (and often bigger) than her previous competition. It would have been foolish to not be nervous, and all she could do to combat the knots twisting her stomach was focus on spinning her daggers.
“At last, respectables and ruffians, we have the fight you’ve been waiting all night for! Now entering the ring, we have the Iron Brushtiger’s own star pupil, the Badger! See him next week on the top rung!” Loud cheers broke out from the crowd; the Badger was a favorite for his ferocity and for having Gantrickford’s top fighter as his trainer and patron.
When they settled a little, that was her cue to step forward. “And on the other side, we have the daughter of the legendary Brass Dragon, the Emerald Viper, making her debut with the big boys tonight!” Her introduction was met with boos and heckling calls; most men across Euphana saw women as things, and they weren’t things that belonged at the fights unless they were whores servicing bored spectators.
The ring was a simple square ten paces long on each side, and the fighters were walled off from the crowd by stacks of crates. The Badger was waiting for her, holding an over-sized machete that glimmered with bloodlust.
“Viper!” He called out to her, slashing at the air with his weapon. “Go back to dollies, where you belong! You brought a pair of toothpicks to a sword fight!”
“You got a big sword, Badger,” she spat back. “But I earned my emeralds. Where’s your metal?”
Both fighters glanced at the announcer, who nodded. Green eyes met black ones across the arena, and two bodies launched at each other in deadly combat.
The first exchange was brief, with each of them throwing a few rapid test blows at the other. Sparks skittered onto cobblestone as the Fangs met the Fury over and over again, testing its defenses and trying to find a weakness where they could slip through to deliver a decisive bite to the Badger. The Fury simply bashed at the Fangs, trying to knock the Viper off her feet. Neither found an opening immediately, and both withdrew after only a couple of seconds.
The Badger lifted his blade high, readying his next attack, and the Viper crouched low, twirling her daggers nearly at ground level. Each watched each other intently for any sign of a flinch or a twitch, waiting for a weakness.
It was the man, more impatient, who moved first, stepping forward with a mighty cleave. He gave the Viper the opening she was waiting for, and she lashed forward like her namesake, evading the broad stroke, moving past his defensive range, and ramming her forehead into his nose, sending blood spurting down his chin.
“Bitch!” He staggered backward, batting her away with his blade while he wiped his nose. “You fucking whore.”
Elora smirked. “What you get for bringing a bigass sword to a knife fight.”
The Badger roared, charging in at her again, swiping and slashing at her from all angles so that she was forced to defend, to parry and evade, rather than going on the offensive. The crowd roared along with him, feeding on the fury of his onslaught. Gradually, the Viper was forced to give ground to his superior strength, yielding first one step, then another, as he pounded against her defenses like a river bursting from its banks.
Does he never get tired? The Badger might have been the best of the Twos, but if they all had stamina like he did, she would need to find more food. Just defending against him was exhausting. For one minute, the longest of her life, he hacked and chopped at her, grinning sadistically every time she skittered away from his attacks. Then, finally, he stabbed.
The forward motion gave the Viper an opening, and she rushed into it. The left Fang went wide to knock the Fury off course and keep it away. The right one raced for the Badger’s side, eager to find flesh and finish the fight before its mistress suffered injury.
It failed.
Before she could strike, the Badger’s left hand released his machete and came around to catch her square across the face. Stars exploded in her vision as agony shot through her cheekbone, and she went spinning, disoriented. Her opponent wasted no time sealing his victory, stabbing in the split-second before she could regain her senses. This time, his blade went right through her abdomen, dropping her to the ground.
She barely heard what happened next; the world was spinning on without her, and burning pain was spinning within her. The announcer declaring the Badger’s win was faint, even though it happened right over her. The sounds of spectators cheering and chuckling might have lasted a minute, or it might have lasted an hour before everyone left and silence settled on the square. She couldn’t tell how long it was, and her body refused to stand. She could hear the muffled footsteps of the people at the edge of the square, the ones waiting for her to die so that they could pick over her pathetic corpse.
Elora wasn’t angry, nor was she sad. While deaths in the ring were rare at the upper levels, accidents happened sometimes and the streets were merciless. No one cared that she was dying, and soon she would be in a pine box in the ground. Each breath was more of a struggle, each heartbeat sent more blood trickling from her wound and prolonged her suffering.
At least it’s finally done.
The metallic tang of blood was all she could smell or taste, it overpowered the stench of beer and the reek of piss. Blood was warmth and life, and she only had so much to bleed. When an icy chill started to writhe its way through her gut like a frosty serpent, all she could assume was that death’s grasp was taking hold. She welcomed it with a weary sigh, closing her eyes for the final sleep. Hers was just one more death on these cruel streets, no different than the others that happened every day.
The sudden warmth that spread through her body was jarring; a strange comfort while blackness played on the edges of her consciousness. It felt like a hot soup was working its way through her from the point of her wound, or like a blanket was wrapping itself around her body. A gentle white glow flickered just beneath her eyelids, which she had expected. Many of the near-dead spoke of the light. There was also pressure on her belly. Hands? Was there a guide to whatever lay beyond?
“Why does this have to happen to me?” whined a vaguely-familiar voice from out of her sight. That, Elora hadn’t expected. She thought death was supposed to be quiet.
Green eyes blinked open, processing the murky view that greeted them with a vague disappointment. “...Hell is the same shitty streets of Gantrickford?”
The voice spoke again. “No, I’m afraid you haven’t gone anywhere, miss. You’re still among the living.”
Elora sat up gingerly, looking at the man who knelt on the filthy stone beside her. She could still feel the lingering pain of the now-gone wound, and see the blood that soaked her clothing. Even so, pressing her fingers to her neck revealed that her heart still beat. She was, somehow, alive. “That’s...impossible.” She finally looked at the speaker, very surprised to recognize him. “Stitches? I thought you were getting out of this part of town.”
The man leaned back slightly, frowning at her and propping his elbows on his knees. Red covered his palms and stained the cuffs of his sleeves, and where the hem of his jacket touched the ground, it was soaking up her blood, as well. None of that seemed to register with him at that moment. “Well, yes,” he admitted, “I was. But then you had the audacity to bleed all over the street in front of me.” His tone was serious, as was his face, save for the hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. He might have been joking, but who understood Libician humor?
“That simply would not do,” he said with a nod, tossing his head a bit to move an errant lock of hair from his eyes. As casual as he was about what had just happened, her wound disappearing, it was like this sort of thing was no big deal to this well-dressed man.
“No audacity intended, milord,” she said sardonically, shoving herself into a standing position. “Girl can’t help where she dies in this part of town.” She wobbled precariously on her feet, having lost too much blood for her legs to willingly support her body. “Listen, I'll buy that I'm dead and you're some ghost that walks both sides. I've seen ghosts before, even though you're the realest and fanciest I've ever seen. But I don't believe in angels, so you can't be that, and despite the crazy old drunks, there’s not no such thing as magic, either."
Erwan stood with her, almost tripping on the hem of his jacket, and poked at his own shoulder. "Nope! Not a ghost yet!" He beamed, as if it were something to be proud of. "Though how you can believe in ghosts but not magic perplexes me, but if magic isn't real, it sure is news to me."
Elora waved an arm. "Does this look like a world for magic, Stitches? Ugh." She leaned heavily against a crate that hadn’t been cleared away. "I feel like I have a hangover even though I haven't had any real booze since last night."
She sighed. "Well, back to hell, I guess." She forced herself back up. Despite being a bloodless lump of flesh, she couldn't afford to be weak. "Listen, Stitches, I'm thankful to you for saving my life, however you did it, but this really is not the sort of place a guy like you belongs."
The comment sort of stung, and the man in fine dress didn't know why. If it were some other stranger, he'd just laugh the comment off and continue the way he came, but with this young lady, he oddly felt like he had something to prove.
Erwan's joviality was gone for a moment as he cocked his head towards the quite massive pool of blood over at the side of the road. "That's quite a lot of blood to lose, miss. How do you suppose you're alive?"
"I dunno. Maybe M’not. If I didn't feel hungover, I'd figure I weren't, but maybe that's just part of it. I don't figure it matters, one way or other. It's a lot of work to stay alive, and not like anyone cares any at all if I don’t." She shrugged. "If I am alive, I can't explain it, I dunno what happened...but look at me, mister. I'm not a person that knows things. I know these streets. You know things. You don't know the streets. But just 'cause you know something doesn't mean I'll believe it."
He frowned, looking a little hurt. "Sure. No one cares. That's why I just saved your life." He shrugged back at her. "If there's nothing else I can do for you, then I suppose I'll just be on my way..." he shook his head, then turned and began to walk away.
"The only reason I figure you did it was because I saved you this afternoon." She started shuffling the other way, toward the hole in a wall she called a place to sleep. "Like I said, I'm grateful to you. Keep to places where people like you go, otherwise you're gonna get mugged and probably killed. You might want to get you a weapon some time, because people are more likely to steer clear of the armed. Better if you know how to use it. At least walk like it belongs on you."
He turned on his heels, stopping, and grinned at her. "I've got all the weapon I need right here," he said, spreading his arms to either side of himself as if to indicate something beyond his reach. He suddenly had a thought, and folded his hands in front of him. "Say... where are you going now?"
She looked over her shoulder at him, raising an eyebrow. Weapon? He was crazy. He had nothing. "I'm going to sleep. I'd say to bed, but s’not a bed by any stretch. Maybe it'll all make sense in the morning." If she lasted that long.
The mage rolled his light blue eyes at her. "I don't mean right now. I mean in general. I can't figure that whoever killed you is going to be happy that you're still alive."
Elora shrugged. "Nah. I'll be asked questions and put right back into the ring. It'll keep you alive right up to the time it kills you."
He smiled a bit. That was an unexpected answer, but it still worked. "That sounds dangerous. Ever considered something a little less... fatal?"
The girl bristled. "I’m not gonna be a thief or a whore for any reason. I might be less than dirt, but I still got pride. Pride don't feed you or put a bed under you, but it means that you got something that very few people can rightfully call their own, even that live over there." She stabbed her finger accusingly toward the west.
Erwan held up his hands, palms forward, in a gesture of surrender. He didn't mean to antagonize her, and turning her hostile would not be proper at all. "That is not what I was getting at. You're the one who knows the streets, not me," he said, throwing her earlier words back at her. The mage looked in the direction she was pointing, though there was nothing to see through the thick night, as if acknowledging the other side of the river. "I don't belong there either. You might say that I'm from out of town..." he spread his arms slightly, again. "Poor me, so defenseless, could be mugged any second..." he wondered if she knew what he was getting at.
"So what’re you still doing on this side of the river?" she growled. Rather, why was he being so uppity about what she'd said? Elora was tired and hurting, in no mood for the games this rich boy was playing.
Erwan could tell he was nearing the end of her thinning patience, and decided to get to the point. "Because this is the north side, and I happen to be going north,” he answered. “I'm proposing paid bodyguard work. I can't imagine it would be any harder than what you already do."
Elora’s lips pursed as she thought it over. Get out of this place, see other places, get paid for it? But what was the catch? There was always a catch. "Go on." She wanted to hear more of this offer before she committed.
The mage bit at his own lower lip, considering what she wanted to hear from him, and how to put it briefly. That she was still standing was nothing short of amazing, after what she’d been through. Perhaps a reason why would be a good start. "I'm... looking for someone," he admitted vaguely. “I have an idea of where... where they are, but they're probably going to keep moving. With any luck, this won’t take long, but I could be in need of your ser-” considering her earlier outburst, he adjusted his phrasing, “protection, for several months." he shrugged.
"Job conditions? Expectations? Pay? I don't care what you're up to. But why should I go along? Why would you even want me to when you could hire one of the mercs from across the river that knows all the social graces I won't be arsed to learn? Why not someone who’s not half dead? They got Itovians and Espovans over there. Mercs."
He ticked the points off on his fingers. "We’ll be doing a lot of walking in all sorts of weather. I'll pay for transportation, food, and shelter. I expect to remain reasonably alive," he grinned to himself at that last one. "I’ll pay you five silver a week. And as for that last one..." he stroked his chin with his hand, adopting a faraway look. "I don't know. I feel like I know you now. Going back for someone else would be far too impersonal." The eccentric grinned. "Plus, at least I know you'll be honest with me." It was then that he noticed the drying blood on his hands, and hastily started to clean up, leaving Elora to think the offer through.
With all expenses paid and five silver a week, she could eat every day and rent a room when she got back, and if she was careful, the money would last for months after the employment ended. That was a lot better than what she made even in good weeks in the ring, where she ate real food every second day and barely had a blanket to sleep on. It was definitely better than anything she could expect here. "Fine," she answered. "I can keep you reasonably alive for that, if either of us is actually reasonably alive still."
"Then it's agreed," he smiled, and he looked honestly relieved. He seemed to change his moods as another would change their wardrobe. He turned again, completing the circle, and continued on, as if expecting her to follow him away from the slums and toward the outskirts. She sighed and did, dragging her feet. The Fangs were the only things she owned that were worth anything, and those she had on her. What little else she had was probably already gone, given the outcome of her last fight, so she wasn’t worried about it. She wasn't up for walking far that night, though. Not until she'd got a little more blood back in her system.
Right, so, there are a lot of passives in this chapter, so I know it needs a lot of work. Edit me up!
Only a few hours had passed since Elora had saved the lost nobleman from a certain thrashing and a possible death, and she had left the corner of East Gantrickford that she called her own. Toward the north end of the city, there was a plaza where the residents of East Gantrickford and the residents of West Gantrickford could mingle. By day, it was where the beggars gathered in hopes of charitable alms. Young children milled around with dirty faces and hungry, miserable eyes, with the hopes that some kind person would take them in and give them a family and a chance, or at least have purses within easy reach.
The lucky waifs were taken across the river before they were thirteen to be used as domestics, or taken out of town to work the farms in the shadow of the city. Of course, there were tales of what some masters would do in the dark hours, but if a rescued child was smart, they could stay on the western side of the river.
Elora would have given her left eye for that opportunity.
By nightfall, the children were huddled into whatever warm nook they could find, hoping to wake when the sun rose. The beggars cleared out, for the most part, to drink away the bits they had collected. Some stayed, though, to gamble them away. There was money to be made on the fights, after all.
At sundown, after most of the daytime rabble had cleared out, the night rabble moved in. Some of the Westerners liked watching the less fortunate brutalize each other for their entertainment. Some of the Easterners wanted the glory that victory brought. Some of them just wanted to feel flesh caving beneath their mighty fists. Then there were the rare few who found that it was the closest thing to honest work available to someone who wore a brand.
Elora was one of those few. She had first entered the ring at the age of fifteen, and it had earned her enough money since then to keep her alive. On most days, that was better than the alternative. On this particular evening, she was waiting for her turn to enter the ring, in her debut as a second-rung contender. In her hands, a pair of sharp, heavy daggers whirled around, almost on their own. She may have been ragged, but the blades were in flawless condition. Each was nearly as long as her forearm, and each had a small emerald set into the pommel. They were worth more than she was, the Viper’s Fangs, and she cared for them lovingly, so that they could do the same for her.
There were seven rungs, or levels, that a competitors could be at, in the rotting underbelly of Gantrickford. The seventh was the lowest level, where inexperienced or poor fighters tried to scratch out a name for themselves. The more promising ones moved up quickly, while the less talented ones could linger there until death. That tended to come almost as quickly as promotions, at that level; hand two morons sharp objects and they tended to kill themselves.
Moving up a rung was always intensely exciting...and intensely dangerous. It meant that none of the boys at the previous level was good enough to take her anymore. It also meant that she was going up against guys much better (and often bigger) than her previous competition. It would have been foolish to not be nervous, and all she could do to combat the knots twisting her stomach was focus on spinning her daggers.
“At last, respectables and ruffians, we have the fight you’ve been waiting all night for! Now entering the ring, we have the Iron Brushtiger’s own star pupil, the Badger! See him next week on the top rung!” Loud cheers broke out from the crowd; the Badger was a favorite for his ferocity and for having Gantrickford’s top fighter as his trainer and patron.
When they settled a little, that was her cue to step forward. “And on the other side, we have the daughter of the legendary Brass Dragon, the Emerald Viper, making her debut with the big boys tonight!” Her introduction was met with boos and heckling calls; most men across Euphana saw women as things, and they weren’t things that belonged at the fights unless they were whores servicing bored spectators.
The ring was a simple square ten paces long on each side, and the fighters were walled off from the crowd by stacks of crates. The Badger was waiting for her, holding an over-sized machete that glimmered with bloodlust.
“Viper!” He called out to her, slashing at the air with his weapon. “Go back to dollies, where you belong! You brought a pair of toothpicks to a sword fight!”
“You got a big sword, Badger,” she spat back. “But I earned my emeralds. Where’s your metal?”
Both fighters glanced at the announcer, who nodded. Green eyes met black ones across the arena, and two bodies launched at each other in deadly combat.
The first exchange was brief, with each of them throwing a few rapid test blows at the other. Sparks skittered onto cobblestone as the Fangs met the Fury over and over again, testing its defenses and trying to find a weakness where they could slip through to deliver a decisive bite to the Badger. The Fury simply bashed at the Fangs, trying to knock the Viper off her feet. Neither found an opening immediately, and both withdrew after only a couple of seconds.
The Badger lifted his blade high, readying his next attack, and the Viper crouched low, twirling her daggers nearly at ground level. Each watched each other intently for any sign of a flinch or a twitch, waiting for a weakness.
It was the man, more impatient, who moved first, stepping forward with a mighty cleave. He gave the Viper the opening she was waiting for, and she lashed forward like her namesake, evading the broad stroke, moving past his defensive range, and ramming her forehead into his nose, sending blood spurting down his chin.
“Bitch!” He staggered backward, batting her away with his blade while he wiped his nose. “You fucking whore.”
Elora smirked. “What you get for bringing a bigass sword to a knife fight.”
The Badger roared, charging in at her again, swiping and slashing at her from all angles so that she was forced to defend, to parry and evade, rather than going on the offensive. The crowd roared along with him, feeding on the fury of his onslaught. Gradually, the Viper was forced to give ground to his superior strength, yielding first one step, then another, as he pounded against her defenses like a river bursting from its banks.
Does he never get tired? The Badger might have been the best of the Twos, but if they all had stamina like he did, she would need to find more food. Just defending against him was exhausting. For one minute, the longest of her life, he hacked and chopped at her, grinning sadistically every time she skittered away from his attacks. Then, finally, he stabbed.
The forward motion gave the Viper an opening, and she rushed into it. The left Fang went wide to knock the Fury off course and keep it away. The right one raced for the Badger’s side, eager to find flesh and finish the fight before its mistress suffered injury.
It failed.
Before she could strike, the Badger’s left hand released his machete and came around to catch her square across the face. Stars exploded in her vision as agony shot through her cheekbone, and she went spinning, disoriented. Her opponent wasted no time sealing his victory, stabbing in the split-second before she could regain her senses. This time, his blade went right through her abdomen, dropping her to the ground.
She barely heard what happened next; the world was spinning on without her, and burning pain was spinning within her. The announcer declaring the Badger’s win was faint, even though it happened right over her. The sounds of spectators cheering and chuckling might have lasted a minute, or it might have lasted an hour before everyone left and silence settled on the square. She couldn’t tell how long it was, and her body refused to stand. She could hear the muffled footsteps of the people at the edge of the square, the ones waiting for her to die so that they could pick over her pathetic corpse.
Elora wasn’t angry, nor was she sad. While deaths in the ring were rare at the upper levels, accidents happened sometimes and the streets were merciless. No one cared that she was dying, and soon she would be in a pine box in the ground. Each breath was more of a struggle, each heartbeat sent more blood trickling from her wound and prolonged her suffering.
At least it’s finally done.
The metallic tang of blood was all she could smell or taste, it overpowered the stench of beer and the reek of piss. Blood was warmth and life, and she only had so much to bleed. When an icy chill started to writhe its way through her gut like a frosty serpent, all she could assume was that death’s grasp was taking hold. She welcomed it with a weary sigh, closing her eyes for the final sleep. Hers was just one more death on these cruel streets, no different than the others that happened every day.
The sudden warmth that spread through her body was jarring; a strange comfort while blackness played on the edges of her consciousness. It felt like a hot soup was working its way through her from the point of her wound, or like a blanket was wrapping itself around her body. A gentle white glow flickered just beneath her eyelids, which she had expected. Many of the near-dead spoke of the light. There was also pressure on her belly. Hands? Was there a guide to whatever lay beyond?
“Why does this have to happen to me?” whined a vaguely-familiar voice from out of her sight. That, Elora hadn’t expected. She thought death was supposed to be quiet.
Green eyes blinked open, processing the murky view that greeted them with a vague disappointment. “...Hell is the same shitty streets of Gantrickford?”
The voice spoke again. “No, I’m afraid you haven’t gone anywhere, miss. You’re still among the living.”
Elora sat up gingerly, looking at the man who knelt on the filthy stone beside her. She could still feel the lingering pain of the now-gone wound, and see the blood that soaked her clothing. Even so, pressing her fingers to her neck revealed that her heart still beat. She was, somehow, alive. “That’s...impossible.” She finally looked at the speaker, very surprised to recognize him. “Stitches? I thought you were getting out of this part of town.”
The man leaned back slightly, frowning at her and propping his elbows on his knees. Red covered his palms and stained the cuffs of his sleeves, and where the hem of his jacket touched the ground, it was soaking up her blood, as well. None of that seemed to register with him at that moment. “Well, yes,” he admitted, “I was. But then you had the audacity to bleed all over the street in front of me.” His tone was serious, as was his face, save for the hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. He might have been joking, but who understood Libician humor?
“That simply would not do,” he said with a nod, tossing his head a bit to move an errant lock of hair from his eyes. As casual as he was about what had just happened, her wound disappearing, it was like this sort of thing was no big deal to this well-dressed man.
“No audacity intended, milord,” she said sardonically, shoving herself into a standing position. “Girl can’t help where she dies in this part of town.” She wobbled precariously on her feet, having lost too much blood for her legs to willingly support her body. “Listen, I'll buy that I'm dead and you're some ghost that walks both sides. I've seen ghosts before, even though you're the realest and fanciest I've ever seen. But I don't believe in angels, so you can't be that, and despite the crazy old drunks, there’s not no such thing as magic, either."
Erwan stood with her, almost tripping on the hem of his jacket, and poked at his own shoulder. "Nope! Not a ghost yet!" He beamed, as if it were something to be proud of. "Though how you can believe in ghosts but not magic perplexes me, but if magic isn't real, it sure is news to me."
Elora waved an arm. "Does this look like a world for magic, Stitches? Ugh." She leaned heavily against a crate that hadn’t been cleared away. "I feel like I have a hangover even though I haven't had any real booze since last night."
She sighed. "Well, back to hell, I guess." She forced herself back up. Despite being a bloodless lump of flesh, she couldn't afford to be weak. "Listen, Stitches, I'm thankful to you for saving my life, however you did it, but this really is not the sort of place a guy like you belongs."
The comment sort of stung, and the man in fine dress didn't know why. If it were some other stranger, he'd just laugh the comment off and continue the way he came, but with this young lady, he oddly felt like he had something to prove.
Erwan's joviality was gone for a moment as he cocked his head towards the quite massive pool of blood over at the side of the road. "That's quite a lot of blood to lose, miss. How do you suppose you're alive?"
"I dunno. Maybe M’not. If I didn't feel hungover, I'd figure I weren't, but maybe that's just part of it. I don't figure it matters, one way or other. It's a lot of work to stay alive, and not like anyone cares any at all if I don’t." She shrugged. "If I am alive, I can't explain it, I dunno what happened...but look at me, mister. I'm not a person that knows things. I know these streets. You know things. You don't know the streets. But just 'cause you know something doesn't mean I'll believe it."
He frowned, looking a little hurt. "Sure. No one cares. That's why I just saved your life." He shrugged back at her. "If there's nothing else I can do for you, then I suppose I'll just be on my way..." he shook his head, then turned and began to walk away.
"The only reason I figure you did it was because I saved you this afternoon." She started shuffling the other way, toward the hole in a wall she called a place to sleep. "Like I said, I'm grateful to you. Keep to places where people like you go, otherwise you're gonna get mugged and probably killed. You might want to get you a weapon some time, because people are more likely to steer clear of the armed. Better if you know how to use it. At least walk like it belongs on you."
He turned on his heels, stopping, and grinned at her. "I've got all the weapon I need right here," he said, spreading his arms to either side of himself as if to indicate something beyond his reach. He suddenly had a thought, and folded his hands in front of him. "Say... where are you going now?"
She looked over her shoulder at him, raising an eyebrow. Weapon? He was crazy. He had nothing. "I'm going to sleep. I'd say to bed, but s’not a bed by any stretch. Maybe it'll all make sense in the morning." If she lasted that long.
The mage rolled his light blue eyes at her. "I don't mean right now. I mean in general. I can't figure that whoever killed you is going to be happy that you're still alive."
Elora shrugged. "Nah. I'll be asked questions and put right back into the ring. It'll keep you alive right up to the time it kills you."
He smiled a bit. That was an unexpected answer, but it still worked. "That sounds dangerous. Ever considered something a little less... fatal?"
The girl bristled. "I’m not gonna be a thief or a whore for any reason. I might be less than dirt, but I still got pride. Pride don't feed you or put a bed under you, but it means that you got something that very few people can rightfully call their own, even that live over there." She stabbed her finger accusingly toward the west.
Erwan held up his hands, palms forward, in a gesture of surrender. He didn't mean to antagonize her, and turning her hostile would not be proper at all. "That is not what I was getting at. You're the one who knows the streets, not me," he said, throwing her earlier words back at her. The mage looked in the direction she was pointing, though there was nothing to see through the thick night, as if acknowledging the other side of the river. "I don't belong there either. You might say that I'm from out of town..." he spread his arms slightly, again. "Poor me, so defenseless, could be mugged any second..." he wondered if she knew what he was getting at.
"So what’re you still doing on this side of the river?" she growled. Rather, why was he being so uppity about what she'd said? Elora was tired and hurting, in no mood for the games this rich boy was playing.
Erwan could tell he was nearing the end of her thinning patience, and decided to get to the point. "Because this is the north side, and I happen to be going north,” he answered. “I'm proposing paid bodyguard work. I can't imagine it would be any harder than what you already do."
Elora’s lips pursed as she thought it over. Get out of this place, see other places, get paid for it? But what was the catch? There was always a catch. "Go on." She wanted to hear more of this offer before she committed.
The mage bit at his own lower lip, considering what she wanted to hear from him, and how to put it briefly. That she was still standing was nothing short of amazing, after what she’d been through. Perhaps a reason why would be a good start. "I'm... looking for someone," he admitted vaguely. “I have an idea of where... where they are, but they're probably going to keep moving. With any luck, this won’t take long, but I could be in need of your ser-” considering her earlier outburst, he adjusted his phrasing, “protection, for several months." he shrugged.
"Job conditions? Expectations? Pay? I don't care what you're up to. But why should I go along? Why would you even want me to when you could hire one of the mercs from across the river that knows all the social graces I won't be arsed to learn? Why not someone who’s not half dead? They got Itovians and Espovans over there. Mercs."
He ticked the points off on his fingers. "We’ll be doing a lot of walking in all sorts of weather. I'll pay for transportation, food, and shelter. I expect to remain reasonably alive," he grinned to himself at that last one. "I’ll pay you five silver a week. And as for that last one..." he stroked his chin with his hand, adopting a faraway look. "I don't know. I feel like I know you now. Going back for someone else would be far too impersonal." The eccentric grinned. "Plus, at least I know you'll be honest with me." It was then that he noticed the drying blood on his hands, and hastily started to clean up, leaving Elora to think the offer through.
With all expenses paid and five silver a week, she could eat every day and rent a room when she got back, and if she was careful, the money would last for months after the employment ended. That was a lot better than what she made even in good weeks in the ring, where she ate real food every second day and barely had a blanket to sleep on. It was definitely better than anything she could expect here. "Fine," she answered. "I can keep you reasonably alive for that, if either of us is actually reasonably alive still."
"Then it's agreed," he smiled, and he looked honestly relieved. He seemed to change his moods as another would change their wardrobe. He turned again, completing the circle, and continued on, as if expecting her to follow him away from the slums and toward the outskirts. She sighed and did, dragging her feet. The Fangs were the only things she owned that were worth anything, and those she had on her. What little else she had was probably already gone, given the outcome of her last fight, so she wasn’t worried about it. She wasn't up for walking far that night, though. Not until she'd got a little more blood back in her system.