Open Along These Godless Streets [completed]

The morning sun had not quite broken past the tall trees beyond the boundary of town, and yet the residents that had risen early to begin their day were treated to the divine scene of a halo of light. It clung to the topmost leaves, the wind so gentle it did not register to many, but gave the appearance of the sun tickling the treetops to move. It was peaceful, as if it were any other day without event.

Even with a night's rest and proper food and shelter instead of making camp, such a morning of peace never settled in her bones well. Monroe was on her way back to duty, perhaps a few months too early, but sitting still never lead to any decisions made with good intentions. Her job was done, and the seaside town Cathmore no longer needed her presence and help to rebuild any longer. Perhaps she should have made proper farewells, but when had she ever done that right? It wasn't in her nature.

Three weeks since she had left the seaside, cutting inland towards Astenvale, she came across the town she promptly forgot the name of. It did not matter, not when she saw that the sun had still yet to pierce past the forest line.

Food, at least. She should start her day with it, and replenish before making the journey back to the Monastery.

---

The market was what this town was known for. Nestled along main roads used for trade, it was foolish for the townspeople to not capitalise on this chance. For decades, it sported a plethora of stalls and wagons, for the region had always been blessed with good crop and plenty of game to hunt. Travelers would make the detour, stop by for a pit stop, and always turned back to the road with something bought from the market. Whatever one needed, one would find.

Except, one stall was still left empty, and the growing line of customers were becoming restless. Impatience, for what could go wrong?

Monroe had walked by, eyed the sign that proudly stated 'The best smoked meats' was to be sold there, and yet no being nor wares were set up. It was empty, packed up from the end of day closure the day prior. She really ought to not listen, to ignore the instinct to abide by her curiosity.

"The shop is never closed... even if Vin is crook in bed, Yvette would take over..."

"Or just like that other day? Their delivery boy? He manned the stall, did he not?"

The dawnling Knight lingered, frowning. Mostly at herself for being too invested in this mystery than the woes of the townspeople. "Is there not another place to purchase smoked meats?"

Faces turned her way, expressions ranging from sneers to pity. Gods forbid one asked a simple question in this idyllic place.

"There have been, but no other business can survive when Vin's products always put others to shame. A family secret, he says, to make the meats taste exceptional..."

Morning had the troublesome habit of sneaking up on you. One moment you were sound asleep in your...well it was a sack this time around, and the next sky itself wanted to stab you in the eye. With light no less. Rude. But life was one big hangover anyway – couldn’t expect waking to it to be any different. Some nights, he hoped to have more coin for comfort – but then he just drank, gambled, and gave it all away first chance he got. Perhaps all of this wasn’t meant to be pleasant. Just a waystation between things that needed doing.

First light found Tollbrook in much better shape than it did Trevor. Always found the name funny. No one had imposed a toll in the last ten years he’d been passing through. And if there had ever been a brook, even the memory of it was starting to rub from local memory. There was a bridge, though – One over a dry bit of...well, nothing. Now Drybridge would’ve made a much more fitting moniker for this spot. But northerners didn’t seem to be a particularly imaginative people.

The market had remained a lifeline of this place for years beyond the few he could remember. And there was one stall in particular that made passing through a pleasant endeavor. Wasn’t sure what exactly it was called. Only that it boasted about having the best smoked meats. Could still recall how he’d sneered at that. But they’d proven themselves time and again. But they were not there today. Paced the length of the marketlane once, then again.

Where the fuck were they?

He’d seen the oldie – Vin or Gin or somesuch – man the stall with a broken arm. Seen a younger girl do it when the elder couldn’t manage. Thinkin’ about it – some gin would be nice. Would definitely take the edge off this whole disappointment.

Slapped himself.

It was way too early to lose a day. Looked to the grumpeyfuck next to him like she knew more. And maybe she did. Certainly had the face of someone who’d done wrong – or at least smelled some.

“Did they move?”

Monroe was not known for her smile. Many thought her incapable of it to begin with. Those were the ones that had never seen her four drinks in and the smile beginning to show. The rising sun had broken past, dousing them all in a golden hue of light. She didn't squint against the brightness, but the man turning to her with a question she didn't want to give acknowledgment with an answer caused her expression to sour.

If it could be possible.

"Um, actually, I hope they haven't!" Piped up someone that stopped by. She was a waif of a thing, looking as if the wind could very well whisk her away — to the other end of Ilica perhaps — from Monroe's side. The Knight of Dawn sidestepped, not appreciative of how close the woman stood to her. "All that meat, I do hope the animals they hunt got away from them!"

"Do you eat meat?" Monroe tried to keep the sneer from her tone, but she was on her way to finding some coffee to give her the illusion of putting up with townspeople.

The woman's face was an answer of quiet outrage. "No! That is actually very rude to—"

"— No, I don't supposed they have moved." Monroe turned her back on the woman, instead, gracing the man with an answer after all. "Unless you think these people would line up for nothing." Probably not the time nor place to say she would believe people to do just that.

Yea, suppose moving didn’t make much sense. Someone would be told. People would know. And the line would surely form elsewhere. There would be an annoying local pretending it was an obvious and known thing. Wanted to dismiss the tiny creature’s worries about animals – worrying over rabbits was about as dumb as asking barley’s forgiveness. It was there to provide food. Pretending otherwise seemed silly, somehow.

Ah – the banter confirmed it. One of those nonmeaters. Trevor knew there was a word for it. But it was an evil one. And he’d turned a fresh new page in life, and moved away from such deeds. They always had ideas about food rights, but no stomach for food responsibilities.

“You may want to skip the jerky, then. Wouldn’t want to annoy the great potato spirits, or something.” Voice flat as the morning would allow.

And even while the grumpeyfuck was… well, grumpy – at least she spoke his language.

“You think we should check in on them?” And hopefully snag some food. “To make sure they’re alright and all that.”

She eyed him up and down, figured he wasn't an idiot, and sighed before motioning with her hand that they should leave.

The woman, with the sorry excuse for choosing to have the diet of a rabbit, scoffed after them. "Everyone deserves a day off in their lives!"

Monroe rolled her eyes. "She sounds the type to incite others to show up with pitchforks and torches."

The market street was bustling, nonetheless, and Syr Cathmore let her eyes peer around them. From linens, to spices, to paints, to many vices, Monroe had to admit that she began to understand why so many made to stop here in... this town. It truly did offer a variety, and the prices were not so steep like she had seen in larger towns and cities.

"Would you look at that," she raised a brow, "there isn't another butcher or smoked meats vendor." Was that a true fact? That no other business could contend with the missing man's?

Monroe chewed her lip for a couple of seconds before raising a hand, done in a fashion that would have held more authority if she were in her armour. She halted a young boy carting cheese. "The shop that sells smoked meats? Are they in town? A shop we can visit?"

"Sure are!" The boy dropped the cart, turned on them both and took a deep breath in. "So, you're going to want to head into the town square and go down the lane with a duck painted on the walls. Can't miss it. Then you have to walk down all. the. way. down. until you reach the end! And the shop is actually three shops, so you really, really, REALLY have to walk to the end!"

Monroe stared at them for a few beats before waving the child off. That was truly the price one had to pay in patience for asking a child a simple question. "Alright then, time to look for ducks." Monroe announced with abysmal excitement.

Trevor followed on in amusement. Always found asking for directions amusing. Wasn’t a thing normally done. Usually, you’d just know which spot was correct. It just felt right. But he did his best not to know, and he followed instead.

“Ducks, huh? That’s fun.” The direction the boy pointed felt right. Had it been Trevor, he would’ve told grumpy to go the opposite way. You know, kept her busy. People needed to learn to be nice.

Looked to the other two. One clearly seemed in charge, but it was hard to put his finger on the reason behind it. Maybe she was just the older, meaner sister. Didn’t look much alike, though. Come to think of it – he should probably get their names. When the shit caught up to them, yelling out for grumpeyfuck and nonmeater wouldn’t do him any favors.

“I’m Trevor. What do they call you two?” He had a couple guesses, none of them polite.

Road stretched ahead – a rabbit, a bum, and a meanie going duck-hunting. Sounded like the start to a bad joke. Or maybe a really good one. Hard to tell some times. The ducks were yet to show, but he could almost hear the water their feet would stir.

Monroe frowned, turning to the man. "Two of wh— oh."

Her frowned deepened.

The vegetarian had followed them, and Monroe had half a mind to walk ahead.

The woman rolled her eyes, just as Monroe had done earlier. "Meredith. I work in the haberdashery." She said, lifting her head high.

Monroe snorted, but the clearing cough did nothing to veil the sound. "So you will know where this duck painted wall is? Or better yet, the man we are looking for?"

Meredith crossed her arms, looking from Trevor to Monroe. "The boy didn't mention it, but you would need a delivery pass to enter past a point. Security measures that Vincent and Yvette put into place to make sure no trouble comes to their business."

Monroe quirked a brow, thinking. "I have a way around that."
And she began walking, continuing their small party onwards. Meredith practically skipped to keep up with Monroe's quick steps.

"Oh? And how do you suppose to do that?"

"I am Syr Monroe Cathmore. Knight Sworn of the Sanctum of Dawn." She cut a look at Trevor, smiling. A hint of the person she was beneath all her irritations. "And I am going to ask them nicely to let us past."

Delivery pass to enter past a point? That didn’t sound like the type a thing honest people needed. It smelled funny. But he really shouldn’t be talking. Everything he did was dodgy.

So he nodded to Meredith and near choked on spit at Syr Monroe Fucking Cuthmore. Must be why she was so upset all the time. If he’d been named Trevor Kevin, he’d probably be quite out of it as well. Knew a Bob Bernard once, and it only confirmed the pattern. People who couldn’t tell their first name from last were always on edge.

It was nice to know Monroe could make a non latrinescrubbing face – but he doubted her people skills. It would’ve been much luckier if they simply found the guards on break. But he restrained the thought. Fun as it would’ve been, he couldn’t spend on convenience. There would be a time when his push would actually be needed – Bailing out a Knight of Anatheum didn’t qualify.

“So…um… Don’t you guys usually travel in pairs?” He’d heard once that was Anatheum’s whole schtick. Looked to Meredith like she might be the counterpart. Seemed unlikely.

Knight of Carrots did have a ring to it, though.

Monroe's smile fell into a faintness, as if designed to make one wonder if she had even smiled at all when her face was not beholding them in a severe manner.

"We do." She affirmed, but turned to look ahead as she saw Meredith take the lead. That wasn't a bad idea, but something about that woman irked her. "I am on leave. Had... business to attend to the town Cathmore. Or better known for the past year, Sailors Cove." There was bitterness as she spoke the latter. It was honest feelings, one that could be unpacked another day, but Monroe also felt a weight lift from the burden of a town she hated being tied to. For the dwellers there to spite her and go through motions of changing the name of the town her family founded...

In all honesty, she should have left the moment she arrived to help them rebuild after a large fire.

"Didn't feel like having someone around to travel with."

It was a journey she had to face alone.

"We're coming up to the square now." Called Meredith, who turned her face to address both Monroe and Trevor.

"And what of you, Trevor?" Monroe asked loudly, luring Meredith to look back at them both again, her brow raised with mutual curiosity. "You from Altalusia?"

Ah, there we go – anvilface – back to a familiar rhythm. Only he didn’t tease this time. Having mixed feelings about your home was a known thing. He’d not heard of Cathmore before. Suppose that wasn’t too incredible, but given how well-versed he was in Ilica, hearing of new places continued to surprise him. Sailors Cove rang a bell, but it was vague enough to belong to any of a dozen eastern coastal settlements.

“No. I’m a southerner.” Nodded to Monroe Cathmore of Cathmore… there was a lot to unpack there. It was also none of his business. “Used to be a place called Barrow.” But fire took that too. Or that’s what he told himself whenever he thought about it. Flame was easier to accept.

And it hung, just a little too long.

“They never had meat this good.” Squinted a bit at that, before turning it back on them. “A noble going out of her way for some food?” Raised a brow. He’d probably do something equally useless if he’d been a highborn. Being born to a higher class didn’t make people better, merely richer. And coin had a way of highlighting one’s nature.

Monroe snorted. "I renounced my nobility as soon as I could."

The square was nothing extraordinary, nor holding anything defining about it. Her nose scrunched, trying to think if she ever did see a sign of what this town was even called. "I came here because I needed somewhere to sleep. Thought why not sleep in a bed, and not on the ground? Skipped dinner, so breaking my fast was the best idea."

"Was there no food at the inn?" Meredith asked, slowing a little to be included on the conversation.

"Yes, but the cook was drunk and nowhere to be found, allegedly." She sighed. "A walk didn't sound half bad either."

Meredith pointed the way, leading them by a few paces ahead. "Over this way."

Indeed, there was a duck painted on a wall, a wing outstretched and pointing to the lane. It looked as if it had seen better days, for the paint was peeling from the wooden structure it had been using as a canvas. The eye and the bill were in awful stages of peeling, giving it the appearance of what could be seen as a shroud fiend.

The lane was quieter, boasting only a handful of shops before breaking into the front steps leading to private doors of homes.

"That's... odd." Meredith slowed, frowning. "They usually stand here."

Monroe kept walking, turning the corner and saw that they came to the end of the lane. "People that stand here to look at the delivery passes?" Meredith nodded, and Monroe looked up at Trevor. "I guess... we go knock on the door?"

He nodded like he understood. But he really didn’t. You don’t renounce your home. Not while it still existed. Going back to help them after a fire anyway – seemed a doomed effort. But some people couldn’t help themselves. That was an impulse he knew.

Rest of the conversation felt like a buzz between his ears. All nods and hmmms. Because he couldn’t focus. Something wasn’t right. A thing other than what Monroe had done. It wouldn’t become obvious until the knight looked to him.

Where the fuck were the guards?

It felt wrong. If the guards had truly moved away without his meddling – that should’ve felt right. Should’ve felt like luck other people experienced from time to time. Not a certainty, but whimsy laced with hope. An intoxicating mixture.

So why did it feel so wrong?

“Right.” But even as he said it, he moved forward, chance rubbing at his fingers. Already knew which door it was before he saw it ajar. Didn’t wait to explain.

Most people would’ve drawn weapons by now.

Crept closer to the gap, silent as the guilty.

And inside…

Inside was a pit of darkness.

Monroe was quick to follow Trevor, as if she had been trained to move as a unit of two for years now. Her hand had motioned for Meredith to wait, to keep her from harm's way until those capable saw to the interiors as clear. She had to trust that Trevor had a few tricks up his sleeve. He looked as if he knew how to take care of himself...

A bow was more comfortable in her hands, but Monroe spent a lot of her free time learning a new skill or hobby. To go about something and strive for perfection, that was her way of spiting herself. Two blades were now in hand, held in a way that was ready to slice. Her eyes were focused, using the light from the open door to help determine what they were looking at inside the front room.

"Smell that?" She noted. Her footsteps slowed, and she scowled as she took another inhale of the stale air. "That's not something..." Wrongness. It carried thicker the more she stood still, as if it knew how to find her and smother her with unease.

And he could. An offputting thing of sweet and stale, combating the more usual salts and smokes. Once you've seen enough meat turned to its unmoving form, you developed a nose which could spot the difference between brine and grime. Someone else might mistake it for old blood or a terrible spice rub, but he wouldn't. Warmer and other. Type a thing that didn't like notice.

She was already at his side with blades. That relaxed him some – because normal people were right on cue for weapons drawn, brows raised, and stomachs tight. He could hear… something further inside. Or behind the building. Hard to tell, town’s bustle all around.

Toed the door further in. Strange, that. Opening outward would’ve made more sense. Better ventilation, easier to get in and out. Suppose it was easier to latch from inside this way. But it wasn’t a thing an honest butcher needed to worry about.

Dark gave way to dim. And that’s when he clocked it – a streak of salt near the threshold – like it was warding off things far more sinister than the two of them. A rolled over bucket gaped in apology. That wasn’t right. Salt was expensive. You wouldn’t just…

Stepped over it – relieving the room of secrets, and himself of doubts in his own humanity. A heavy table took upon most of the area ahead of him. Scored and stabbed many times over by years of cutting, small grooves gathering hardened over spillage over the years. Greathooks hung over it, some occupied and others interested. An unprocessed slab of pork laid atop it, already drawing flies and visitors. A cat looked at them unbothered, chewing the edge. Some blood stained the floor near a cleaver. Blood he could shrug at, but no one left their tools on the floor like that. That wasn…

Smallest movement on the far side of the room. Normal when you barged into someone’s home. But it never asked what they needed. Never told them to fuck off from their house.

That wasn’t normal.

“Monroe…” his hand pointed the movement, further in the gloom. Stepped inside and aside.

Goddamit!

When she moved, Monroe let out little noise, as if she perhaps had a way of using the shroud to cover the fall of her boots and the creaks of flooring taking her weight. She did not move slowly and with grace, but where a dancer knew their sure steps, do did Monroe in finding things in the dark. Perhaps Syr Kerraelas would be pleased to hear that Monroe had been listening the one time the Shadow Knight went on and on about how to see into the shadows.

She lunged forward, spooking the shapeless darkness that did not belong. It cried out, all shrill and panic, and she wondered if they had stumbled upon a large feline.

But the thing was too strong.

It hadn't been quick enough to evade her first striking slice with her knife. She kept her attack to their mid range, intending to slow and wound them before anything else. Her next arching slash was met with a defense, and she could have sworn it felt like a human hand, but the sounds it gave were anything but.

Monroe was no match to the strength it used. It threw her in the direction of the table, where her shoulder kissed the edge of it and burned as it she had been skinned by her own blade. Her back hit the floor, and all the breath she kept in her lungs melded into the gasp she did not want to to let loose. Breathing became hard, and Monroe could not let go of her weapons to grasp at her throat in vain. She had to run through a serious of thoughts, to check through the list to slowly steady her wits.

She was winded. She had been thrown to the ground, but nothing was broken. There was every possibility she could get back up again to fight back, but Monroe needed to navigate through the pain and shock and get back on the offensive.

"What's happening?" Came Meredith's voice. Monroe couldn't see if the woman had stepped into the building or not; boxes and crates littered the floor beneath the table and she dared not turn her gaze away from the dark silhouette now looming above her.

It stood awkwardly, odd, different. For every human feature it held, there was something to make her distrust her instinct. It pounced towards her, but Monroe rolled away from the table, escaping it's attack. She got to one knee, pulled herself back to her feet and coughed.

Wheezing, she rounded onto the unknown.

Monroe could see it hesitate. Pausing to calculate what to do.

Fight or flight?

"Block the exit." Her voice was hoarse, almost unintelligible, her breath still working to fill out her lungs once again.