Cool Cats - 61st Vhalar, 718
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There was being cautious and then there was being holed up in some dusty inn, scarcely capable of mustering the courage to wander downstairs for fear of being found out. Staring down at his feet from the edge of the two-poster he clenched and unclenched his hands, trying to keep them from shaking. Sephira had left over two bells ago. Had she been captured? Would they be coming for him too? Only a thin door with a rusty lock separated him from the common hallway and the Mantis that lingered, like predators, beyond it.
He remembered the terrifying gaze of Noth all too well, and even the memory of it sent a tingle down his spine. The mutated, flesh-eating worms the dark prince kept as pets invaded his dreams as of late: their shrill hisses and the squelching of their snail-like movement had caused him to jump up from his bed, bathing in cold sweat two times already and yet, not even these terrifying creatures came close to the fright that weighed down his mind.
He unfolded his hand like a blossoming flower and stared at the creases on his palm, wondering if his fate was truly written in those lines as some soothsayers claimed. Perhaps they were. Perhaps the jarring stop of the line that arched around his thumb was an omen of things to come.
Once, a long time ago, he’d spent three precious coppers on a witch that read the future from the runes inscribed in people’s hands. He still remembered her crinkled, watery eyes, the stench on her breath and her voice that sounded like she’d been made undead after a decade of endless sleep. She’d grasped his hand with untrimmed nails, muttered some insane ramblings to herself and then proclaimed without a hint of grief that he’d die an early, agonizing death amid smoke. It was written in his hands, and nothing could be done about it except a spell of her own making, for only three gold pieces.
He hadn’t had three gold pieces. He’d begged Fiona for it but instead she’d whacked him across his face for spending what little money he possessed on an “obvious fraud”. Time had scabbed over that particular wound, but the memory of the soothsayer had never left the far reaches of his mind.
For all he knew, the soothsayer was right, and he’d die here in this strange, foreign land, consumed by the very force that was closest to his heart.
For all he knew, his sister was already dead.
He grit his teeth, defied the hollow feeling in his gut and choose to believe otherwise. She was still alive. He would find her, and he would drag her out of this mess by her hair if he had to. The thought that he had arrived too late, that she was already captured and burned to a crisp, the mere notion that he’d be left truly alone in the world was far more terrifying than anything the Prince of Eternal Mercies or delirious soothsayers could ever come up with.
The floorboards creaked as he pushed himself off the edge of the bed and paced around the small room, drawing a circle on the dusty floor with his feet. Sephira should’ve been back by now. She wasn’t kin, but in many ways he considered her more of a sister than Fiona had ever been. Unlike Fiona she wasn’t a perfectionistic, apathetic, selfish asshole with a habit of lecturing him on the differences between the various magics when she wasn’t reminding him how incredibly moronic he was and how little chance he had of sticking it out another arc on the mortal plane.
But she wasn’t kin. And he’d come her only for Fiona. Only to get her out so the debt he’d build up over the years would be repaid.
Halting near a small window he peer through the thick glass at the nearest clock tower. She really should’ve been back by now. What use was he here? Waiting for her like a coward or, worse, if she’d been found out, he’d be waiting for the Mantis to kick the door in and clasp him in chains too.
To hell with that.
The boots he’d kicked off the trial prior still rested under the bed. He dropped to his knees, pulled them out and slid into them before patting himself down to check he’d pocketed the key to the room. Once he’d strapped a dagger around his waist and draped a thick, hooded cloak over his shoulders he headed out as quietly as he could into the winter cold. Thankfully the hallway was empty as he locked the door behind him, and the rickety stairway down was equally abandoned.
Soon enough the Vhalar cold gnawed at his face while a stiff wind tried to blow his hood off. Anywhere else he would’ve reached for his spark and attempt to bargain with the wind, but not now, not in this place. He scarcely dared to think about using magic, considering how effective the Mantis had been at weeding out warlocks.
Sephira hadn’t told him exactly where she’d gone off too, either because she still mistrusted him or perhaps out of some misguided protectionism. Either way, he was confident he’d be able to track her down. She did have rather peculiar eyes, for one, and he had a hunch she might be going back to that place they’d burned the woman Kraylia the trial prior.
He’d been a safe distance from the mayhem that Sephira had described to him, but he’d heard enough. Part of him wished she’d tell him more about what was going on, but he could scarcely blame her for being cautious.
Hugging himself tightly he spotted an all-white cat perched on a low wall overlooking a small plaza, and a faint smile curled his lip at how calm and unperturbed the small animal seemed to be. All things considered it was the first living soul in this damn country he didn’t mind meeting.
“Don’t know what to make it of it all, eh?” he said softly, more to himself than the statue-like cat. “Me neither. This whole country’s gone barking mad if you ask me...aren’t you cold?” He shuffled a little closer and reached out his hand slowly, gently, knowing full well that it was best to let a stray cat get used to his scent before he could stroke its fur. He cocked his head to the side and frowned. “Never seen an all white cat before,” he smiled. “An’ aren’t you just a beauty?”
He remembered the terrifying gaze of Noth all too well, and even the memory of it sent a tingle down his spine. The mutated, flesh-eating worms the dark prince kept as pets invaded his dreams as of late: their shrill hisses and the squelching of their snail-like movement had caused him to jump up from his bed, bathing in cold sweat two times already and yet, not even these terrifying creatures came close to the fright that weighed down his mind.
He unfolded his hand like a blossoming flower and stared at the creases on his palm, wondering if his fate was truly written in those lines as some soothsayers claimed. Perhaps they were. Perhaps the jarring stop of the line that arched around his thumb was an omen of things to come.
Once, a long time ago, he’d spent three precious coppers on a witch that read the future from the runes inscribed in people’s hands. He still remembered her crinkled, watery eyes, the stench on her breath and her voice that sounded like she’d been made undead after a decade of endless sleep. She’d grasped his hand with untrimmed nails, muttered some insane ramblings to herself and then proclaimed without a hint of grief that he’d die an early, agonizing death amid smoke. It was written in his hands, and nothing could be done about it except a spell of her own making, for only three gold pieces.
He hadn’t had three gold pieces. He’d begged Fiona for it but instead she’d whacked him across his face for spending what little money he possessed on an “obvious fraud”. Time had scabbed over that particular wound, but the memory of the soothsayer had never left the far reaches of his mind.
For all he knew, the soothsayer was right, and he’d die here in this strange, foreign land, consumed by the very force that was closest to his heart.
For all he knew, his sister was already dead.
He grit his teeth, defied the hollow feeling in his gut and choose to believe otherwise. She was still alive. He would find her, and he would drag her out of this mess by her hair if he had to. The thought that he had arrived too late, that she was already captured and burned to a crisp, the mere notion that he’d be left truly alone in the world was far more terrifying than anything the Prince of Eternal Mercies or delirious soothsayers could ever come up with.
The floorboards creaked as he pushed himself off the edge of the bed and paced around the small room, drawing a circle on the dusty floor with his feet. Sephira should’ve been back by now. She wasn’t kin, but in many ways he considered her more of a sister than Fiona had ever been. Unlike Fiona she wasn’t a perfectionistic, apathetic, selfish asshole with a habit of lecturing him on the differences between the various magics when she wasn’t reminding him how incredibly moronic he was and how little chance he had of sticking it out another arc on the mortal plane.
But she wasn’t kin. And he’d come her only for Fiona. Only to get her out so the debt he’d build up over the years would be repaid.
Halting near a small window he peer through the thick glass at the nearest clock tower. She really should’ve been back by now. What use was he here? Waiting for her like a coward or, worse, if she’d been found out, he’d be waiting for the Mantis to kick the door in and clasp him in chains too.
To hell with that.
The boots he’d kicked off the trial prior still rested under the bed. He dropped to his knees, pulled them out and slid into them before patting himself down to check he’d pocketed the key to the room. Once he’d strapped a dagger around his waist and draped a thick, hooded cloak over his shoulders he headed out as quietly as he could into the winter cold. Thankfully the hallway was empty as he locked the door behind him, and the rickety stairway down was equally abandoned.
Soon enough the Vhalar cold gnawed at his face while a stiff wind tried to blow his hood off. Anywhere else he would’ve reached for his spark and attempt to bargain with the wind, but not now, not in this place. He scarcely dared to think about using magic, considering how effective the Mantis had been at weeding out warlocks.
Sephira hadn’t told him exactly where she’d gone off too, either because she still mistrusted him or perhaps out of some misguided protectionism. Either way, he was confident he’d be able to track her down. She did have rather peculiar eyes, for one, and he had a hunch she might be going back to that place they’d burned the woman Kraylia the trial prior.
He’d been a safe distance from the mayhem that Sephira had described to him, but he’d heard enough. Part of him wished she’d tell him more about what was going on, but he could scarcely blame her for being cautious.
Hugging himself tightly he spotted an all-white cat perched on a low wall overlooking a small plaza, and a faint smile curled his lip at how calm and unperturbed the small animal seemed to be. All things considered it was the first living soul in this damn country he didn’t mind meeting.
“Don’t know what to make it of it all, eh?” he said softly, more to himself than the statue-like cat. “Me neither. This whole country’s gone barking mad if you ask me...aren’t you cold?” He shuffled a little closer and reached out his hand slowly, gently, knowing full well that it was best to let a stray cat get used to his scent before he could stroke its fur. He cocked his head to the side and frowned. “Never seen an all white cat before,” he smiled. “An’ aren’t you just a beauty?”
