Emotionally empty. Taking a few steadying breaths and then blowing a wad of snot from each nostril into my hand. Wiping it on the ground and then on my jacket. Clearing my throat and spitting out the phlegm.
For now the plan doesn't change. Either already doomed, head in a snare and struggling will only make it worse, or Carol hadn't been lying, this will pass and life will go on. And, so far, she hadn't lied – big omission, certainly a big omission on her part – but she hadn't demonstrably lied. Not yet. Back in the grid as a spellcaster. Done and delivered.
The card game took time, already half after four, collected about twenty three silver, possibly enough for shoes. Definitely not the best pair, but shoes. Need to get to the cobbler before he closes at six. Absolute priority, my feet are killing me. Pack, knife and shoes. The absolute bare essentials. Beyond those it'd be nice to get some new clothes, as well. For this next hour going to try and do Charity proud.
Standing up and stretching. Arms over my head, then down to my toes. Definitely more flexible, palms almost reaching the ground. Up and then down. Cross arm stretch, left and right, and again. Limbering up the arms, and rotating the hands on the wrists.
Heading north to the town square, to the weapon shop on the southwest side. Felt it earlier when throwing that knife up, can still do some of my knife tricks just from practice, but my form is off. And a far ways off as far as fighting ability. Should still be more than adequate for this.
“I'd like to rent some knives for about an hour. Four or five. I'll give you a deposit so if there's any wear and tear you can take it out of that. I'm not even going to leave the town square.”
The heavily muscled, bearded man with a permanent squint at the counter giving me a long look. “Alright,” he says, “five silver to rent, gimme twenty now and you'll get the rest back if you return 'em.”
Handing over the silver and going through the knives. Picking out five with decent balance and roughly the same weight. Giving a couple practice tosses. The man watching me, his expression not changing.
Now where to set up. Sun's going that way, so maybe over here, decent amount of traffic going by. Removing my dull grey jacket and tossing it on the ground. Putting my open pack on top of it. This shirt's a problem but at least its bright enough to attract some attention. Using one of the knives to perform surgery on the shirt, cutting off one sleeve and then the other. Collecting the shirt, tightening it up and stuffing the excess fabric at the small of my back. Tightening my rope belt.
People love watching knife shows. Charity had series of routines she used to do, knives just being one, while Five picked her way through the less generous members of the crowd. They'd been a great team and then everything got ruined. Staring off into the distance at nothing and then letting loose a huge sigh. Relax. Can't do anything about that now. Focus on today.
Starting off simple, balancing a knife on my fingertips, tossing it up and catching it. Higher and higher. Then both hands at once. Starting to get some people to watch. The hardest part about learning how to juggle knives is getting over the fact that cuts are going to happen. Then its trying to do it and the cuts actually happening.
Beginning to juggle three in a nice, lazy rhythm. Getting higher and higher, then faster. Catching them, one by one. A couple people putting a few coins in the pack. From trying to juggle earlier, and from what it feels like right now, can probably manage four. Five is going to be very difficult, but fine as a finale. Get some pity donations for failure.
Going through a couple different routines with three. Back to balancing and tossing in the air. Some people straggling by and putting in some coins. Taking a short break. Now back at it. Probably getting late, time to step it up.
Juggling three, adding the fourth. Much harder. Five is going to be rough. Wait, what's that sound? Only a humming, coming from over there. Bardsong.
As a general rule for the phrase: Don't trust _________, that blank can usually be filled in with anything. Open up a dictionary, point to a random word and it'll always neatly fit inside. Ninety times out of a hundred. Ninety five times out of a hundred. Possibly even ninety nine times out of a hundred.
First expedition. Can't trust any of the members of the first expedition. Matheson, Avery, Paula whatever-her-last-name-is, Melder, or any of the others. A small group in total, only about seventy five, but they know what actually happened with the Bonneville and they're all in on whatever it was. Complicit. Can't trust them. Sad fact, but true. Matheson even seemed real nice.
And then there's every single person who had a hand in deciding to shut down the guilds, every single person who okayed rubbing us out. Koln had been in on it, had known that from the start - all the houses were - but from what Avery had said, they weren't reluctant, or even disinterested, participants. Never trust any of them again. Not ever. Change of heart after the fact? Sorry, can't unring that bell. And if they do attempt to make amends? Well, desperate people have a habit of saying all sorts of things they think will save them. Its going to cost them significantly more than some lip service.
Finally, Shaker. The confluence of both and the architect of my current situation. Walking out of the dorm earlier today, had been expecting a not very welcoming welcome wagon, but the men with the restraints and the hot pokers and all the rest of the torturer's tools hadn't been there. He didn't go that far, but he's probably just having a good laugh about this whole situation. Keep laughing while you can, teach you not to underestimate me.
A word that can definitely fill in that blank? Bard. Bardsong is a force multiplier, or detractor, but more than that it influence emotions. They're very useful, Bards are, but the type of people who end up becoming Bards, not so much. The first, the genuine, well meaning, flaky type. And the second, the sociopath manipulator, also tending toward flaky. Unsurprisingly, the second is actually the better one to deal with. Get everything out in the open, lose the bullshit, and it's possible to work together on a case by case basis. The first type? No such luck. Their well meaning help never ends up helping.
The bardsong buoying my juggling ability and agility in general. Four? Seems like childsplay, let's do five. Five? Not a problem, grab the other dagger from my sheath and add it to the mix. Different style and weight? More difficult, but doable. Vary up the rhythm, each hand juggling three. And then toss them up real high and catch them, one between index and middle finger, middle and ring finger, and last ring and pinky. All caught, hands to the sky, and bow.
Scattered applause and a few whistles coming in from the crowd, which had swelled in size. More than a few walking up to the pack and tossing in some coins. Half after five, time to get going. That last bit may have even given Charity a run for her money. The crowd dispersing and the guy walking up, flashing his teeth and looking very pleased with himself. A pretty boy who knew he had nice smile.
“That was really great,” he says.
“Thanks. Everything sort of clicked there at the end, you know what I mean?”
“Maybe you're just as talented as you are pretty.” Putting out his hand, “I'm Ben. You look like you just got in, am I right?”
Trying to take advantage of some naive girl, fresh off the turnip truck. My laugh coming out as a giggle, with probably only a hint of malice. Looking at his hand for a moment, then at his face, my grin mirroring his. Shaking his hand.
“You sure you don't want a cut? I probably pulled in a bunch thanks to your help with that last bit.”
“I only wanted an excuse to come over and talk to you.” His grin barely slipping. Not even pretending to be ashamed. With that attitude he's probably managed to rack up more than a few notches. “You want to get something to eat?”
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Free food is free food. Go along with this and then, wait, why even consider this? Getting all turned around. Sneaky, charming Bard.
“Sorry friend, places to be, things to do. I'll pass. Thanks for the assist.”
Getting my jacket and other belongings. Heading back to weapon shop. The Bard trailing along. Persistent. Latched on like a tick.
“So what's your plan for tomorrow?” he says.
“I don't know. Maybe head out to Ossen, heard its beautiful.”
“Ah, don't be like that. I genuinely want to know.”
“I've got shit to do and you're starting to get annoying. If I tell you, will you let me get on my way?”
That seemed to get through. Guy doesn't know when to quit.
“Yes,” he says.
“Tomorrow, I got a choice. Either sprites in the forest outside the gates, or crabs on the beach. I'll be at one of those.”
“You won't tell me which?”
“I don't know myself. I'll find out tomorrow.”
Finally dislodging. “Wait,” he yells, “I don't know your name.”
“No, you don't.”
The blacksmith rolling each knife back and forth in his hands, inspecting them with a practiced eye. Then, with a satisfied grunt, counting out fifteen silver coins and placing them into my hand. Adding them to the bunch inside the pack and counting out the loot. Eighty, or so, copper, fifty six silver and a single gold coin deposited by a most generous patron. More than enough to get shoes and clothing. Maybe even enough to get some basic, no-frills armor on the cheap. Certainly at least enough for a deposit.
Double timing it to the cobbler and arriving at five to six, the interior suffused with the smell of leather. The cobbler, spectacled, mustachioed, standing at the counter and in the process of packing up. Several of his apprentices working further in the back.
The man, a consummate professional, giving me only a slightly curious look before speaking, “Welcome, miss, is there something I can help you with? I don't recall you placing an order. Are you picking up something for someone else, or getting something for yourself?”
“For myself. I apologize for coming so late but I've been trying to get everything together all day. I need to order a pair of shoes and hopefully pick them up in the morning.”
“Come around and take a seat.” Beckoning me around the counter, “Let's see what we're working with and get some measurements.”
After giving my current set a look of dismay the man producing a length of tape and measuring each bare foot, front to back, side to side, and the arch. Jotting some numbers down on a scrap of paper.
“Okay, stand up.” Taking some more measurements, nodding, and then jotting down some more numbers. “Okay, take a seat. Now, what exactly are you going to be using these for, and is there any sort of style that you might want. Something like this, perhaps? Very popular.” Reaching over and getting a shoe, a lady's pump, with an inch and a half heel.
Is he messing with me?
“No, that's, no. Maybe shoe wasn't the right word. I need a pair of boots. Functional, waterproof, hopefully also comfortable. Decent tread, going to be using them in a swampy environment.”
“Oh, you need these for field work,” he says, putting a hand up apologetically. “The majority of the orders I've had in the last few days have been for the gala. I was going to tell you that I couldn't have them ready by tomorrow, but if you need them for the field I'll make it a priority. What's your budget?”
“Hoping thirty, thirty five.”
“Hmm. With size of your foot I can make a decent pair for twenty eight. A good, solid shoe for out in the field. But for what you said you were going to be using them for, probably not adequate. For forty I can make a set a bit taller, more water resistant, and with better treads. A little more cushion, as well.”
“They'll be ready by tomorrow morning?”
“Yes, give me until nine o'clock.”
No point in trying to haggle over a silver or two. They do look busy.
“Great, I'll take the pair for forty.” Counting out the coins. “Hey, you know the area better than I do, is there a clothing store near here that'll still be open?”
“Should be. Go left out of here, left at the end of the block, and then on the corner two streets that way. You'll see mannequins in the window.”
“Thank you. Seriously.”
The woman running the boutique with a bit less composure than the cobbler. Upon first seeing me her mouth opening and closing a time or two, but then managing a smile and a welcome. Hopefully they have something suitable here. Looks like only dresses and haute couture from these front racks.
“I'm not here about the gala.” Her smile waning. “I'm here to get some proper clothing for the field, and to get out of this clownsuit. I need everything.” Her smile coming right back.
“I can definitely help with that,” she says. “Actually, we have a package deal for, uh, new arrivals just like yourself. What's your size?”
“No idea. I need pants that are tough, hopefully resist water, the shirt the same. Undershirts for sweat, going to be wearing armor. Underwear too, and socks, I only have this one pair. They need to be in a color that won't get too stained by blood.” There went her smile again. “Oh, and a cloak with a hood. And a real belt.”
“Certainly,” she said, uncertainly, “I see. Well, I'm sorry to say, but our tailor has left for the evening and won't be back until the morning. Maybe instead you could-”
“Look, lady, I can't be wearing this anymore.” Picking at the ugly dull grey jacket, picking at the yellow and orange, and now sleeveless, shirt, picking at the voluminous pinstripe pants. “I'll take whatever I can take tonight and I'll be back tomorrow for the rest. Don't make me crawl out of here in failure. I'd rather die. Please.”
Her eyes widening at my declaration. Nervously licking her lips. “I suppose we can get your measurements, get you some underwear and socks, and deal with the rest in the morning.”
“Thank you. I've had a really long day. I appreciate it.”
“We have a customer,” the woman yelling. A girl appearing and, at the sight of me, obviously wishing she hadn't. “I need you to get this young lady's measurements, and get smallclothes to her satisfaction.” The girl staring at a viper, waiting for it to strike.
“Hi, nice to meet you.” Walking over and offering the girl my hand. The girl glancing over at the woman and then back at me. Backing up a few small steps. “R-r-right over here,” she got out.
Walking past her further into the store. Standing in front of three mirrors that had been set up to show different angles. Kicking off the shoes and socks, tossing the jacket, removing the shirt, untying the belt, pants falling down, kicking them away and then dropping trough. Each article being removed only further increasing my astonishment.
This morning had been so thin, so malnourished. Definitely put on weight during the day. Had needed to peel off the panties that had been big in the morning. Much more definition in the legs. Healthy. The breasts are small, but more than flat. Turning each way to get a better look. Trying to reconcile the girl in the mirror with the one from this morning. Sure cleaned up nice after getting off death's door.
The shop girl standing off to the side and giving me a cold glare.
“You going to get to it, or what?”
Measuring, measuring. Hips, waist, bust. Inseam, torso, shoulders, arms. The girl wandering away and bringing back some white underclothes.
“No. I need something that won't show blood and dirt that readily. Darker underwear and an undershirt to wear as a base under armor, to soak up sweat. Darker in color, too.”
The next set much more suitable. Solid color, dark red panties, and a form fitting, black tanktop that came all the way up to my neck, but with exposed arms and shoulders. Extremely refreshing after wearing the loose shirt all day.
“These are great, I'll wear them out. I'll take two more of each, and some socks, mid calf, or to the knee.”
Wearing the socks, plain black and to the knee, felt incredible after dealing with the mismatched, lumpy set. Wearing the pinstripe pants and grey jacket again, but replacing the underwear, socks and shirt. A decent start.
Approximately fifteen silver for the clothes and then heading back to the newbie dorm. Showering, scrubbing away all the grime, sneaking some dinner from the kitchen and then falling asleep moments after hitting the pillow, thoroughly exhausted.