8 – Annalisa of Dunnemarsh

I rolled over to a hammering in my head, groaning. I quickly realized it wasn’t in my head, and a pair of dwarven builders were nailing a new hinge onto a new door by lantern light. A thicker door. With a thicker bolt. Had I really just passed out and slept through building repairs? The will-debt from over-extending myself with the deck was real.

I had no idea what time it was, other than night time. I dragged myself from the bed and checked that my stash hadn’t been disturbed. I added the day’s haul of two silver cunnings to it. That made up for the tailoring and ensured I’d still have a roof over my head this time next week. I washed my dry mouth out with some water from a pitcher in the cupboard, and then splashed a handful over my hair, as well.

The dwarves finished up the door and tipped their hats to me. “Compl’ments o’ Master Jeedle,” one of them said.

“My thanks,” I replied, holding a hand to my temple. Apparently that pounding hadn’t just been the hammers. I’d over exerted myself.

The wane light of Dragonmaw was burning, and I didn’t have time to live in a pity party. Jeedle had sent a full cunning, which meant he planned to send another fighter. I had to build my strength back up.

I secured the new door and made my way down the steps. Ash had been tossed on the bloody spot where I’d shivved the lizard, and an adventurer had been posted at the door to the money changer. Fuck. Here, I hoped my scuffle had gone unnoticed, like most of the violence in the middle city. Clearly my landlord had other ideas.

The adventurer sported a bronze ranked badge pinned to his belt next to a sword with a tarnished hilt. The badge classified him as a duelist. His heavy jacket had plates sewn in on the chest and over his kidneys. His eyes tracked me, even as I sized him up, in kind. I found myself wishing he’d been here a few hours ago, and then mentally kicked myself. He wouldn’t have lifted a finger to help me unless the drakkyn, Salamaz, had a bounty on his head. Could he have taken the pit fighter? Maybe. Could he take me? Almost certainly.

I supposed I felt like I had to start sizing people up now. I knew coming to Barrowdown, I’d eventually have to get my hands dirty. What I hadn’t expected was a fight for my life on my very first day. The streets were treacherous in Dragonmaw, and nowhere more so than Barrowdown. I’d thought myself mentally prepared, but that was far from accurate.

I’d barely survived the amateur pit fighter. Hell, I’d barely survived a feral cat. I needed more than a dubious door protecting me. The adventurer leaned against the wall, watching me pass. His commission was probably about a cunning per day. Out of my range now, but not astronomical.

I had errands to run, a new sign to make, and hopefully, readings to do that didn’t take me to exhaustion’s edge. I could fake a few, as well.

I swung by the tailor’s and picked up my robes, first off. Then I got an actual board to make a sign, not a shattered secondhand shutter. Following that, I only had a couple of cunning’s left and no pressing desire to return to the room.

My return route took me by the pits. I hadn’t intended it that way, but maybe something about the light and the noise drew my feet in that direction. Might as well pay a visit. These fights were off-limits to soul-seekers in the guild, but I’d still snuck down a few times. There’s something addictive about the fights. Even if you’re not the bloodthirsty type. Watching skilled opponents do anything holds an interesting allure, made even more so by the threat of bodily harm.

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The fights were in full swing, raucous crowds tossing drinks, food, and betting stubs into the circular arenas. I ducked between a pair of plane-touched getting quite handsy for such a public venue, and underneath the tray of a tall serving girl. She shot me a dirty look, and I pulled my hood up and twisted away. Several of the pubs circling the square catered the events, so drink trays flitted about through the crowd.

It cost two clips to get inside the perimeter of the arena to where I could actually see within the rope. I pushed through the press, getting close enough to see a flash of green in the pit. Storm-laden was down below, squaring off with a lithe, shirtless elf. Most people think elves, they think of the tall, slender creatures. This one was tall, yes, but thick and scarred. Probably a soldier. His hands were wrapped with cloth, and he deflected three punches in a row from Storm-Laden and then snuck in the side of his elbow.

The orc reeled back, shaking his head clear.

“Kick his ass, Storm!” shouted a drunken voice near me. I looked over. Despite the press, a small pocket had formed around a clearly-drunk plane-touched. At second look, the skin pattern of black on blue and the swept-back horns were familiar. I recognized her as the opponent Storm-laden had been tying up in knots my first visit. She’d been hissing and spitting at him like a cat, and cursing up a storm—apparently, now she was his biggest fan.

She was balanced on the first rope, ready to topple over. Her tail whipped about excitedly, knocking over the drink of a street tough watching the fight.

“Oi, watch yerself!”

In a flash she was off the rope and ducked into a fighting stance of her own, black fists clenched and teeth bared. “You want some of this, old man?” Now on a level, I could see she was unusually short for a devilborn. Most of them are tall and angular. This one was short, and… not curvaceous or round, but there was a softness to her body that her personality didn’t seem to reflect. She filled out her leather vest and trousers at shoulder, hip, and thigh. Her bare arms were well-toned, as one might expect for a pit fighter. Even a poor one.

The guy whose drink she spilled backed off, face reddening. Clearly, whatever offense the plane-touched offered wasn’t worth dealing with her lightning-quick temper. “I’m not that old,” he said. “Only thirty.”

A cheer went up around us, and just as quick, she was back up on the rope “Aww, I missed it!” she said. Above her head, the inverted arcana of the precipice burned inverted. Treacherous footing, long falls, overconfidence. She probably couldn’t fight at all. Just relied on a prickly exterior to intimidate others. While I considered, she lost her balance and about spilled into the pit. “Woah!”

I reached out and grabbed the only thing I could: her slender tail with the spaded tip and pulled as she windmilled her arms. The card crowns weren’t usually so literal! Behind her, Storm-Laden had got the elf wrapped up in an arm lock, and the two had gone to the ash. The plane-touched forgot she’d been falling and started cheering and swinging her fists again.

“Woo! Break his arms!”

Gods, what a psycho.

The elf struggled for a bit, and then slapped Storm-laden’s elbow. The pressure eased, and the crowd went wild. None more so than the plane-touched girl about to tumble over into the pits. I had to dig my heels in just to hold her back. Now, with the excitement gone, she turned and realized that I was holding on to her tail.

“Hey! Don’t touch my tail! What are you, some kind of freak for tails?” she turned to the nearest person and pointed back at me. “This guy is some sort of tail freak!”

I let go. The bystander, a human, of course, wanted nothing to do with the plane-touched. “Lady, you’re a tail freak. He just kept you from breaking your damn fool neck,” she said, before pushing away through the press.

“Yeah, you better run,” she muttered. She looked at her hands. “Where’d my drink go?”

“It fell into the pits,” I said.

Her eyes snapped up to me, taking in the robes. “Hey, I know you! You’re the Seeker that did Gronn and Storm!”

She shoved out her hand, animosity forgotten. “I’m Annalisa, and I’m going to be the Champion of Dragonmaw!”

The inverted precipice still burned above her head.