Wine And Fire

Twenty minutes of stumbling forth as quickly as I could (not bothering to put on some facade of grace in favour of damn near outright sprinting as fast as my numb legs could take me) and I was starting to get slightly worried. The environment seemed vaguely familiar and Tunnel Sense was giving some faint hints that I was probably going in generally the right direction (something I was moderately surprised to see considering a hospital isn't exactly the first image that popped into most people's thoughts when they picture a tunnel, but I suppose hallways weren't that far off). Even so, I was getting more than a touch nervous that I wasn't going to make it on time.

Were I physically capable, I'm sure I would have broken out in a cold sweat; though, given I'd also be sweating like a stuck pig from exhaustion anyway, I doubt it'd matter much.

Of course, that was when a faint breeze stirred the scents in the air and pulled the distinct smell of cooking meat into my nose; a few meters more and the faint sound of slurred together conversations and laughter met my ears. Knowing I was getting close and time was running out, I sprinted forth as quickly as my numb limbs could take me.

Which, as it turned out, was not very fast at all. I didn't even feel myself slipping until the ground started rising up to meet me, numb hands rising to cushion the blow as best they could. Numb as I was I only felt my muzzle banging into my arms as a dull pain in my nose as my momentum carried me forth to slide across the tiled floor until I slammed head first into a wall.

HP -1

I groaned, more irritated than actually hurt. A large part of me just wanted to lay there and wallow in my exhausted misery, but I knew I couldn't; even if I didn't strongly suspect I'd be shot for the disrespect and think a random hallway was a particularly poor place to sleep, I do actually need to eat eventually.

With a long suffering sigh, I slowly pushed myself up, slipping several times from my inability to feel the floor beneath me before I finally managed to rise to my feet. I glanced around, cracking my neck as I confirmed I was alone before heading off after the sound of distant revelry at a more sedate and careful pace.

The rest of the journey was uneventful, if somewhat hurried (my haste tempered by a great deal of caution). I had never managed to develop an accurate internal clock, but by the lack of bullets blowing apart my skull when I arrived I figured I at least wasn't late.

The room was mostly the same as the last time I was there, minus the bound and beaten sacrifice; lots of fire, lots of food, and lots of drunk creatures ranging from human to what appeared to be a mass of maggots in a dress. My flies started buzzing irritably in my head at the sight of that last creature, so I pulled my gaze away and looked for this so-called "big boy's table".

To my complete lack of surprise, I found Rokharth grinning at me from a large, fancy looking table separated from the rest of the room by the line of burning pikes and the sacrificial altar. He was sitting right next to Markus, his plate empty save for a rather large goblet seemingly made of some sort of red crystal. From the look on his face he had spotted me the moment I stepped into the room, though he only chose to lean over and whisper into Markus' ear when I spotted him.

Whatever Rokharth said made a smile stretch across Markus' face, and while I couldn't see his eyes through his ever present goggles, I could feel when his gaze settled on me. He grinned, waving me over with one hand while the other pulled a cigar from inside his jacket.

I strolled over as casually as I could manage with cold jelly for legs, managing a stiff but mostly stable walk. I've never been particularly concerned about dignity, but I knew damn well that any sign of weakness would almost certainly be like releasing blood into shark filled water; the sharks may not eat me, but they'll definitely know they could.

And a shark that thinks its got a shot is a dangerous thing indeed, likely to bite just to see what happens.

By the smirk on Rokharth's face he wasn't buying my affected dignity, though he didn't say anything as Markus gestured to an empty chair across from him. I may have grabbed it with slightly more force than necessary, and possibly jerked it out from under the table a touch too abruptly, but no one commented so I decided to ignore such possibilities.

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Rokharth's grin widening does not count as a comment.

The table was sparsely occupied, only Markus, Rokharth, a thin, pale man with bright orange hair and eyes who's thin smile hadn't so much as twitched since he arrived, and a waifish blond girl with a vacant expression who seemed more preoccupied with playing with a steak knife than actually eating.

Markus grinned broadly at me as I sat down, "Ah, Rokharth was just telling me about your evaluation thus far."

I snorted, "All bad things, I'm sure."

He laughed, a deep and magnanimous sound that rang hollow to my experienced ears; I knew what fake humour sounded like, even from an expert like myself. "Haha, no no, he's quite impressed with your progress! Or so he tells me, anyway." He took a deep drag from his cigar, chasing it down with a mouthful of wine before releasing a cloud of sweet smelling smoke in one long sigh. "From what he tells me, you should be up to our infiltration standards within a month and slitting throats in a week or two."

I restrained myself from raising an eyebrow, but by the way he clicked his tongue I could tell he sensed my unasked question. "You're wondering why you'll be cleared to start killing before you can start breaking into homes and whatnot, eh? Simple; it's easier to slit some punkass thug's throat in a dark alley than it is to slip into even a marginally secured building and make it back out alive." He shrugged, bringing a forkful of what appeared to be some sort of steak to his mouth. "Even if all we want is someone dead, it's much more difficult to get them in their home than it is to just slash a neck and run out on the streets, let alone carry out valuables or documents."

As he chewed his food a thought seemed to strike him. He swallowed, raising a hand and snapping his fingers. The sound drew a burly man in an ill kept suit to the table, rushing to stand behind the gang boss in what looked like a poor approximation of how a butler should stand. Markus waved his cigar at me, "Jark, bring my new friend here some food and drink; make sure it's the good stuff too, none of that pisswater the boys like, eh?" He sent me a grin tailor made to be roguishly charming as the butler wannabe gave him a stiff and shallow bow before hurrying off to fulfill his orders.

I kept an eye on the thug, making sure he didn't poison my food or drink even as Markus kept talking; while I'm certain Markus wouldn't exactly need to use subtle means if he wanted to be rid of me, getting complacent is how you get dead.

Markus blew a cloud of smoke in my face, chuckling as I waved it away. "That paranoia will serve you well in this career, but you can relax here. Besides, if I wanted you dead, I wouldn't need to stoop to poisoning you."

I nearly snarled, "Peace is death. To relax is to stagnate, to stagnate is to die. I'm not strong enough to relent, not nearly; if I let my guard slip, let myself get comfortable and complacent, someone with more drive will take what's mine and leave my cooling corpse for the worms." I paused as a tray of steaming food was laid out before me, a mug of what my nose told me was mead set next to it.

Rokharth nearly choked on his drink as he burst out laughing, though at Markus' questioning glance he simply waved him off. The gang leader sighed, settling a serious gaze upon me. "That may well be, but spending every moment of every day tense and terrified will only leave you empty and miserable, even if the stress alone doesn't kill you." He took another drag from his cigar, exhaling half a dozen rings that floated up to impact the already smoky ceiling far above.

With a shake of his head he set his cigar in what I guessed to be an ivory ashtray before lacing his fingers together beneath his chin. "You need to learn to relax, find or create somewhere where you know you're safe and secure and can, if only for a moment, let yourself be happy and relaxed. I'm hoping this gang and this house can be that for you, but for now let's move on to what you'll be doing around here when you're not training."

I didn't buy a word of his rhetoric, nor did I feel like telling him that I knew quite well just how dangerous being overly stressed is. It's better to let him think I'm some lost and afraid little fool who he can whisper honeyed promises to and feed valuable lessons into. Besides, the more paranoid he believes me to be, the less likely he'll try something blatant.

Of course, the fact I was even more paranoid than he probably believed and had decades of experience learning to manage that without letting the stress of everyday existence kill me was only to my benefit.

He glanced at my plate, parting his hands with a laugh and grabbing up his wine glass and cigar once more, "Oh, but I forget myself; such talk can wait until after you've gotten a proper meal in you!" He waved a hand at the rather delectable looking meal before me, "Eat! Then we'll talk more."

While I was still worried about poison and even just sanitary food practices, my growling stomach made a strong argument to just listen to the man. Besides, my Cast Iron Stomach should be able to handle any general nastiness anyway.