Thomas took a step back, as seven figures, nearly identical save for height, looked in his direction. Another step back, when he saw a crossbow being aimed in his direction – they didn't all have maces, he was perhaps late to realize. And another, when a blue message appeared out of nowhere. And then he fell on his ass as pain tore through his side, even as his brain finally processed what he was seeing.
Moderate objective complete: Help your friend escape the law. 2 customization points awarded. New major objective: Escape the law.
He touched his side, glanced down, saw blood. Crossbow bolt. He could feel it inside him, pain every time his torso moved. Thomas looked back up at the seven approaching figures; which one had shot him? Now they all had maces again. Arias had escaped? He couldn't see her. Or anyone on the ground. Okay, good. A spasm of pain wracked him, wrapped tightly around a convulsive cough.
Okay, not good. He stared at the blood he had coughed out, then looked back up at the approaching … law? Police? They'd shot him! Without so much as an order to halt. He forced himself to his feet, trying to ignore the stabbing agony of the piece of metal that was stuck between two ribs. Police. Okay, he couldn't possibly fight them. And he really, really didn't want to run right now. He raised his hands, and tried to clear his throat to call out.
Faster than he could process, a mace disappeared from the far left figure's hands, and a crossbow was there, and there was pain, unfolding through his torso into intricately detailed structures of agony; sharpness, dullness, pulsing tones that took on a nearly auditory quality. Thomas stumbled back, and found himself staring at a second piece of metal sticking into his chest. The fuck, the fuck, the fuck? This was the law!?
He was running. Thomas didn't remember deciding to run, he was just suddenly aware that he was dashing away, shoving past people. A sudden tiny geyser of blood to his right, and a woman cried out. Piercing pain in his back, adding to a rich tapestry of sensation he was simultaneously ignoring and incredibly aware of. His attention drifted to his health, with a spike of terror at the number there.
129/266 Health
0/0 Mana
6/6 Stamina
They'd shot him three times, and he was halfway to dead. He did not want to get shot again. How did you not get shot? Don't go in a straight line. He was currently running in a straight line, bowling through people. His bare feet slid on the stone as he threw himself left. Somebody else cried out. Thomas didn't look.
Another stab of agony ripped through his thigh. Seventy eight health. He didn't do the math, he just kept running, feeling the bolt, like an axe chopping away at his leg with every stride. Another bolt. The world no longer rushed by, it spun around him. Thomas blinked, trying to look around. There they were. Above him. It was hard to see, his eyes were blurry with tears. A blurry shape rose, and fell towards his vision, expanding into darkness.
Thumping, pulsing, shadowy figures moved around him, noises like a hammer on steel rang through his nerves, something leaned over him and was gone, thumping and pulsing, and he rang like a bell on and on and on in a song of fire burning everything away, continuity like tree bark and he was the tree with canopy in flames as he reached for the burning sunlight in the total dark an eternity that gave way to a rain of ice and snow that turned into light.
Light. Clarity hit Thomas like a wave, like he was swimming in Lake Michigan in a hot day in summer and the cold washed over him. He sat up sharply, reeling from the sudden sense of presence, like he was a glass hitting a stone floor and shattering, but in reverse, his various pieces shoved together with remarkable violence until he was whole once more.
He was whole once more, and the room around him was a plain stone room, and a bearded face was scowling at him from the other side of a table. Thomas felt at his chest – he was naked, his mind noted, with disappointment but without surprise – and, with somewhat more surprise, he was not poked full of holes. His mental attention turned to the bearded face, which sat atop a … oh. The gray-blue armor. The helmet sat on the table. Thomas took a second to check his health, and was relieved to see it was back at full, at which point his hands stopped looking for injuries and crossbow bolts. Thomas returned the man's scowl.
“Is there a reason you shot me?” Gray-blue eyes, nearly the same color as the metal, stared back at him. Both hair and beard were short and black, and well-trimmed. The beard looked like it probably saw a brush.
“Is there a reason you interrupted a lawful arrest?” The voice was calm, cold, with a kind of precise and unyielding enunciation; if Thomas were to give it a color, it would also match the armor.
“Yes. You bashed that person's head in with a mace, and looked ready to do it again.” That got a reaction. Okay, a blink. Maybe that had just been a natural blink.
“A thief. They will be caught. You will name your accomplices.” It was Thomas' turn to blink. Accomplices? Oh. He considered that for a second. Considered it for another second. Okay. Assume … what could he assume?
“I do not know any thieves.” Maybe not good enough. “I don't know the person you hit. I thought you were assaulting people, and sought to intervene.” True enough, if they could tell whether or not he was lying; did police have a class? Did they get powers?
“I doubt that. Innocent people don't hang around with necromantic scum.” That gave Thomas more pause. Did they have Madelaine? Could they detect … some kind of magical residue on him?
“I don't know what you mean.” That was … true enough. He only had guesses.
“Don't lie to me.” Shit shit. “We caught you fleeing from the district where the cultist scum settled down.” Wait, what? The man's face shifted, then his scowl shifted. “What was that?”
“What was what?” A pause, in reply.
“Stay here.”
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A woman joined the man when he had re-entered the room, as Thomas discovered when two helmets were placed on the table. She looked, if anything, even more severe than the man. Thomas looked between them, as they both watched him. The man spoke.
“You helped a thief escape.” A pause; Thomas just looked at the man, as that had been a statement, not a question. “You attempted to prevent an arrest.” Another pause. “You are traveling with a necromancer.” Pause. “You were consorting with cultists.” A longer pause. Then the woman turned to look at the man.
“I do believe you are correct.” Her attention turned back to Thomas. The man waited a moment, while Thomas' attention shifted between them, feeling … bewildered.
“You are a woman.” Thomas blinked in surprise at the man's next statement, but the man had continued before Thomas could react. “You have green hair. You are traveling with a necromancer.” Oh. Oh shit. Thomas sank back into the chair back behind him. The woman was nodding, and took over the conversation.
“Where is the necromancer?”
“What about the thief?”
“Irrelevant. An unlicensed necromancer takes priority.” Thomas blinked. The woman's expression changed. “Is the necromancer licensed?” Thomas was feeling … somewhat inadequate to this situation; they read him like a book, and he was feeling entirely exposed for a reason unrelated to his state of undress. “Do you know that necromancy requires a license?” She stared at him for a while, until he decided she was waiting for an actual answer. Maybe because he found the question confusing, and she couldn't interpret that?
“I, uh. I didn't? I do now?” Her eyes tightened; Thomas didn't recognize the expression.
“Irrelevant.” A pause. “You are one of the lost invaders?” She nodded almost at once. He felt vaguely indignant; he was pretty sure he had only reacted in confusion to the term. “Is the necromancer a lost invader?”
“Yes?”
“Irrelevant.” Her reply was nearly an interruption. Only, after a moment, she added, “Mostly irrelevant. Has this necromancer, to your knowledge, learned any of the following spells: Steal Face. Plague Touch. Speak to Spirits. Curse Transfer. Soul Transfer. Grave Transfer. Devour Soul.” Each spell name was followed by a brief pause in which he tried to convey his genuine lack of awareness. She shared a look with the other … police officer? The bearded man spoke next.
“You will remain in custody until the necromancer is evaluated for compliance and licensed. You have been found to be in negligent non-compliance with the law, and for negligent interference with a lawful arrest. Your material possessions will be held in collateral until you have paid the fines.”
Thomas was moved to a different room, which involved going down several flights of stairs; each landing was cramped, with little more room than necessary for the stairs going up and down and two doors. The stairs themselves were wide, such that the two officers, or whatever their title was, held him between them, with room for a fourth person, even in their bulky armor.
He was brought through one of the doors from a landing, into a room that itself was a hallway with doors on either side, all made of the same dull gray stone. It was dark, the lighting coming from a single orb at the end of the hallway, and the two guards opened a door and shoved him through. He looked around once inside. Ah. A prison cell. It was almost familiar, albeit this one smelled somewhat better, and looked to be kept clean, with a dim glowing sphere suspended in the air overhead, just out of his reach. Last time he'd had clothing. Thomas frowned around at the floor, reluctant to sit directly on the stone; however clean it looked, it wasn't like dirt would show up terribly well on the rough gray surface.
He gave up on standing after what felt like several hours, and sat against the wall. More time passed, and when he could stand it no longer, he used the … hole in the floor. There wasn't any way to clean up; he tried not to think about that.
A meal appeared on the floor, a play of lights brightening the darkness of the room; a plate of manna, a bowl of some kind of sauce, and a large jug of water. It also came with a folded cloth that might have been a napkin. He used the water and the napkin to clean himself after he was finished eating and drinking.
He slept. The stone was uncomfortable. And woke to noise; the door opened, and Norris' face appeared, followed by hands holding a bundle of cloth – a set of his clothes. Alright then. He dressed, and stepped outside, where Anne and Madelaine were waiting. Madelaine looked furious.
“Thomas! What the hell, man?” Thomas looked around at them, feeling … relief. The fines, when he got the papers, seemed … well, it seemed an awful lot like they'd gone through his money, and made up a figure that took most of it. He was surprised to realize, as they ascended stairs, that he'd been underground; the towers stretched down as much as up.
“They're the Gray Guard.” Anne spoke between drinks; she had been furious, he had only realized when they had left. “They think themselves the common law of the anchorages of Confluence. Avoid them as much as possible.”
The tavern Anne brought them to was, to Thomas' sensibilities, strange; there was no common room, and the establishment stretched upward, with similar stairs and landings to the prison, save that the rooms on either side were comfortably furnished, and warmly decorated in, mostly, abstractly geometric tapestries. It was surprisingly private in comparison to Thomas' expectations. Servers periodically ducked in, took orders, and vanished again.
“Arias found us, and let us know you'd been taken.” Norris was less interested in the drink, which Anne was alternatively emptying, and filling from an enormous clay pitcher, and more interested in an orangish starchy vegetable, that tasted unusually sweet to Thomas. The mage's eyes turned to Arias, who had been waiting for them when they arrived at the tavern. “Took a few hours to get everything sorted out. They … ” He paused, frowning. “They don't like people from our plane.”
“I think they called you cultists.” Anne scowled. Norris continued in a more neutral tone.
“The cultists died. Our homes died with them. There's suspicion. When a plane is evacuated, everybody expects the problem to come with the refugees.” Thomas looked around, blinking.
“You're refugees? But you seem … ” He stopped, taking a moment to actually consider what they did.
“This is not a noble profession, Thomas. It's a job, like any other.” Anne's voice, sounding more bitter than he'd heard from her before. He felt like he heard other words, unspoken – it was a job people didn't do, if they could help it. “Do you begin to understand?”
“I … yes.” Anne nodded, refilling her cup.
“They didn't kill you, at least.” Norris' voice, still carefully neutral. “I think things have improved a bit since the last time I was here.”
“They shot me with a crossbow.” Thomas took a moment to try to remember. “Six or seven times. Then I think somebody hit me in the head with a mace.” Norris blinked at him. Anne even stopped drinking for a second. Thomas hastily added, “I have nineteen damage reduction.” Madelaine looked over at that; she'd complained the entire walk over here about the paperwork she'd been made to fill out to get him out.
“Nineteen? That's not fair, that's like, a third of my health!”
“It's what his class does.” Norris interjected before Thomas could respond. “But whatever nineteen means in this case, it won't do you any good. Sufficient dedications in crossbows and maces nullify such physical resilience. Second or maybe third dedication, I think.” Thomas stared. They … they had just ignored his damage reduction? Which was, as Norris put it, what his class did? That wasn't fair at all!
“Avoid the Gray Guard, anyways.” Anne spoke up again. “It doesn't sound like they've improved at all, not that I'd expect it of them. They're corrupt and vicious arbiters of a law that they change to suit themselves, at best.” Her attention turned to Thomas. “Consider yourself lucky to live.” A slight pause. “Also, thank you for helping Arias.” She and Norris both turned to the girl, who thus far had been … well, not just quiet, but somehow withdrawn, as well. “Who should have already known better than to attract their attention.”
Arias just nodded. Thomas studied her; he wasn't good at reading facial expressions anyways, but he guessed she was, maybe, embarrassed? Or maybe that's just how he'd feel.
“I owe her, like I owe all of you.” Anne's attention turned back to him, anger giving way to a small smile. He nodded to the older woman. “Thank you all for taking me in.” Madelaine's anger also gave, a little bit. “Thank you for taking us in.”