Seymour's Endeavour
We seldom get what we want, and when we do it often weakens us. If only the fools could raise their covetous eyes to what they needed… But this is a moot point, one's nature is not so easily changed, not theirs, and certainly not mine.
Ramblings of the dying Emperor Hasis moments before he ordered the execution of the entire Imperial line.
Seymour took a deep breath, at least he tried to, but this new fangled body did not breathe and it was quite a disconcerting experience attempting to do so.
Seymour panicked then, and curled up in the fetal position as he tried to reconcile what was happening to him.
After a few minutes he stopped, his chest heaving as his mind told him it should be. Except when he looked down it was still…
Seymour forced himself to count out the hippolatus sequence.
“Zero, one, one, two, three, five, eight, thirteen…”
By the time he had counted out to seventy-five thousand and twenty-five he had calmed, and realised a few things.
Firstly, he could speak, despite seemingly having no lungs.
Second, he wasn't deaf, the noises he heard himself making while moving about proved that.
Third, this was very obviously not his body. To be fair he vividly remembered getting stabbed. There was a good chance his normal, human body was feeding the river fish right about now.
That was another disturbing thought that threatened to disrupt his calm, he counted out a few more integers of the sequence.
Fourth, unless this was an elaborate prank the manilla file beneath him showed just how big he currently was. Really steamin' small! Stuffed toy size! Yet this was no fluffy toy body he was stuck in, fully articulated metal limbs were not simply made in your local stitch shop, especially in miniature.
Fifth, his vision was; different. Despite there being next to no light he could see, although instead of the usual colors everything was in muted grey's.
Finally, as Seymour lay in his rectangular wooden enclosure he realized he very much wanted to escape from wherever he currently was being held, and find Stalia.
Yes, he wanted to, if possible, help her avoid death, dismemberment, or any other form of insidious harm.
Seymour had no idea how much time had passed since he was shanked, and that worried him more than his immediate indigent circumstances.
Yet he would likely only find out after his escape so he focused his thoughts, shuffled around, and examined the keyhole, through which spilled ever brightening light.
The keyhole was large to his view, but must have been a small design as it was not even large enough to stick his finger through.
A moment's troubleshooting brought to his remembrance his current bed, and some groping around rewarded him with two paper clips, which he swiftly unbent and thrust into the lock.
It took a few minutes of trying to finally pick the lock with his improvised tools, especially as that blasted noble had sprung for a seven tumbler Heckle and Gocker. The high end lock far more secure than the two or three tumbler variant one would usually encounter.
Nonetheless Seymours miss spent youth aided in his endeavour and soon the bolt slid free.
Seymour threw his weight against the drawer front, earning him a visible gap as it slid outwards.
He wedged his fingers into the crack and pulled, leveraging the drawer further open.
Freedom.
Seymour cautiously raised his head and found himself in the very room in which he was murdered.
“Well, time to beat it before anyone comes in,” He muttered to himself.
His voice was- not his own, it sounded hollow and slightly scratchy to his ears, or was it his ears that were different?
Seymour pushed aside the panic that threatened to surface again. He could hear everything else normally, his voice had changed, that was all.
Seymour lifted himself onto the smooth wooden desk and bounced on his feet. The metal it was built with might make this body heavy for its size, but he felt light, he felt like he could-
Seymour jumped, and the arch he drew as he flew to the window revealed the gardens outside.
Something thumped behind him as he landed on the windowsill, prompting a panicked spin and a new discovery. He had a tail! Braided metal flexed as he twitched it from side to side in silence.
The discovery of his new appendage brought on the reality of his situation once more and Seymour had to shove his emotions down again.
Right now he dared not even look at his entire body in the reflective surfaces scattered throughout the room.
So instead he picked the window’s lock and pulled them open.
A stiff morning breeze billowed the curtains around him. When they settled he was gone.
Seymour quickly found some advantages of his new body, it was tough, absorbing the impact from the fall easily.
Once he stopped tripping over it selfconciously his tail also helped him balance extraordinarily well as he ran.
The run through the estate’s gardens gave him time to adapt to this body as he darted between shadows, or over flowerbeds. Gradually growing more and more agile as he explored the limits of his form.
From what he could tell so far it did not tire at all.
Something that did bother Seymour were his hands, they seemed disproportionately large for his frame.
But he had to admit that the blackened limbs had strength and his sharp fingernails were eminently useful for climbing. The metal was hard too, and a particularly hard tumble onto stone a bit earlier hadn't left even a scratch.
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
Seymour connected the dots. If he had a throat he would have gulped, instead a weird gurgle came out. There was only one metal he could think of with this color and properties.
“Tikka’s breath! Who in the blazes made this body with damn Adamantite!” Seymour swore, even as he exited the estate by vaulting over the boundry wall, landing comfortably in some decorative foilage on the other side.
It was a small comfort at least, that the body he recklessly tossed around as he got used to it was durable.
After making sure the coast was clear Seymour exited the cover of the fancily trimmed bushes and dashed down the still empty street. The morning mist that had yet to burn away proved excellent cover for his tiny form.
Of course, the thought of depriving his murderer of such an expensive trinket was a nice perk and brought a grin to Seymour's face.
Seymour paused in the shadow of a thoroughfare's entrance and raised a hand to his mouth in sudden anxiety as another thought occurred to him.
There was no grin upon his sculpted face.
He swore again, quietly, then threw himself out into the street in a sideroll, abruptly stopping his momentum under a passing carriage.
He quickly reached up and latched onto the carts base from beneath, his fingers and toes sinking into the soft wood with relative ease.
Now he had transport to the workers quarter, and a break before he would have to switch carts again.
Hanging on with his other three limbs Seymour detached his right hand and tentatively brought it upwards to his face again.
His touch revealed features, human only in the broadest sense, he had a nose, mouth, and eyes, but they did not seem to be normally proportioned.
"I should have guessed it when I saw my oversized limbs." Seymour muttered to himself, "I had- no, I should be grateful I even have this chance at life again, no matter the form."
Seymour lost track of time as he sunk into musings, and only regained his awareness when his ride passed through the central market square and stopped to collect a load of goods.
Seymour lowered his head and peered between two wheel spokes. He looked around until he spotted a battered vegetable cart, now empty, and about to head back after delivering its cargo to the market.
Seymour quickly dropped down from his hiding spot and blurred through a gap in the sea of legs.
These hidden, dashing techniques were old friends to Seymour. Skills polished as a child on the streets of Nolusburg, where too much attention was never a healthy thing. Attention usually heralded beatings, or losing the food you had begged or stolen. Indeed, to the powerless attention brought greater competition and fewer chances of survival.
Seymour had in turn adapted to his youthful environment, learning to conceal himself in the slightest shadow or behind the briefest cover.
His current body made it all the easier to apply the tricks of the trade he had learnt a lifetime ago.
Seymour now applied and polished his skills as he darted through gaps in the crowd that only briefly opened, and into shadows cast by crates, utilizing his size and speed to avoid any curious eyes.
He reached his target and quickly latched onto the underside of the departing cart. This ride would take him out the gates if he rode it long enough, but more importantly it would depart through the south gate, and travel through the slums to do so.
Seymour waited patiently until he recognized familiar broken down buildings before detaching himself and slipping into a narrow alleyway, still pungent with wafting smoke and smells from the night's entertainment.
He stopped next to some crumbling masonry and admired how surprisingly strong and flexible the body he now possessed was. It was far easier to move in than the scrawny knob kneed one of his youth.
And he needed stealth now, more than ever before.
……………
Seymour waited in his hiding spot until darkness fell. He then pushed away the stones and assorted refuge he had hid under, no sense of smell meant it had been a far less disgusting affair than expected.
A few suks had tried to make a meal out of him, but a few swipes and solid punches to their snouts had driven them off.
Only one passing suk had tried to pee on him, that one had fled whimpering after a solid kick in the gonads.
But amidst the little battles of the day Seymour had finally learnt the date from passing conversations, it was the second day of the fifth week of Autumn.
He had lost over three weeks of time since his murder.
Anxiety threatened to cloud his vision but Seymour found his inner void, fed it his emotions and thereby stilled himself.
He had forged plans while he lay under the rubble, having deliberately chosen a spot close to a city crier's platform to catch up on the local news.
Some businesses had closed, the price of food was rising, old Yeller, the owner of The Rabid Suk had died in a fire along with twenty of his 'employees'.
Seymour crossed the gambling hole off his list of safe houses to check. Someone had evidently raided it before him and likely already taken Kyle.
Or Kyle was a crispy corpse buried under tons of rubble, either way he was out of the picture for the immediate future.
But he had instructed Stalia to be taken to a different location entirely, a proper safe house, not some prison affair.
His destination set Seymour traveled through the streets in the darkening night. The moons were starting to wax but their slivers cast little light tonight.
Torches and tin canner patrols were scant in the slums, and paired with the faint natural light this allowed Seymour to travel far faster without fear of discovery.
After a couple brief detours he arrived at his destination, and clambered up a nearby gutter pipe for a better view.
Before him lay safe house four, otherwise known as T&J's Fine Lending Establishment.
The two loan sharks worked for the Grakoans, and were excellent debt collectors. Their solidly built brick building was a bit at odds here in the slums, but below it lay a hidden safe house, as well as a vault that stored a floating portion of the mafia's wealth.
Seymour noted a number of meat handers who guarded the place both covertly and overtly.
The security tonight was excessive, no doubt a consequence of the recent raid on another of their safe houses.
It mattered not to Seymour, his plan had accounted for variables such as this.
Seymour climbed down and recovered a pouch he had left down below. The small waxed leather pouch was filled with a milky powder. Hestardas dust, known commenly as bowel reaper.
In very tiny doses the purgative was mixed with herbs as a remedy for constipation or rotgut.
Seymour had stolen enough to dysentery a brigade.
He had also procured a wineskin filled with some local moonshine, a very particular fiery moonshine favored by those without the coin for finer stuff.
Carefully he poured the powder into the liquid, recorked it and gave it a few swirls to mix.
He then snuck closer and round the side of the small loans building with his cargo, if his timing was right then his target would be- There! A meat hander was strolling down the side street towards the office. A full wine skin hooked to his belt was destined to be shared with the guards as a fortifier against the chilly autumn air.
Seymour waited until the tipsy individual strolled past his hiding spot.
A leap. A lift and twist. A theft. A giving and clipping. Then back down and flat on the ground into shadow and under the night's gathering knee high mists.
The man stopped, having felt something change. Not as drunk as he appeared to be then. But after checking that his coin purse and wineskin were still there and briefly glancing around the man grunted and and continued on his way.
Seymour retreated back, further into the alley as the meat hander gave a low whistle and the various guards strolled over with their tin cups for their nightly 'ration'.
All Seymour had to do was wait.
Ten minutes later the shop was abandoned and none of those men would be back for some time.
Seymour hopped up and unlocked the door with a set of keys he had relieved from a very distracted guard.
Pushing the door inwards he slipped in and then closed and locked it again, no need to draw any attention with an open or unlocked door just yet.
He made his way through the reception room to the back office and spent a minute picking the safe's lock, Seymour gathered a few stacks of coins of various denominations and stuffed them into one of the collection pouches laying to the side of the bulky metal box.
They would need the money to rent a safe room with a rival faction and buy passage out of the city.
His pension collected Seymour turned to the desk and moved the chair, then rolled back a rug to reveal a trap door.
This too he unlocked with a key from the ring he had nicked, and with a solid heave he flipped the door open, the rolled up rug perfectly positioned to absorb the impact.
Metal rungs led downwards but Seymour simply dropped into the hole, landing with a soft thump on the ground below.
A figure lay there, wrapped up in blankets and lying on a sleeping pallet. The room was small, but mostly clean, with a small bookshelf in one corner.
Seymour quaked as he took her visage in. Pale, even in his grey sight. While always slender she had become oh so thin. Her cheekbones stood out so prominently on her face and her arms were thin from disuse.
She started tossing and turning as she weakly flailed about in the grip of a nightmare, calling out for Guppy, for Kyle. For him.
He moved unconsciously towards her, hands outstretched to wrap her in his embrace.
He saw his hands.
Black metal hands, his hands. Not His hands.
Seymour let his arms drop uselessly to his sides. What would she think of him if she saw him now. Would she laugh at his claims? Would she cry? Would she rage and scream at him? He had failed her after all. His oh so egotistical self had stepped into the worgens den thinking himself better than them.
Would his death be the final straw to her? Would it send her over the edge of dispair, madness or death to see him as he currently stood, to know that the one she loved was now a Monster in both mind and body.
He shrank back from her shifting form, his tail unconsciously curling around his waist.
A screech startled him out of his spiraling thoughts. He had clenched his fists so hard the metal had shrieked at the friction. Not a scratch to be seen of course, but it startled him nonetheless. Another reminder of the monster he was.
Seymour sat down heavily and cradled his head in his hands.
He would weep, but he had no tears to shed.
"Hello! Who's there?" came a voice, came Her voice.
Seymour froze his rocking. Her voice was hoarse and scratchy from disuse and crying, but he would recognize it amongst any crowd.
He slowly lowered his hands and stood as Stalia fumbled for a lamp.
It lit, and Seymour's form was revealed. Stalia scooted back in fright at his sudden and silent appearance.
"Who- wh- who are you? What are you? Ar-are you a demon come to kill me?" she stuttered.
It broke Seymour's heart to see her sunken cheeks and puffy eyes, her split ends, and ragged locks where SoMe fool haD cUt bits OfF-
Seymour stopped that train of thought, he was scaring Stalia enough as it was. However much he wanted to rip into some of his former employees right now she currently needed reassuring, not some raving fiend.
"Relax Stalia, I'm a- a friend, your sister sent me here to help you escape from this place. I've already taken care of the guards above, but we need to leave before we are discovered." Seymour said, calmly mixing lies with truth.
"Really?" asked Stalia, "Are Guppy and Kyle still alive and well? I've been told they are, but no one would let me see them. An-an-and they told me Sey-seym-. My boyfriend was dead."
Seymour looked at his beloved, read the excitement, tension, denial and hope in her face. And then let go and did what needed doing.
"Seymour is dead. Your siblings live. I am merely a puppet controlled by a mage from afar to aid in your escape."
Stalia, slumped back into the pile of blankets, her shoulders trembled and shook.
Seymour let out a quiet curse and ran to her, the lept up and slapped Stalia as firmly and gently as he dared. The slap knocked her head to the left, and the shaking thankfully stopped.
Seymour took a deep breath, or the mental equivalent of one, and forced himself to be as mean as he could to her.
"Focus Stalia, unless we leave right now you won't live to see your siblings again, do you want to be the one who kills them because you couldn't get over some dumb boy!?" he snapped, "Now get up, no leave the blanket here, get up that ladder before I rip the flesh from your bones with this puppets claws!"
This tirade finally got Stalia moving, and Seymour let out a sigh as she disappeared through the door in the ceiling. He slapped himself, feeling the dull thud as he did so.
Seymour sighed again and scrambled after Stalia. The girl was waiting for him and looked inquisitive when he slung the money bag over a shoulder. It was as big as he was, yet barely hindered his movement.
"What are you looking at girl!? The exit is that way." Seymour hissed, "Move your skinny butt or I'll pluck your eyes out!"
Stalia huffed, but her irritation at his words and partial fear kept her functioning, and not dwelling on other things.
Seymour would take what he could get at this point.
He had to pass her the keys for the front door, but the two left as he had come, anonymously disappearing into the misty night.