The wind breathed harshly against his manky sheets and whiffed his nearby fire away. Even nature did not think him deserving of warmth. The bridge did not bring satisfactory shelter to Milton. He first thought the area was secluded enough to be left in peace, but drunkards still appeared every so often as he was about to drift away into the escape of sleep. They would yell and spit at him, as if he were an animal locked in a cage. He might as well have been. What could he do to them? He was cold, weak, and starving. They would dangle their Denarii over him tauntingly before kicking him aside without leaving him a coin.
He was curled up in a ball, the bitter chill creeping down his spine no matter how many layers he covered it with. He could feel someone stood over him and he reluctantly opened his eyes, bracing himself for another scolding. The man that looked down on him was hooded, and in russet leather armour. A relieving sight. “What have you seen?” the Thief asked. He knelt down and offered a soothing drink from his flask.
Milton downed it. It was whiskey, and it warmed his body. “The Maryweathers are out of the city during the next month,” he reported in between gulps, savouring every drip. He did not know when the next drink would come. “They do not have the largest household, but I have peaked inside and there is loot.”
The Thief patted Milton on the shoulder and allowed him to finish the flask. He began to feel pleasantly numb to the cold. His belly felt warm, and his spine no longer felt as if it were bitten by frost. He could not see much under the Thief’s hood. His face was gaunt, and his eyes were cool and green. “The catacombs are warmer,” he said to Milton. “Might be you can keep a steady fire there.”
Milton tugged on his beard and swiped the Thief away dismissively. “I don’t have privilege of such access. Just leave me here to freeze.”
He felt a jingling sound as something cold and metal fell into his dirty hand. “King and Queen won’t mind,” the Thief said firmly. “Just don’t go leading any watchmen through them if you know what’s good for you. They don’t give a toss about you. The Thieves Guild is the one offering refuge.”
Milton nodded sullenly as he gathered his ragged bedsheets and torn clothes, throwing them over his aching shoulder. His body ached from the many nights sleeping against cobblestones and wooden benches. “Nearest gate is ‘round the corner from ‘ere,” the Thief told him. “Don’t stray too far down. Many get lost and perish in the dark.” The Thief walked away silently and just like that Milton was alone in the cold again. He could hear drunken yells in the distance and decided to heed the Thief’s advice.
He wondered down the alleys of White Raven and found the iron gate. His stiff fingers were too frozen and fumbling with the keys was a struggle. He shifted his bodyweight against the bars, and they screamed open. He pulled the gate behind him and descended. The tunnels were dimly lit, the occasional torchlight from a sconce flickered weakly. He felt scared. He questioned whether it was better to return to the surface and be beaten by drunkards or remain here with the ghosts and the dead. He decided to continue walking. The tunnels widened, and he found other vagrants hunched over a fire next to scraps and a hut made from hastily put-together planks and stained sheets. He did not find them welcoming. They stood and hissed threats at him the closer he got.
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He pressed on, further into the maze of bones. He knew that the dead lay behind the grey walls. The further he got, the weaker the render became, and he would see skulls staring at him and bones peeking. It made him uneasy. They’re all dead and still probably live better than I do.
The tunnels of the catacombs began to narrow further. He only felt colder rather than warmer. He contemplated setting up a fire inside one of the many tombs that he passed that lay beyond open steel gates.
The dead might haunt him, but at this point, he much preferred the dead to the living. His echoing pattering through the tunnels came to a halt when he heard steel screeching in the darkness. He thought himself alone down here. He was deep in the catacombs, further than many men would venture. The Thieves, he thought reassuringly. They travelled through the city sewers and the catacombs to avoid watchmen after a theft or heist. They were kinder to him than others were. Might even have spare food or coin. He followed the echoing, feeling his way through the tunnels. He could barely see.
An orange glow appeared after some cautious footsteps. He steadied himself against the walls, the skin of his palms freezing against the stone. As he approached closer to the only lit sconce in the tunnel, he saw a steel gate slam open, crashing against stone and bone as it hit the wall.
Milton pulled back, remaining in the dark, hidden from the torchlight. What emerged from the gate was no thief but a demon. He crookedly emerged from the tomb with a raptor’s skull for a head. His jacket was red as blood and his hand possessed a curved claw. I strayed too far; he thought hopelessly. The dead own me now.
The undead creature started pulling at his skull. It detached and Milton saw that the figure was no demon but a man. The figure rested his back against the skulls and stones that protruded from the walls. The man was panting frantically. Milton gingerly stepped from out of the shadows. Might be the man could help him find a way out. He had become lost here, doomed to die in the dark like so many others. Milton stepped closer to the figure stood by the torchlight. “Excuse me, sir,” he said hesitantly as he approached, wanting to appear as unthreatening as possible. He raised his frail hands in the air to show that he was unarmed.
The man turned and met eyes with the vagrant. He was handsome, too noble-looking to be down here in the depths of the dead. His auburn hair was dishevelled and sweaty. The longer he stared at Milton, the more forlorn he appeared to be. He slowly shook his head and grimaced. “You poor unfortunate soul,” he said remorsefully.
Milton was unsure what he meant by that at first. When the strange noble started to walk towards him, he decided to flee. He ran in the darkness, blind, and tripping over unseen stones and bones on the ground. He felt a sharp sting in his collarbone and was flung against the wall of bones. “No one was meant to be down here,” the man said, his voice breaking. “You weren’t meant to be down here!” Milton felt his shoulder stinging, like hot acid was running through his veins. His stomach was churning, twisting, and contorting, as if his guts were crawling upside down. He wanted to scream but could not. The man’s hands were wrapped around Milton’s throat, the clawed finger digging into the side of his neck. His throat was on fire. His eyes widened in desperation. His legs kicked wildly. “I’m sorry,” the man said, sobbing in the dark as he throttled him. “I’m doing you a service. When the truth comes to New Jade, you won’t survive it, anyway.” Milton didn’t know what he was talking about. He just wanted the pain to end. Within moments, the dead welcomed him within their walls.