Cradle of the Filthy

[Rogue]

The Stone Hall of the Praxeum was reserved for practical lessons and evening meals. While a great lover of meals, Arainthe had little love for the hall itself. The cavernous chambers was too large for the class of acolytes, too drafty in the mornings, too cold in evenings, and worst of all, it only had one doorway.

Darger and his boys were waiting for her when she stepped stepped out of the hall. They arranged themselves slovenly around the doorway in a half-circle, all smug faces and gaudy clothes. She looked positively drab before them. They were the sons of the rich and powerful. Lazy donkey asses, the lot of them. She tried to walk past the group, but then Darger parked his pasty face right in front of hers. Arianthe debated if she could smash his shit-eating grin into the granite walls without retaliation. Probably not.

“Mediocre,” he drawled, imitating the intonation of Old Man Taius. The tightness of his blond ponytail made his expression look tight and stretched out. His ivory robes were as pale as the rest of him. “How’d that feel, peon? Not so proud any more, are ya?”

His cronies snickered. Her fists clenched involuntarily. She didn’t like reminders of mediocrity. She had worked hard to get to where she was, from a no-name talentless street rat to a half-decent sorcery student.

“And who’s the dead-last, bastard?” Her voice dripped acid. She knew he hated her scorn. “And who’s the idiot who got his fool ass burnt by the old man today, Mister Darger? Did he leave any holes in your pants, you spineless worm?”

Darger sputtered, and the laughter of his boys died.

“Oh wait,” she grinned and crossed her arms, “I forgot. You’re not a spineless worm. You’re balls-less ass, right?”

If glares could kill, Arainthe would be dead. Darger was furious. With a howl, he threw his fists at her, but she managed to duck and sidestep the first. The second was stopped by a hand that reached out from behind her.

“Get out,” came a voice. It was deep and cold and expanded to fill the hallways. She recognized the voice instantly. It was Glorrad Hruine with his pedigree and icy cold face.

Darger twitched. Araithe grinned. Nobody picked fights against Hruine because nobody won fights against Hruine. No one won fights against Hruine because Hruine never stepped away from a fight until he won. Darger pulled back unwillingly, and his cronies drew away with him. He nodded once at Hruine -- some sign of respect -- before glaring daggers at Arainthe.

“Ya’ll get yours. Watch ya back,” Darger muttered as he walked away.

Good riddance, Arianthe thought.