Finally achieving some measure of privacy in my small cell. Well, not actual privacy; the woven steel chain, the collar around my throat, meant true privacy had become a thing of the past. So not real privacy, but at least away from all the stares, inquisitive and accusatory. Mostly the former, and mostly from members of House Haven, but some cast in my direction while out on the street.
Stepping out of my sandals and laying down. Stretching out and staring at the blackness above, the bare twin mattress exuding a mustier smell than the rest of room. No windows whatsoever, previously unoccupied undoubtedly for that reason, the design and location of the room naturally repugnant to the majority of the inhabitants that used to, or still do, call this place home. But laying here immersed in the smell and deep darkness, a rekindled memory of my old home below the city streets.
Garland probably imagines this is a punishment, she probably has that Augur spying on me right now through the collar, she's probably rubbing her fat, gem encrusted hands together waiting to hear about my imminent breakdown. Breaking out instead into an exhausted grin and closing my eyes. The view not getting much darker. The exhaustion from my recent death, the exhaustion that had been sidelined, ignored, and pushed through, pulling me into an untroubled slumber.
***
Sitting up, drenched in a cold sweat and my heart beating out of my chest.
“Macarthy, you heard me, get up.” The light from the hallway frames the man who'd spoken, but the subtleties of his expression are hidden. From his tone, not particularly friendly.
Blinking, trying to get my eyes to adjust. Two of them, the one that spoke and the other that seems familiar. If they're here for revenge they probably came prepared. Feeling my chapped lips crack. Going to make them earn it, going get in some quick slices before being overpowered. Continuing to stare at each other as my eyes adjust.
Huh, they're only looking. Getting an eyeful because this too big temple robe is falling off. Maybe they're not here for revenge, at least not the simple, straightforward type of revenge. At least not right now. How long? Mid afternoon. Rolling my shoulders and neck to try and get some more blood circulating. Not a hundred percent, but significantly better.
“I guess I shouldn't keep her waiting.”
Gathering the robe to somewhat restore my dignity before swinging my feet over and standing up. Having to look up at them. Every time. Surprised my neck hasn't developed a crick. An impatient gesture from the man. Come this way. Following my escorts - one in front, one behind - though the shaped, living surroundings. Back, once again, in the labyrinthine, twisting corridors of House Haven.
The building – is building even the right word? - completely overtaken by the natural surroundings of the Druid grove dominating the southwestern portion of the city. The Grove had been steadily expanding over the years, uprooting cobblestones and overtaking all artificial structures nearby as it grew. Within the House roots had been directed into forming smooth pathways, the trees and hedges shaped into dividing walls, and the roof is a mishmash of branches and vines with a canopy of leaves overhead. Had performed considerable reconnaissance on the House prior to launching my disastrous raid, had obtained direct intelligence from someone on the inside, but the night it happened the shifting landscape had proven itself highly disorienting.
Running my fingers through my hair, trying to separate out some of the knots, but quickly giving up. Need to get a comb. Need to get a lot of stuff. Died, came straight here, agreed to some stipulations under maximum duress, then passed out. Hadn't braided it. This hair is probably both more troublesome and more rewarding than dealing with nearly any of these people.
My robe snagging here and there on branches jutting out of the walls. Thorns and nettles reaching out to grab, the vegetation instinctively recognizing me as an intruder. Pulling the garment tighter and heading up several flights of stairs to the top floor. Taking a breath to moderate my emotions. She only respects strength. Reentering the office, hopefully better prepared for this go around. Stopping short. Doing a quick scan. Not her. Only him, sitting at the desk next to the large window overlooking the grove. A pot of tea, sandwiches and some other finger foods sitting on it, as well.
“I hope you're feeling better.” Mr. Garland standing at my entrance. “I thought I'd give you a more proper welcome once you'd had some time to rest. I assume you're hungry.”
“Thank you. I am.” Not wasting any time standing on ceremony. Immediately taking a seat, pouring myself a cup - coffee, not tea - and starting to shovel food into my face. Garland watching me attack the food with a ravenous appetite and my escorts coming over. The three joining me and the one who hadn't spoken yet pouring himself a cup of coffee, as well.
“I'm glad you're comfortable enough to eat,” he says.
“I don't think you'd poison me. It doesn't taste like poison, at least. You could've done way worse to me in that cell you've stuck me in.”
“Please understand that small room is only a temporary accommodation until we can figure something else out.”
“It's a bit cozy, but aside from needing to be cleaned some it's more than fine.”
“If it suits you. But it's not a cell, please understand that you are, in fact, a guest.”
“You may want to tell your wife that.” Fingering the chain around my neck, too small to remove and the clasp now conspicuously absent, then glancing meaningfully at my escorts.
“That's for your own protection, as are these gentlemen.” Bullshit. Garland giving a conciliatory gesture. “And ours, I'll acknowledge. Penelope may have been somewhat curt with you earlier, but for the past few hours she's been trying to mediate the situation with everyone here.”
“Jacob,” says one of my escorts, the one who'd told me to get up, “I don't know what kind of political maneuvering we're getting involved in right now, but is this girl actually Macarthy?”
“She is.”
“You're not playing any word games, right? She's not Macarthy's sister, she's not a cousin, or some other relative. She's not-”
“This is Macarthy.” Garland's tone leaving no room for doubt.
“Jacob, you asked me to do this, and I know I said I'd do it, but why are you taking her in? Word is Macarthy set the harbor on fire.”
“Stormhawk is responsible for that.” The three men looking at me. Turning to address the man who hadn't yet spoken. “And, Foster, to be clear, I didn't cause them to cancel the tournament finals. Congratulations on making it that far, by the way. If I'd been betting this year it would have been on you or Karson. Or maybe Lucas.” None of three men saying anything. “Also, that thing running around a couple months back killing random people on the street wasn't me.”
“And, let me guess,” says the guy with a chip on his shoulder, “next you're going to try and claim that you never came over here and killed a bunch of us, either.”
Squinting at him. He was probably one of them. “That was me. If I killed you, or the chick you're currently seeing, I'm sorry, but it was nothing personal. I do intend to make amends, but honestly I feel I owe the three people that didn't die more of an apology than anyone else. I tried to make those kills as clean and professional as possible.” The man only looking at me. Yeah, definitely him or someone he's close to.
Garland clearing his throat. “If you intend to make amends, there's been one particular item that's been brought up by numerous members of the House, and they're making it a sort of sticking point.”
“What's that?”
“They're uncomfortable with the idea of you carrying any weapons while you're here.”
“I assume you're aware of what I can do.”
“That's why I don't believe you'll have a problem complying with that particular request.”
“So, in addition to wearing this tracking device, you want me to appear defenseless to make them feel better? What happens when they get some drinks in them and they get stupid? You're setting the scene for that situation, and you're setting them up for failure.”
“That won't be an issue.”
Don't blame me if it is. Garland nonchalantly gesturing. “And just how long do you expect me to put up with these two?” Waving my hand at Foster, and the other.
“For at least a few cycles. I was thinking that-”
“Jacob,” Foster interrupting, “I'm not playing chaperon for her after today. I don't care if she's actually, really Macarthy, or if she's just some snot nosed brat that stirred things up. I have more important things that I need to be doing.” Thank you, Foster, my thoughts exactly. “Besides, if she actually is Macarthy, her primary advantage is gone, the cat's out of the bag. Without the element of surprise anyone can keep an eye on her. She's only been here a couple months so she isn't all that strong.” Keep thinking that. Teach you not to underestimate me.
“It's most certainly not a question of brute strength, but fine.” Garland not sounding all that put off, but his hands coming together and writhing, the fingernails on one digging into his other wrist. “Kyle, I can count on you?”
“I told you I would, and I will.”
Refilling my coffee. “This is just for around here, right? And during the whole charity project I got roped into. Today's basically been a wash but I have to spend time out in the field. I'd rather do that with my friends.”
“Does that mean you're agreeing to not carry a weapon around here?” says Garland.
“Yeah, whatever.” The man not particularly relieved by the answer, his nails digging in further, leaving tracks. Hearing about something and having it confirmed are two different beasts entirely. “I was planning on heading out of here and getting some clothes. While I'm gone could you have that room cleaned out? I'd really appreciate some sheets and a pillow. And a light.”
“I'll see what I can do.”
“Great.” Standing up. “Thanks for the meal. I guess you two come on, I've got shit I've gotta do.” Exiting the office and my two watchers scrambling after. Going down two floors. “Oh, hold up, I've got to hit the can real quick.”
Making a turn into a bathroom to momentarily get away from the two men breathing down my neck and grabbing a stall. From what he said Garland, the wife, is busy talking right now, so no one is probably watching. Putting my head in my hands and trying not to freak out. Foster's assessment is basically correct and this whole situation is fucked. The door opening and someone else taking the stall next to me. Okay, okay, calm down. Doing fine, keep everything looking like it's fine and power through. It's long past time to reevaluate all my skills, anyway. Was trying to hold off until 20, but can probably make it work. How long until 19? Less than a cycle. Drop Simple Weapons for Brawling, but need some more points to do that. Stalking and Hiding, not going to do much good now, drop it down some. Hmm, that'd free up a bunch, doing that. Bump Transference and Decomposition up some. What'll that look like at 19? Okay, that should work out fine.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
Name Trainings Bonus Armor Use 6 29 Physical Fitness 19 68 Simple Weapons 19 (0) 68 (0) Brawling 0 (19) 0 (68) Arcane Symbols 24 74 Magic Item Use 19 68 Harness Power 19 68 Mana Control 19 68 Runemancy 19 68 Arcane Lore, Decomposition 5 (8) 25 (37) Arcane Lore, Shaping 19 68 Arcane Lore, Transference 8 (10) 37 (45) Survival 15 60 Perception 19 68 Climbing 15 60 Swimming 14 57 First Aid 15 60 Trading 19 68 Stalking and Hiding 19 (5) 68 (25)
How many points are moving over? 171 physical and 98 mental. Ten minutes per point, about forty five hours for it to completely take effect. That's not bad, although everything'll be sort of mid progress tomorrow so going out into the field isn't really going to be an option, but all set when getting in on day two. Washing my hands at the sink and then trying to smooth out my bedhead to get my hair ready for the braid. The girl in the stall next to me coming out and washing her hands.
“Um, excuse me?” The girl looking over. “I was wondering if I could borrow a comb, or a brush, and possibly some string to tie my hair?” The girl looking at my death garb. “I've kinda been having a rough day.”
“Well, sure.” Sounding friendly. “My room is just down the way.” Following her out into the hallway, and my escorts rejoining me once again. “I thought I met all the new recruits. Did you just join up or did you get a day change?”
“Something like that. Nice to meet you, I'm Lucy.” Ignoring to the best of my ability the eyes boring into my back. The four of us getting to her door.
“I'll get...” The girl trailing off. “Mr. Foster, what's the matter?”
A quick chill radiating from Foster's hand on my shoulder, running all the way through me. Drawing his other arm back. Activating the shield to block his punch. Trying to, at least, but Runic Shield not activating, or no longer active. That can't be right, it should've been active for another couple hours. Wait did he-
Foster's punch knocking the wind out of me and knocking that particular train of thought off the track. Sinking to the ground, gasping like a fish, and trying to keep the food and coffee down.
The girl making a nervous squeak. “What are you doing?”
“This is Macarthy.” Foster's brief explanation putting the girl's wide eyes back on me. “Hey, Macarthy, Jacob told me to make sure you didn't pull any shit. Not telling her who you are, that's pulling shit. You're not allowed to do it, so don't do it. That was your warning. Your only warning.” Reaching his hand down. Sucking in some more air before grabbing at it and getting pulled back to my feet. “Apologize to her.”
“I'm sorry that,” pulling in air, “I didn't say who I am.” Fighting back tears. “I thought if I did,” sucking in more air, “you wouldn't lend me a comb,” another inhaled gasp, “and I need a comb and I'm sorry about that.” Not going to cry. “I've been having a rough day, could you please lend me a comb?”
The girl not saying anything. Instead quickly opening her door, darting inside, and pulling it closed behind her.
“That's rough.” My other minder - Kyle - snickering. “I guess you more than brought that reaction on yourself, Macarthy.”
Ignoring him, closing my eyes and steadying my breathing. Putting my head against the door while trying to center myself.
“Macarthy, let's go.”
Standing back up straight and turning to leave, but then the door reopening. The girl wordlessly handing me a brush and short piece of black thread.
“Thank-”
The door closing again. Blowing out my next word as a puff of air. Returning to the bathroom and brushing out my hair. Starting on the braid, working down the whole thing, effortless by this point, and tying off the end with the bit of thread. Feeling much more together than a few minutes earlier. Drawing Runic Shield on the back of my hand and reactivating, the shield winking back into existence. Not removing the drawing this time around. Knocking on the door to return the brush but no one answering. Leaving it on the floor outside.
“Okay, I'm ready. I need to go to the bank first, and then I need to get some clothing.”
Leaving the overgrown vegetation of House Haven behind and heading toward the center of town, some curious glances while en route, but no real animosity. An armed group of Stormhawk in the town square looking over, their scowls promising pain. My look back at them promising them all the pain they'd ever wish to receive. Foster and my other escort keeping their hands on their weapons. Passing by without incident and entering the bank.
“Hi, I'd like to withdraw ten gold.”
“Ms. Macarthy,” the teller's face drawn and serious, “after consulting with every available source on what precisely occurred, after considering the nature of the damages inflicted, and after considering what actually lies within our jurisdiction, we have finally calculated the fines to be assessed on your account. As far as damage to persons within city limits, seventeen counts of assault. Nothing more than that.” Feeling some of the tightness leave my chest. “However, as far as damage to property, the list is more extensive. Damage to the piers, shipping crates on the docks as well as to some of the buildings.”
“You're blaming all that on me?”
“You were most certainly not the only culprit, but after interviewing a number of witnesses you were identified as the primary instigator of what occurred in the harbor. Your fines for that damage are considerable. Your account balance is currently at zero and you owe an additional eighteen thousand six hundred and fifty silver.”
After hearing zero, the amount of my current fine sort of seeming irrelevant. Negative eighteen five, not a small amount, but having no money available to withdraw right now is more catastrophic.
“I thought you said Stormhawk was responsible for all that.” Foster sounding rather unsurprised. My other escort not managing a snarky comment this time, the guy simply floored at the amount.
“They are. They also owe me a hundred thousand silver.”
“That's great,” says Foster, then turning to address the teller. “Can you cash that hundred thousand IOU right now?” The teller blinking in surprise, not sure how to respond. Foster looking back at me. “Looks like she can't. You about ready to head back or are you going to start begging for handouts in the square?”
Liquidating my weapon cache and stones over at Harper's would maybe get me four, plus that sword in the locker, so five point five. As a note to be eaten up by the debt. Better off leaving it as is. Eighteen in the hole, there goes the apartment. Should go there now and- wait, what's today's date? The tenth. Only been in that apartment for twenty nine days, and the rent for the new month was already mailed out last cycle. Cancel it to get the rent payment back? No. And no reason to head over now and give up its location. A month to make eighteen, well, twenty. More than doable.
“Begging is as honest a profession as any.” Foster's contempt more than evident. “But I'm not so desperate yet.”
Leaving the bank and some more Stormhawk outside, casting dark looks my way. Giving them a great big, happy wave. Letting us go on our way. Entering the cobbler, filled with the comforting smell of leather.
“Ms. Macarthy,” says the cobbler, “how nice to see you. Your boots are ready to be picked up.”
“Thank you. I've got a request, but I'm a little short on funds at the moment.”
“Flat broke and very much in debt.” Kyle adding, very much unhelpfully.
“That... is true.” Die, you piece of shit. “I need another pair of those nice shoes you made for me, the ones for walking around town. Unfortunately, I misplaced my current pair. Somewhere. I really like them, I'll pay for the new pair when I pick them up. Please.”
The cobbler not saying anything for several moments, his mouth hidden within his mustache. “Ms. Macarthy,” he says, “I've heard a number of things concerning what happened a few days ago and I'd appreciate an honest answer. The reason for your current lack of funds, are you the one responsible for what happened?”
Taking a deep breath. “I-”
“Of course Macarthy's responsible.” Foster chiming in, but the cobbler ignoring the unsolicited accusation, keeping his eyes fixed on mine.
“...I am.”
“I see.” The man glancing at my escorts. “How soon do you need the shoes?”
“As- as soon as you're able. Thank you.”
“They'll be ready for you to pick up before I close for the day. Gratis. You're very welcome.”
Out of the cobbler's with the now annoyed Foster and my other astonished minder. Hitting the clothing store.
“Ms. Macarthy, welcome.” The woman beaming. “Could you gentlemen wait over there, out of the way.” Pointing to a couple chairs over in a corner. “I'm sorry but your presence might make some of my clients uncomfortable. Your weapons, that is.”
The two men's annoyance and astonishment not fading one bit, but then heading over and sitting.
“Listen, I'm not exactly-”
“You're about as broke as broke gets, I'm guessing.” Giving a sheepish nod. “Worry about paying me later. What do you need for today?”