I rattle my skull and flex my jaw for a while to reduce the tension headache that has been building. It’s in no way Nala’s fault, but she’s continued for another four hours, and I haven’t slept in something like twenty five at this point. I finally feel like I’m in the right place on Rayileklia. An organization of this size, scale, and, well, as well-organized as this, is exactly what we need to be facing down the barrel of an apocalypse or three.
I gnaw on my lip as fleeting images of Errissa keep intruding upon my mind. I feel bewitched. I hate it. I don’t hate her though, how could I? I don’t even know her. Which is also the reason she shouldn’t be so thoroughly on my mind, and I shouldn’t feel smitten by her. I implore the universe to please let this be some kind of mental magic that I can build up a resistance to. Focus Reggie, stop thinking about her flawless scales on her smooth, rounded-to-a-point face. Ugh, my headache’s starting to pound, and getting worse by the second.
I ask what’s likely a stupid question, “Nala, is it okay if I sleep here? I don’t know if I have a quarters, or where I’m allowed to sleep, and I’ve been up since you woke me yesterday with nets.”
Nala pauses as she’s about to bluster, calms herself, and softens her tones, “Right, it wouldn’t do to have your faculties discombobulated or spread thin. I rarely sleep, nightmares, you understand. My quarter is just opposite the library, slightly down the hall. Feel free to avail yourself of it. I’m sure it has blankets or something. I forget that most individuals sleep. Something about my Latent allows me to keep going I suppose. It may be why I urinate as frequently as I do, some facet of organizing my neurochemicals to rid me of—. Forget my speculations please, this is quite embarrassing to discuss.”
My jaw hangs low, but I yawn, so I hope Nala doesn’t take it at being agape from her conjecture. Yawning again, I work on getting a deep breath as my eyes become bleary with sleepiness. My right eye is even slightly misty, wet. I really should see Teuila, but I’m exhausted from practicing runes, and listening to hours upon hours of lecture that I’ll probably need a refresher of as soon as I wake up. I love you My Wings, My Anchor, My Heart, my son Lucky. Hopefully you’re all successful at your tasks, and able to rest up soon. If we’re lucky, maybe Kinzul will start applying us to the same or similar tasks, so that we can start having snuggle piles for sleeps again when we finish them at the same time.
I stumble out of the library, still reading the notes I’ve taken from Nala’s lectures, trying my darndest to commit them to memory, and likely failing. My head swims deliriously from a combination of exhaustion, and the pain of the headache, and I could swear I see a figure flash out of the corner of my eye for a second, but that’s ridiculous, my danger wraps don’t detect anything in their silent sonar.
Nala’s room is, as expected for someone that never sleeps, rather spartan, but I just need to lay down for a few hours and rest my aching head. I’m not sure if Nala will be coming in to her room for any reason, so I don’t disrobe, but I do doff my Valkyrie equipment, shrink it, and place it in a pouch on my belt. Laying down is almost a difficult task, as my body feels like one big bruise. I don’t even remember which injury in the last couple weeks is causing this particular pain. Being slammed around by a hydra? Being in the crushing pressure beneath a meteor? Being slammed in the chest by necrotic blasts? Hell if I know. Hell, for all I know, I could be forgetting a more obvious one, because it hurt so bad that my mind blanked it out.
Laying in bed, slowing my breathing, I keep my eyes lidded, but partially open, just barely slits, as I’m not entirely comfortable yet. Wait, the figure. My silent sonar says there’s nothing there, but, but she’s there. I can see her sleek shale-grey form, covered by curve-hugging dark leathers, and her stone-camouflaged cloak. And of course, I can see her intense, silver eyes. Stop Reggie, just stop, you’re hallucinating. Your danger wraps say there’s nothing there, and you’re smitten for a shallow as hell reason. Yet even as I try to deny it, the figure I take to be Errissa stands in the doorway of Nala’s chambers, staring at me, where I lay shrouded in shadow upon the bed, while she stands illuminated by the glowlichen. That would be pretty oxymoronic, if it weren’t a hallucination pal. Right, right.
My breathing slows to a steady rhythm, a cadence that mimics when I sleep. I’m trying to remain vigilant, to see what this hallucination does, but I actually am beginning to pass out. Drat. Oh well, hopefully my headache lessens by the time I rouse.
“McShaw? Yeah I’ve heard of ‘em. Survivor of the bugs out west. Well, one is anyway. Supposedly marched into town, battered, bloody, bearin’ irons. Talked of a carnie killing a queen, didn’t make no lick of sense. Sat down at a barstool, tipped back one shot, and then fell still as a doornail, passed out on the spot, quiet as the dead.”
This is the most coherent news I’ve heard about the man yet, news was Malta Rocha faced some sort of invasion, talk about behemoth bugs or something, utter hogwash. Or so I thought. A few survivors, an Audrey smith, and an Annabelle Tanner, were sent to the bins for hysteria. After that, other survivors shut up about it, clammed up but good.
Maybe the town hero will have something to say though? By all accounts, Jessie’s the reason there are any survivors, whatever really happened. Though, by the sounds of this, perhaps the young man has gone and convinced himself the same as the hysterical women.
On the sly I slip my new ‘friend’ a whole dollar bill as I ask, “Any idea where one might find the man now?”
There’s a scoff that says the information’s worth a whole lot more than a dollar, which is a tad surprising. That’s ten day’s wages for most of these folk. The man’s privacy is worth this sort of loyalty, from strangers? What charisma does Jessie McShaw possess? I check my wallet, a few more ones, a five, and a ten. If I offer the five, and he scoffs again, he’ll expect a ten. Hopefully I’ll head this shrewd gentleman off at the pass by offering him the ten, to be able to keep my five. Pulling the ten out of my billfold, I slide it to the handsome fellow wearing the sheriff’s badge ‘round these parts.
The fellow flashes me a bright smile as he extends his hand, “Name’s Jessie McShaw, pleased to meet ya. This might just be ‘nuff to bring my sister back. Shaman out west was charging an arm and a leg.”
My jaw hangs low. I’ve been swindled! Well, sort of. What was that about a shaman? I suppose any hope for a grieving man. As long as he didn’t say it was a *bug* medicine man. I ask, “Could you tell me about her? About Malta Rocha?”
Jessie McShaw sighs belatedly, and responds, “Sis was, is, an angel. Straight outta heaven, the only peace of mind I ever had was sitting next to her as she hummed and did her whittlin’. Good with a knife, and a leather punch, she done good craftwork at most anything she tried, but her favorite was whittlin’. Voice pure as heaven, face what god gifted, and hair, like mine, red as tarnation. Y’all won’t believe me ‘bout Malta Rocha, no one does.”
Huffing, hoping for more than a fluff piece about a dearly departed, I state, “Try me.”
The man wears a grim smirk. Don’t know how you can smirk and still look so dour, grim, dark, but he done it. Takes a while, looks at the ten dollar bill, and the one what I’d given him just before. He holds up the one, and tries to hand it back to me. I shake my head, and try again, “Please, the money’s yours, I just want the truth. I’m a reporter for th—“
Jessie interrupts, “I know who y’are. I been military, I been law, I been a few things outside ‘n’ inbetween too. I catch news sometimes Mister Jackson. Fine, I’ll tell y’the truth, but y’aint gonna believe me, no one does.”
He seems put-together, sane, shrewd, intelligent, and ten dollars, no, eleven, tends to buy a whole lotta honesty. So I’m prepared to write what he tells me, damn what I believe. Jessie sums it up, “Got home after discharge, Sis been dead only a couple hours. Kicked myself, almost ate the end of a forty four Wesson. Townies told me what done it, giant bugs. So I sat out at the hill, waited for ‘em to come back, and plugged the suckers one after ‘nother. Ran outta ammo on I think it was day three guardin’ the pass, and I’m bashin’ some giant ant’s head in with the butt end of that same forty four Wesson, when I hear sizzle, and see nitro sticks flyin’. Look behind me, and Arnie the Carnie done been run through by some hog-suckin’ burrowin’ scorpion. He done loaded up with ammo, and water for me and my foolish, grief-stricken ass.”
Jessie shakes his head, perhaps experiencing some dismay at the supposed memory before he continues, “I still had to bludgeon the damn scorpion to death, to get Arnie’s body off it, and get the ammo, and some sorely needed water for my too-parched throat. Big-ass queen lookin’ thing shiftin’ sand like a dune on the move showed up, and that’s what Arnie threw sticks at. The red went sailin’, and shewee that boom is louder’n’hell up close. After she died, was two more days of shootin’ with the ammo Arnie done brought me, drinkin’ that barrel o’ water, and, after a time, eatin’ some damn bug meat cause my shootin’ arm was gettin’ weak and tired. And no, weren’t all done with a single pistol. Had me a mess o’ guns up there, just brought up the Wesson forty four for the reasons I spelled out.”
His voice quiets, and he leans low, as if speaking a secret for my ears alone, “Had me thinkin’ on those lines the whole time. Just end it Jessie, Sis is gone, just end it. Didn’t do it. Couldn’t do it. Couldn’t imagine what she’da thunk o’ me if I did it. Wouldn’t do that to her if she were alive, couldn’t do it to her while she were dead. Now, I’ma march back out to Malta Rocha, and talk to that goddamn ant shaman, and get the bastard to bring back my baby sis.”
Governor Kyle gave me strict orders if I heard anything about someone dealing with insect medicine men, that I was to shoot anyone that spoke of it. Dangerous delusions supposedly. I gulp as I draw irons on the local sheriff, loathe to cut down a man in his prime, one that’s obviously still hysterical with grief. Never thought anything would come of it. Never, ever thought I’d have to actually go through with a cold-blooded kill, and assassinate someone. I try to reassure myself, that at least I got the story, got his last words. I pull the trigger, my finger trembling the whole time.
I awaken with a start, gasping for air, and begin panting. As I open my eyes, I find myself staring at the gray-scaled Draconiac poised above me. She’s practically perched on the very corner of the end-table, and I could swear she just sheathed a dagger. Did that really happen? Was she going to kill me? Ow, my head is pounding. I don’t dare blink though. Our eyes lock, and I’m caught captive by those shimmering silver orbs. There’s a predatory gleam in them, and yet I’m unable to resist staring into them.
Incredibly slowly, I try to reach my hand into the pouch at my waist, but I’m not sure if I’m even moving at all. I feel so still, simultaneously relaxed, falling into her gaze, and as tense as the dead. If I can get my finger in the armor, I’ll have a fraction of a chance at surviving if she lashes out with a short blade. Who is this woman, why does she captivate me, and why does she seem to want me dead? Why isn’t she startled away as I pant exhaustedly while staring up at her? Wait, am I no longer panting? Am I no longer breathing?
Gulping, my gaze slides down her slender, smooth-scaled neck, and I try to convince myself that I’m gauging the muscle mass below her leathers, and the toughness of her armor. My gaze manages to take in all of her, and my analysis of her muscle is well-defined, taut, all sinew and grace, and her posture says she knows it. My analysis of her armor is it hugs the subtle, slender, serpentine curves of her body too tightly to provide much barrier against close range weapons, but it might be able to catch a crossbow bolt or two.
My thoughts suddenly flit to my holy halefire double-barreled wrist-crossbow that hangs at my right hip. Could I equip it, and my armor, and fire a warning shot? Why can’t I talk? I think I’ve even stopped breathing. Have I stopped breathing? Why can I think tangentially about hurting her, or driving her off, but not bring myself to speak? Am I really moving this slowly out of caution, or am I actually paralyzed with fear, or some other agent?
She brings one finger to her scaled lips in the shush motion, and then holds it tantalizingly between us. Ugh, why do I think that’s tantalizing? What the hell is wrong with me? She taps me on the nose, almost playfully, causing me to flinch, and in the instant I blink, she’s gone. I find myself coughing as Nala approaches from the library.
Nala asks apologetically, “Is it too dusty for you to sleep? You’ve only been here a few minutes, but I understand if my quarters aren’t suited to your needs. I certainly don’t put any upkeep into them.”
A few minutes? I feel marginally refreshed, and quite a bit less exhausted overall, but I’ve still got a few hours of headache to rest off. I groan through the pain, “Cough wasn’t dust, cough was held breath from freaking out with assassin next to my face. I don’t suppose you saw the gray-scaled, leather-clad, cloaked, dagger-wielding woman who was perched over me leave just now?”
Nala, taken aback, blinks in surprise, before grimacing. She requests, “I’m uncertain as to how you came into your infatuation with our Spymaster, but please, leave me out of whatever dreams you’re having. I’d rather not know.”
Blushing, I grimace as well, before frowning. The motion of my facial muscles at my expressions exacerbates my tension headache, and I nearly pass out from the pain. I groan aloud, which I regret as soon as the sound escapes my lips. Nala seems to rattle her whole body in disgust. I apologize quickly, hoping to cut off a misunderstanding, “Sorry, headache, groan of pain, not something else. Other thing, don’t know, don’t think so. Dream was about bugs, and old west Fakeworld cinema or something. Something about Spaghetti? Ow my freakin’ head.”
Nala, being almost-uncharacteristically kind, states, “I’ll brew some willow. I could use some as well.”