Even in the slums, not many landlords were willing to speak with someone whose clothing was obviously stained with blood, especially after sundown. Over the course of an hour Gideon approached four different places and was turned away each time, with each landlord refusing to even speak with him after getting a closer look at his clothing.

He eventually found one on the western edge of the slums who didn’t immediately refuse him. She was a spindly old Easterner woman, her gray hair long and unkempt, wearing a dirty old dress covered in off-colored patches. He stumbled upon her pulling weeds in a small, dimly lit garden belonging to a cluster of tiny one story half-timber cottages. This time, before saying anything, he pulled a handful of denars out of his pocket and held them out where she could easily see it. Her eyes scanned him up and down, lingering for a moment on the coins in his open palm, and after several more moments of silent contemplation she slowly got to her feet and gestured at him to follow.

She led him to one of the cottages, speaking words in the Eastern tongue Gideon had no hope of understanding. After a moment of visible frustration, the woman held up ten fingers to him, a price that was far too low to possibly represent purchasing the cottage outright.

Guess I’m renting.

He handed her the coins. In return she handed him a key, then left without uttering another word.

Inside, the cottage was tight, dusty and sparsely furnished, with a bare mattress against the wall and a rickety looking wooden table barely wide enough to fit a single dinner plate resting against the wall across from the door. Two flimsy-looking wood dining chairs sat at the table. A small window with exterior iron bars was positioned on the wall above the table, giving a partial view of the dark alleyway running west from the cottages, between two neighboring flophouses.

The only other feature of the cottage was a bathroom, its door positioned near the bed. It contained a sink, a toilet, and a small tub. All were dirty, and had very little space to maneuver between them. The fixtures and floor were coated in a thin layer of grime and dust which indicated that neither the landlady nor the previous tenant had done much cleaning, possibly ever.

None of it mattered to Gideon. After a very brief walkthrough of the cottage he dumped his rucksack and claymore onto the floor beside the bed, then pulled out some fresh clothing and a pocketful of denars. He changed out of his blood stained clothes and left the cottage barely five minutes after first stepping inside. After locking the front door he set off into the freezing night once again, his mind fixated on blasting everything away with whiskey.

He returned to the cottage half a day later, almost too drunk to walk and with empty pockets. After sleeping for a few hours he filled up his pockets with denars and left once again, long before sobriety could threaten a return.

His sense of time blurred into a drunken, delirious haze of tavern hopping, excessive drinking, and returning to the cottage to sleep for a few hours and collect more denars. His entire purpose in life became to blot out his consciousness regardless of cost. At some point he realized that he’d spent a shocking amount of money, something like two hundred denars within the space of only two or three days.

It felt like an uninteresting trivia fact he’d heard in a stupid bar game, something pointless that didn’t matter much at all to anyone and wasn’t useful in any way. A large amount of his hard-earned fortune was simply gone, and he couldn’t remember spending any of it.

At some point he realized what little food he bothered to consume while drinking was actively diminishing the effects of his enormous whiskey intake, momentarily absorbing and counteracting its effects, causing him to experience brief moments of near sobriety. He soon stopped eating, consuming nothing but alcohol to maximize the forgetfulness.

He kept drinking even after stabbing pains manifested in his guts. He kept drinking even when his stomach revolted against him and tried to reject what he was putting inside it. He kept drinking long after realizing that so much alcohol would probably kill him. None of it mattered. Any price he had to pay was fine, so long as he didn’t have to think about the things he’d seen. Or the mistakes he’d made. Or the woman he’d caused so much trouble for.

Days passed like a fever dream. He woke up in strange places, with cuts and bruises on his face, arms, and hands. Angry faces floated through his memory, strangers who hated him for being big and for having the money to keep himself constantly drunk. Vague memories of fist fights and searing pain floated through his mind like twigs tossed into river rapids, submerging and resurfacing in accordance with the level of alcohol flowing through his veins.

Through it all, and despite his best efforts to prevent it, the world managed to interject itself into his life. Rumors about battles between the resistance and the great houses spread like wildfire through every dingy tavern and seedy bar Gideon found himself in. People talked about it endlessly, spreading ridiculous rumors about the young Forellian queen leading the slaves in their rebellion.

She wasn’t really human, they liked to say. She was the daughter of Kalikaan, born in heaven and sent to earth with supernatural powers in order to rejuvenate the mortal realm and cleanse it of wrongdoing. She could read minds just like Kali, they whispered, and Kaan had lent her his infinite strength.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Every rumor he heard about Surelin drove Gideon further into the bottle, and soon he stopped going to bars and taverns entirely, opting instead to buy bottles of whiskey and drink outside in the cold. Usually he drank relatively close to the cottage, since it was his source of sleep and money, but every once in a while he found himself far from home. It was on one of these occasions that the city watch found him.

Gideon was shaken awake, and after opening his eyes he saw two frowning faces staring down at him. Someone snapped their fingers in front of his face, and he scowled, squeezing his eyes shut again.

“Wake up, you miserable lout.”

“Think we found him, sergeant.”

He heard the sound of footsteps approaching him.

“Gideon?” someone asked, surprised.

He opened his eyes again and saw a familiar man with a gaunt face and a large nose standing above him. The realization of who he was dawned slowly on Gideon’s alcohol-muddled mind.

“Julian?” he grumbled.

“This drunk knows you, sergeant?” someone asked.

“Yeah, and I know him,” Julian said worriedly. “What are you doing here, kid?”

“Fuck’s it look like…?”

“Kali save us, he reeks of alcohol! He’s gotta be the guy.”

“Pick him up,” Julian said.

“Aw c’mon sergeant.”

“I said pick him up! Where are you staying, Gideon?”

“West end,” he muttered.

A few irritated complaints left Julian’s men as they pulled Gideon up to his feet. He looked around and through the alcohol haze realized the sun was setting. He’d been slumped in a dirty, stone brick alleyway, behind what looked to be a temple. Whiskey bottles littered the ground around where he’d been sitting.

They dragged him through the slums towards his cottage, following his mumbled, practically incoherent directions. Once they found it, they promptly dragged him inside.

“Set him down on the bed,” Julian ordered. “You’re damn lucky it was me who found you, know that?”

He mumbled nonsense in reply, and the watchmen dumped Gideon unceremoniously onto his bed.

Julian stood over him, peering closely at his face.

“Get sobered up, then come find me at the Thundering Queen in the morning. You know where that is?”

Gideon shut his eyes, nodding.

“Don’t you take a single drink in the meantime, you fucking hear me? I’m serious. You’re in deep shit. I’m being generous with you.”

Another nod, this time an impatient one. The bed felt nice against his back and he wanted to sleep.

“This stays between us,” Julian told his men severely. “Not a single fucking word of this to anyone! Let’s go.”

Gideon heard them leave, and after the door shut behind them he instantly fell asleep.

----------------------------------------

The shining sun beaming through the window onto his face woke him up. He turned his head away from the light, and opened his eyes to stare wearily at the cottage’s wall.

I feel like death.

He slowly sat up and forced himself to his feet, then staggered over to the bathroom. Upon reaching the sink he bent over and greedily drank water directly from the tap.

That was Julian last night, right? And he’s a hussar now? Weird….

A warm bath seemed to be the only thing that could help him feel better at the moment. He turned the faucet on and stripped while waiting for the water to heat up.

Guess I have to go see what he wants, he thought bitterly. Sounded like I'm in trouble. Wonder what I did this time.

The bath did little to improve his wellness, but it did help to wash away the smell of whiskey. He pulled himself out of the tub before he could prune.

Once he was dry, Gideon walked into the other room and opened his rucksack, looking for clean clothing to wear. Inside, on top of his clothing, lay an empty burlap sack.

He pulled it out to give it a closer look, unsure of what he’d been using it for, and after a while the realization occurred to him.

Shit.

Frowning deeply, his fingers felt at it, hoping to find at least one or two more denars hidden inside, but it was totally empty.

Desperation came over him as he walked back into the bathroom. He picked his dirty clothing up off the floor where he’d left it, hoping to find a few coins in his pockets, but to no avail.

How did I spend so much money?

He angrily dumped the clothing to the floor. I spent three hundred denars in…how long’s it been anyway? Couple days? Fuck me….

With an angry shake of his head that he instantly regretted, he returned to his rucksack in the other room, throwing on a fresh outfit. As he did, his gaze settled on his armor and claymore.

The bloodstains on the armor will just draw attention to me. Fuck it. And the claymore….

It hadn't moved since he'd dumped it onto the floor on the first night. He lifted it up, and it felt unfamiliar in his hands, as though it belonged to someone else. He pulled the blade out of its sheath, studying its assortment of notches and small chips closely.

Was it always this bad? It’s not gonna last much longer at all. I am the world's biggest fucking idiot for not getting this fixed once I had time.

It felt heavy and uncomfortable on his back after he strapped it on, a feeling that alerted him more than anything else to his poor state of health.

I’m in really bad shape right now. And the money is starting to run out. Very bad combination.

He left the cottage then, hoping Julian was not about to tell him something that would make his situation even worse.

I really hope what they always say about rock bottom applies to me, too.