Private A Little White Lie

[Osytha]

A LITTLE WHITE LIE​

​

A fledgling knight struggling with the truth crosses paths with a prodigal daughter homeward bound.

Syr Osytha & Xenovia

Early 349 EOD​

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“Y’know, th’ quess-chyun — righ’? Th’ ques-*urp*-ssschyun I have, is, is: is this.

“Wha’ the fuck. Y’know?”

“Uhuh,” says Frank, non-committally. Frank says this because it seems like what the woman in front of him wants to hear, less so for actually being true. Frank, in fact, does not know.

He does not really know what this very drunk young woman has been slurring towards him from the bar this past half-hour. He does not know how long she’s actually been drinking; she came in already sloshed, most likely kicked out of another pub. He does not know how much longer she’s going to keep rambling on while he refills her tankard. But she pays well, and there aren’t that many other customers this late, so Frank doesn’t know if he should cut her off.

“Yeah,” she wavers, drawing unsteady figure-eights in stale beer on the countertop. “You get ’t, Fred. Old, budd-y.”

“It’s Fr—” The barman stops, and shrugs. “Actually, never mind. You were saying?”

The woman gawps at him, blankly, for a second. Young, yes… early twenties, perhaps? Dark, dark brown hair but for a white steak over the right. A slack-jawed tall face, unsteady grey-blue eyes; fairly prominent nose, the kind with a little kink in it high up. Frowns a lot.

“I wazz?” she wonders. “Righ’. I was sayin’. Um. Sumfin’.”

What was it—? Oh yes, ‘what the fuck’. What the fuck was Meri thinking all that time. What the fuck had she been thinking, not to realise until now. What the fuck does it even mean. And what the fuck is she doing here, in Crown’s Hold, trying to find…

“Ar—*hic*— ’scuse me. Arrrtorias. Tha’s him. ’Pparently, anyway. Do you know how many Artoriaseses…ses… there is in this city? More’n one. I’ll tell you that.” The sot glances down into her mug and, softly, burps. “Perrobibbly should’ve axed mum for ’is las’ name. Whoops. Ahaha…”

She blinks, dully, and realises another disconcerting truth. “’M empty.” Clumsy hands shove the tankard forward, then rummage around in a money pouch under her padded black coat. “Cap me off, Fra— er, sorry, ormost called yew ‘Frank’ there. Cap me off please, Fred, my gewd man.”

One of Frank’s uncertainties finally picks a direction in which to swing, as he listens to pennies thump down into the sawdust.

“Look, miss, maybe you should slow down on the—”

“‘Miss’?” her head snaps up, harshly if also a bit wobbly, brow furrowed deeper than Frank has yet seen it. “‘Miss’? I’m no miss, missusterr. Here, lookit— lookit this, whydontcha…”

Those hands cease their fumbling for funds and instead slip inside the breast of her gambeson. Frank stares, slightly horrified, as she rummages away in there, a look of intense focus on her rosined face.

“Almos-st… there it ’s,” she gloats, pulling forth a small, glimmering object. “Set your eyes on—” a faint ping as the thing clatters to the bar, “—whoopsie daisy, haha. Here, look.”

Frank picks up the tiny piece of jewellery. It’s a pin. Quite an intricately made one at that; a thick, bulbous head comprising dense cluster of inward-curling ray florets, around a dappled center of disk florets.

“It’s very nice?” he hazards, offering it back. “What flower is that?”

“’S a chrysanthemumum,” she gloats, palming the ornament. But not putting it away. “Means I'm a knight. So tha’s, um, wossname, Syr Osytha to you. An’ don’ you forget it, ’cos, um, ’cos…?”

She looks desperately at Frank. Woman hasn’t so much lost her train of thought, as forgotten which station it left from entirely. They hold their locked gazes for a few confused seconds. Then, Frank lets out a pitying sigh, and takes her mug.

“The rye beer, was it?” he relents.

“Um.” Osytha is staring down, now, at that twinkling chrysanthemum. Frown all gone, and yet, hardly appears any less troubled for it. “Yes. Thank, er, than’you…”

 

[Xenovia]

What was it with Outholders flashing their glint like they owned the place? Xenovia had asked herself that question time and time again, and yet the answer evaded her still, like some sort of alley cat, all claw and fur. With a white streak dividing its coat, the Deva thought with a smile, cheeks flush with drink, not to mention the warmth radiating from the hearth. The snows may have subsided, but the birth of Spring had brought with it enough rain to rival the Endtimes.

The situation outside the city's walls was certainly dire enough to be mistaken as such, not that the Upholders gave a fig about the rabble knocking at their gates, seeking some warmth of their own.

“Means I'm a knight. So tha’s, um, wossname, Syr Osytha to you. An’ don’ you forget it, ’cos, um, ’cos…?”

'Don't look much like a knight t' me,' snickered one of the men sitting at a nearby table, whiskers twitching as he jutted his chin towards the soused knightess, earning himself a couple nods from his fellows. Gangers, the devahni's painted lips twitched, great!

The leader had a knife tucked up his sleeve, and another in his boot. He wore gloves with the fingertips missing, which kind of defeated the purpose of wearing gloves, though Xen refrained from critiqueing his fashion sense out loud.

One had a blue tattoo in the shape of an eel consuming itself. A not-quite-Ouroboros, meant to symbolise infinity or some such nonsense. He had a weapon, too. So did his buddy. The other punters were all loners, like her. No place to be but here. Sad, really. But then what's one to do, when it's pissing it down outside? Xen's gaze wandered to where the tavern's cook stood filling the doorway, back turned to the room, the strings of his apron hanging loose by his sides as he puffed on a pipe.

There was something therapeutic about listening to the rain hammer down. It had a certain hypnotic quality to it - easier to appreciate when you were inside and dry.

“The rye beer, was it?”

So far as dockside taverns went, Frank's wasn't the worst. It left enough to be desired without being downright awful. And the drinks were cheap. 'Look at 'er... Pissed as a fart! Won't be long now 'til she's facedown 'n a puddle of 'er own makin',' the gangoons grinned amongst themselves. 'Fuckin' Outholders! Got enough o' their ilk outside t' gates. Don't need any more 'n 'ere.'

'Fancy brooch Frankie's pawing,' observed the eel, a dangerous glimmer in his eye. 'Tight bod on her, too.'

Xen's brow furrowed slightly at the remark. Ain't none of your business, she told herself, hand tightening about her cup. Just get up, grab your things, and go! Teeth ground against teeth as she pressed to her feet. A greybeard sitting nearby looked up at her as she shouldered the greatsword she'd left propped against the table.

Even shrouded in velvet, she could feel the heat radiating from the patterned steel, hot as any lover she had ever held in her arms.

Boots thumped against dirty floorboards. A sharp wind rattled the shutter blinds, driving the cook inside, and setting the tallow candles to fluttering as Xen took a seat once more. Beside the knight. 'I'll have another as well, Frankie,' the devahni finished off her beer, sliding the cup towards the barkeep as she cast a meaningful glance over her shoulder.

The gangers stared right back, not so much intimidated by her as they were the big, fuck-off sword by her side.

'Nice pin,' Xenovia smiled as she palmed the silver, recognising the design almost instantly. 'Reminds me of a couple someones. Perhaps you know 'em.' Palm flat against the counter, Xen slid the pin back towards the knightess, Syr Osytha the Sozzled.

'Rough day?'

 

[Osytha]

Those sinister mutterings don’t seem to draw any response from the knight slouched in her barseat. In fact, Osytha barely even registers when a newcomer sidles up beside her. Those bleary blue eyes only blink, sluggishly, when they see black-taloned fingers reach over and pluck her silver pin.

Her brain tries mounting some kind of protest. I mean, you don’t go around just touching other people’s pins. Do you? But, Osytha hasn’t even begun to slur out a reproach before the flower is back in her own hands.

She looks up into a lilac face. A pair of ram’s horns curling back and forward at the crown. Heavy lids over eyes shimmering gold in the pub’s amber light. Dark lips. All of it mantled by sunset locks. And, kind of a cute button nose, too. Osytha slowly notices that this sudden apparition is looking at her. Had just… said something, to her? But this visage sort of, weaves and wobbles as she tries to take in the details.

Lady looks a bit unsteady there, Osytha muses. Poor thing must be smashed.

“… yeah,” she says after a couple of seconds, once her lagging mind has managed to process the input from her ears. Her eyes, meanwhile, rove back down to the pin. Over and over it turns between her languid fingers. “Um. I guess.” She blinks. “Wai’. You know some of th’ Knights? Whish, uh, whishh wuns?”

A few more neurons fire off pathetically in the drowned, short-circuitry of her brain. This person is acquainted with her order. And she is actually asking her about her troubles without prompting, unlike the more transactional arrangement she seems to have with good old ‘Fred’ here. Another couple synapses fizzle with hope.

Friend?

“’Old on, I— I got thiss rownd…” She had the money out, she knows she did, it just, doesn’t seem to be on the bar for some reason. She looks down, and the gleam of wayward pence winks up at her from the crusted old sawdust below her feet. Found you. “Wha’ss yur name?” she asks, sliding off her stool to get at the money.

To Osytha’s surprise, though, she keeps on sliding, right to the floor. Lands on her arse with a hearty thump of rear and clack of scabbard. Woman seems somewhat puzzled by this development, legs splayed out and blinking away down there. The manoeuvre is punctuated by some nasty sniggering from elsewhere in the room. But hey, at least it makes the coins easy to reach.

“’M Osytha,” she continues, plucking up pieces of silver. “Wai’ a minute. Wai’ a minute. Who’z ‘Frankie’?”

 

[Xenovia]

Too slow to soften her descent, but quick enough to help Osytha round up pennies with the tip of her tail. 'The fellah serving you drinks,' the Deva replied, firebug eyes burning as they flit to the jug of water on the counter behind the barkeep, then to the drink he's pouring. 'Sound bloke. Helps those in need, when the need is great.' Their gazes met. A nod.

'As to my name, well, it's Xenovia,' she smiled, angling her tail 'neath Osytha's arm as the other grappled with the barseat in an attempt to hoist herself up. 'Folk that know me call me Xen. So can you, if'n it pleases the syr!'

More snickers as the drunkard returned to her perch. Two drinks hit the counter. Clack-clack.

'That'll be ten coppers,' said Frankie, looking at Osytha, but directing his words towards Xen. Sound bloke, after all, she thinks as she takes the requisite coins from the knight and hands them across. 'Keep the change.'

Nodding, the dour barman turned his back on them, before Osytha could notice the shit-eating smirk plastered over his face.

'Know a fellah by the name of Adelard? Has a bright red mustachio, about ye long, and a penchant for potato chowder.' Tilda had called him Addy. So had "Mad" Marta Martigan, for that matter. That chowder was fuckin' good, no word of a lie! Xen hadn't been past the Planter in a few days now. Partly because she didn't wish to overstay her welcome, and partly 'cause the knightly types she knew drew trouble like flies to shit.

'Then, there's Tilda. Tils? Nasty-looking scar 'cross her cheek?' Kind eyes, though. 'Wonder how she's doing... Maybe you can say hello to her for me, when next you meet.'

 

[Osytha]

“‘Xen-oh-vi-ya’…” Osytha wobbles upward in stages, aided by tail and a precarious handhold on her stool. “‘Xennovviaaah’… tha’s Owd Devahni. Means, wossit — ‘protector’? Yeah… tha’s *hic* it. Protector.”

Her frown suddenly drops away. Surely this isn’t a coincidence. It’s all, all a sign. This woman’s name, and her arrival here tonight of all places and times, and… OK, well, maybe it’s just the two signs. But it feels like more. Probably there’s a bunch lurking around that Osytha’s just missed.

When she looks up at Xenovia, the knight’s face is plastered with a big, shit-eating grin.

“Yu’r m’ guardian angel, ain’t you?” she gloats. Recalls what she was doing, and slides back into place at the bar. “Wow. Never had one of them before.”

Her wobbly eyes are drawn to movement of pence across the counter. Lips joss a bit with the effort of mental calculations, but Osytha quickly gives up. Money changed hands, there’s a couple of fresh pints in front of them, and everyone seems happy with the outcome. That the important bit, right? Besides, it’s hard to keep count when there seems to be a different number of coins each time you blink.

“Hey, leave some for the rest of us,” one of those evil voices calls out to Xenovia.

“—goes north, we could wait ahead in Dropman’s Yard—”

Osytha scoops her tankard in close. “Thanks, um…” She looks up, squinting at the barman. “Frankie, wazzit? Whoah… tha’s uncanny. You look jus’ like th’ other guy who works here. Fred. You kno—*urp*—ouw him?”

Frank stares at her for a second. Looks over at Xen. Then back to Osytha.

“We’re brothers,” he says at last. “Excuse me…”

Frank disappears further down the bar to see to another patron’s thirst, that old timer who’d watched Xen make her move. More clink of metal on the wood, followed by the frothy crescendo of a mug filling up with bitter.

“Brothers, huh?” mumbles Osytha, gazing into her cups. “Tha’s nice. Wonder if it’s a famuly biznizz…”

There’s that morose look again. ‘Family business’ — hah! Yeah, sounds real nice. Probably a hell of a lot nicer than it really is. She’s got a brother, too. Good old Leofric. Gets on well with the other young ’uns around the Leah. He’ll be taking over the family business too, or at least, one side of it. Following in the old man’s footsteps, just like she didn’t with Meri’s. Must be real nice, getting to have everything she missed out on. Like an actual father—

Osytha squeezes her eyes shut and groans. Don’t. Just… don’t even go there, Osytha. It won’t do you any good.

“Know a fellah by the name of Adelard? Has a bright red mustachio, about ye long, and a penchant for potato chowder. Then, there’s Tilda. Tils? Nasty-looking scar ’cross her cheek? Wonder how she’s doing... Maybe you can say hello to her for me, when next you meet.”​

The lush’s eyes snap open, and she gives Xen an incredulous look.

“No shit?” she marvels. “Always puffing away on bladeleaf from a long pipe? Has to cock his head to fit through doorways?” Osytha chuckles, and lifts the tankard to her lips. “Yeah, tha’s Syr Adelard alright. Chowder an’ all.” Takes a swig. Makes a surprised face. Quickly lowers her mug, and gives it a suspicious look. “Well, well… well. You know Addy an’ Tils, eh?” There. See? Another sign. “Good Knights. Good, um, peoyuple. They was stayshunned ’round here, las’ I heard. I’ll tell ’em you says hi.”

That unsettled feeling lingers, though. Because, truthfully — she’d been hoping against hope for a different name, hadn’t she? That Xenovia would know a name not even the other Knights had heard of, a name which would mean this whole wretched business had simply been some sort of… misunderstanding. Not that it will ever happen, though. Even as deep into her cups as she is, Osytha understands perfectly well that it’s a fool’s hope. But a little part of her had still wanted to hear Xen say ‘Syr Grymmund’, and she hates herself for it.

Osytha takes another wary sip, makes another sceptical face. “I don’ think this ’s th’ rye beer…” she mumbles. Then, she shrugs, and keeps gulping it down anyway. Sets her tankard to the counter with a little thunk, and fidgets distractedly with the mug’s handle. She turns her unfocused eyes to Xen. “How’d you meet?” Osytha asks her, and that gaze slides over to the rather conspicuous greatsword, then back again. “You lot end up workin’ together, or…?”

 

[Xenovia]

'Found ourselves in the wrong place at the right time,' she shrugged, toying with the rim of her cup, thinking back on days gone and wondering how they had led her here of all places. 'I'd been in the city for a bell, maybe two. Fancied a drink to warm my bones on a cold night,' a sip and a half-smile, 'maybe some company, too.' The Road was a lonely place if you didn't have anyone to share it with.

'We shared words and a pint... Spilt blood together.'

Someone had cheated at cards, or rather been accused of such. The truth never much mattered when coin was on the table, Xen found; it made the world go around, after all, and some folk wouldn't hesitate to go the distance. "What's mine 's mine, an' what's yours 's mine!"

'Bet that sword's worth a pretty penny,' a second evil voice murmurred, too high to be low.

'--Crook's got the southside locked down. Already nabbed a couple sailors comin' out o' Becca's--'

Pretending not to notice the gangoons and their oh-so obvious plotting, the devahni stole a glance at the Lady Knight, uncertain as to whether one cup of water would be enough to make her realise the danger she was in. We're in, the Deva corrected herself, though fuck if I'm becoming her guardian angel. She can bloody well guard herself! Well. Eventually. Perhaps tomorrow, or the day after. It wouldn't take much for the gangoons to overtake her, inebriated as she was.

The thought left Xen with a sick feeling in her stomach. Or maybe that was just the worry gnawing at her gut.

I'm no angel, but perhaps I could protect her. Just for tonight, if never again. 'You broke three of the cardinal rules, y'know.' Spinning her cup, she took another sip, though Ahyiid knew she wouldn't finish it anytime soon. A clear head would serve her better than whatever lacklustre courage lay at the bottom of her beer.

'You overindulged whilst surrounded by folk what hold no love for you,' a single finger tapped the bar.

Punctuation.

Outside, the rain continued to hammer down as a thug got up from his chair, staggering ever so slightly as he headed for the door, which opened with a bang the moment he put hand to latch. A curse and he was gone, out into the lashing gale, cloak fluttering like a raised pennon drained of its colour.

'You flaunted wealth in front of them. The pin, the coins, the sword at your hip,' another tap, to drive the point home. 'May as well be made of softwood, for all the good it will do you should they choose to force the issue.'

'Lastly, you showed weakness.' Red-rimmed eyes. Loss of balance. Slurred words. A slip and a fall. The kind of tells landsharks watched for when scenting out prey. 'Fortunately, we've some time to spend yet. They might rob the shirt off your back, but they won't do it here. Too... open.' And Frank wasn't the type to just sit back and let a bunch of good-for-nothings destroy his livelihood.

'Sorry for making a bad day worse,' she finished with a shrug. 'For what it's worth, I think we've got 'em beat!'

 

[Osytha]

“You flaunted wealth in front of them. The pin, the coins, the sword at your hip. May as well be made of softwood, for all the good it will do you should they choose to force the issue.”​

Osytha blinks dully at Xenovia, a listing ship with tattered sails struggling to follow the wind of her words. “‘Wealth’?” she repeats, nonplussed. “I’m not, um, not wealthy—”

—isn’t she? Compared to what? How about those desperate masses huddling outside the Hold’s walls, growing ever more cold and hungry as winter only deepens? No, Osytha doesn’t have anything like the riches of the landed gentry and nobility, but she’s doing a lot better than most folks. The order handles the costs of her kit, the care for her horse, her training, sees to all her various necessities. She mightn’t earn much, but she gets to keep every penny, and that makes a massive difference compared to your average serf who’s bled dry on a daily basis. All her travelling provides other opportunities, too. Brokers, investors, and speculators can pay well for news on external markets, and she herself engages in a bit of arbitrage. Tea’s her favourite commodity. It keeps fairly well if you’re careful, and you can drink it along the way from White Port to Cloud’s Keep. Sell what’s left, if there’s any left, once you get there.

Just because she hasn’t got any sequins or solidi, any gold amidst her silver, doesn’t mean she’s poor. The people in those tent camps along the road — that’s what poverty looks like. Too little food and warmth, stretched too thin across too many desperate bodies. Fertile conditions for that to happen all over again. And Osytha had just… rode on past them. So wrapped up in her own troubles she didn’t spare them a single thought, thoughts like how far a purse full of silver might go towards easing some of that glaring dearth.

She’s just like those other ones, isn’t she? Those people who’d turned away a soul in need while this very winter had loomed on the horizon. They hadn’t lifted a finger to ease that desperation, and, well, she knows how that turned out, doesn’t she?

“I’m not— um, I mean, I… am I…?” Osytha gives her ‘rye beer’ another deep, thoughtful stare, like the Sanctum of Operations’ scribes Loch-diving into their seeing-pools. “Oh.” She gulps deeply from those cursed waters of knowledge, and the tankard rings in a higher, more hollow pitch when she sets it back down. Then, she frowns at another puzzle. “Why’d anywun here wan’ my shirt, though? Proberbly won’ fit ’em.”

For one thing, she’s a bit smaller than the men gathered in this dingy little bar. It’ll be a tight fight on any of them. But they probably don’t need all that extra length in the front, either.

Her look of befuddlement, however, is soon replaced with a bitter little smile. “I broke th’ rules, huh?” Osytha murmurs. She droops forward; back curled like a scorpion tail, arms upon the sticky counter and folded under her chin, head pointed straight forward. “’S alright. Then I shuhd pay th’ price. I mean…” sword glints with weak sunlight as it flicks out, keen tip passing through a fleshy neck and blood comes spraying to the snow “… ’s only fair, righ’? Us knights, goin’ around, wavin’ our swords, um, around. Whenevuh somebuddy else, when they breaks th’ rules.” She squeezes her eyes shut, but that only makes the horrid memory more vivid. “But who, who, who, um, duzzat when we cross th’ line, huh? Who gave usz th’ right?”

Osytha tilts her head, couches it in one arm while the other idly plays with the tankard’s handle. She lazily watches the vessel wobble, teetering back and forth, as those heavy eyelids of hers begin to droop dangerously low.

“Yu’rr nice,” she tells Xen. Osytha speaks sluggishly, in a dreamy little voice. “Thangks, Xenovia… Xen. But you’re’re pr’bubbly wasted on me. Yew schould… get outta… here…”

 

[Xenovia]

'Probably not,' the Deva agreed with a small smile. 'Even so. They'll take it because they want to, 'cause they can.' In their eyes, Outholders were worth less than the clothes they wore. Desperation had deprived them of empathy. Once it was gone, it could not be restored with ease; life in the Sink had taught her that. She had witnessed plenty of good folk turn bad in order to feed or protect those they loved. The gangoons were both victims and perpetrators; life had brought them low, aye, but they had chosen to sink lower still.

Once you hit rock bottom, the only way was up.

Watching the young knight sink in on herself, Xenovia reached out to lay a tentative hand on her shoulder, squeezed gently, as if to remind Osytha of past comforts. 'Who was it?' She asked softly, head tilted to the side, understanding writ in the way her gaze held steady. 'You pursue oblivion in the hope you might forget something... someone.' Her face disappeared behind the veil of her hair as she leaned in.

Ram's horns and demon's eyes. Flame-kissed locks and lilac skin. "Gutter devils," the Upholders referred to her people as. Like being born atop a hill somehow made them better than those unfortunate enough to be born at the bottom.

There was nothing devilish about Osytha, Xen felt. She's just as lost as the rest of us, mused the devahni, acknowledging the weight of the stranger's actions, and how they sat heavy upon her soul. Proof of conscience, morals and, perhaps, empathy. 'I am nice,' Xen agreed again, gesturing for another cup of well water. At least, she hoped Frank wasn't getting his water straight from the Wendway.

Another cup landed on the bar and she scooped it up, examining the contents as her mind tangled with the decision laid before her.

'I probably should get out of here. Again, you're right,' the ghost of a grin flitted across her pale features. 'I don't believe I am wasted on you, though. In fact, if anyone's wasted here, it's you!' Raising the full cup above Osytha's head, Xen upended the device, eyes awash with amusement as the water fell to anoint the ensozzled knight.

 

[Osytha]

“Who was it?”​

Those dull, slate-blue eyes slowly open up again. Osytha stares forward at her mug. A finger runs jerkily down its side, then up again. Down, up, down, up… wait, what was she doing again? Oh, yeah. Down.

“I don’ even know,” Osytha mumbles, and frowns. “How awful’szat? Like, I could tell you their name, what they’d done fer a livin’. But I couldn’t, couldn’t tell you wha’ they wurr like b’fore it… it all wen’ down. Who they were. Y’know?”

And maybe Xen does know. Knew enough to recognise the signs, see right through this dense skull of hers and tell what was worming its way through her thoughts. Funny. Osytha couldn’t air any of this with the other Knights, as much as it’s been writhing to escape. But, that gentle hand on her shoulder, the knowing words murmured in her ear… Xen feels safe. Safe enough for it all to finally come pouring out.

Must be some kind of guardian angel thing…

“Th’ worst part… th’ worst part is, it weren’t even their fault.” Her brow furrows deeper, delving further into that particular vein. “I mean — it was. But it also wasn’t. Kind of thing. They din’t aktchewally mean to hurt anyone, not in th’ beginning, at least. Din’t mean for it all to go so wrong. Doesn’t excuse wha’ they did. But what else was they s’posed to do? Jus’, lie down an’, an’, an’ starve to death?” After what they’d been through? They’d lost everything. I mean, everything.”

Such fear. From the moment she and Syr Kenneth had walked into that glaring white dell, their quarry had known it was all over. That hadn’t meant they’d gone willingly, mind you; hadn’t caused them to lay down the knife and accept their fate. Maybe they just couldn’t. Whatever they ‘should’ have done, whatever was ‘right’ in the moment… that goes out the window when you’re actually staring death in the face. Your body moves, does things without you even meaning for it, like it has a will of its own. And suddenly you’re just a passenger in your own flesh.

“They din’t deserve any of it.” Up. Barely more than a whisper, now. “None of ’em deserved any of what happened. But I, I jus’ din’t know how else to stop it.” Down. To the right angle where it meets the bartop. And her finger, stops. “You ever seen blood on th’ snow?” Arterial; fresh right out the carotids. There’s no frown over that pale brow any more, no expression to capture what it is that haunts those wintry eyes. “It’s so… bright. I don’ reckon I could forget it. Even if I wanted to.”

She senses an easing of pressure, a shift which leaves Osytha freed of Xen’s shadow. She feels space open back up between them, and the muted ambience of a seedy little Crown’s Hold bar floods in to fill that gap. Some fuzzy movement in her periphery implies the other woman’s motioning towards Fred, or Frank, or whoever it is lumbering behind the bar. Then she vaguely hears the dull clunk of a freshly-filled vessel landing on hard-worn oak.

“I probably should get out of here. Again, you’re right.”​

Yeah. Osytha’s eyelids start to lower again. Heavy with the weight of resignation. Off you pop. No point in us both going shirtless.

“I don’t believe I am wasted on you, though.”​

Still. Nice of you to make time. The pub fades from view entirely. Faint mutterings from conniving muggers continue to rumble in her ears, and it still feels like they’re out at sea upon the rolling waves instead of firm ground, but as soon as Osytha closes her eyes, everything else starts to follow as she’s drifting away into the dark. Must be a busy line of work. Under-staffed, I’m guessing…

“In fact, if anyone’s wasted here—”​

… sure seems like there aren’t enough of you guys around… wait, what?

“—it’s you!”​

The cold, slick wet sensation hits first. Panic strikes right after. Osytha jerks up with a yelp, every bit of lethargy pushed inside out by frigid tendrils wrapping about her face, going down her back and oh gods it’s in my eyes! I’m blind, I—!

Coughing, spluttering, flailing at her face; Osytha leaps up back out her seat. Drunken momentum carries her further than intended. Drunken coordination, however, is what gets her foot caught in the stool.

“Oh shiii—!”

Amazingly, she doesn’t keel right over. She doesn’t actually get her balance back, either, though, and the result is that Osytha’s body holds at an impressively obtuse angle as she frantically backpedals away from Xen.

Toward the cluster of gangers.

“… but that ashblood’s goin’ to be a problwhatthefuck—”

“—iiit!”

Good thing there’s this table here to break her fall. It does so just as Osytha loses her fight against gravity, catching the upper half of her back on its wooden lip. What follows is a fine demonstration of Newton’s third law: knight goes down, table seesaws with an equal and opposing action… the force of which can be observed from the way it catapults those goons’ drinks all over the room.

There’s a long, wretched silence, broken only by some woody clattering when those tankards find the ground once more, and the steady drip drip drip of several stunned, freshly beer-soaked scoundrels.

Osytha finds herself looking up at a ring of ever-so-mildly peeved faces surrounding her.

“Er…” She blinks. Glances down her front. “Bugger… this sark’s ommust fresh, an’ all.”

Back at the bar, Frank tears his eyes away from the scene of impending violence, if only so Xen can get a dose of his baleful glare as well. “I swear to gods… you’re helping pay for breakages, you know that?”

 

[Xenovia]

So, that was what the poets meant by "a trickle to a flood". Xen wasn't sure whether to laugh, cry, heel a palm, or attempt to do all three consecutively. Frank certainly found the situation far from humourous. So, too, the gangoons, but at least she wouldn't have to wonder what the term "poetic justice" meant anymore either.

They had planned on robbing poor ole Osytha, only for their drinks to be stolen away before they could finish them.

I'll take it, the devahni sighed, setting the empty cup down on the bar and pressing to her feet. “I swear to gods… you’re helping pay for breakages, you know that?” Frank was quick to sink the daggers in. Xen even sympathised, to an extent.

'Oh, please! The table was fallin' apart anyhow! Ain't ever heard of quality assurance?'

Scooping up what remained of her beer -and sliding Frankie a few coins- Xen stepped carefully to where Osytha lay sprawled in the 'dust, the floorboards where she rested her head stained and splotchy with wine. Or worse.

'Wha' in t' fuckin' fuck are you playin' at?!' One of the thugs demanded of the knight, the other taken to glaring at Xen, like he was hot shit or something. 'You spilled our drinks,' he said, the ouroboros on his neck dipping beneath the cusp of his collar as he squared up, so as to hide the defects in its design, most likely.

Xen noted without really meaning to the scratches covering his forearms, the glazed look in his eye.

'Should've downed 'em faster, then,' she replied, grinning her devil's grin. Her hand tightened about the cup in her hand, and she thrust it into his chest before he could figure out a response. 'On me,' she told him, slipping past to stand over the fallen knight.

'What about me?' The other loudmouth turned on Xen, fists furled. There was a chorus of echoes, a lone insult.

'Fuckin' ashblood!'

Xen let it roll like water off a duck's back. Weren't nothing she hadn't heard before, tolerated before. Some folk didn't know how lucky they were 'til their luck ran out. Osytha's hadn't. Not yet, at least.

'Buy another one,' Xen advised the street tough as she offered the knight a hand up. 'You're a big boy, aintcha?'

Somewhere in Crown's Hold, a pin could be heard dropping.

Xen decided then and there that it was time to go. 'Come on, missy! Let's getcha home!' Hoisting Osy to her feet, Xen threw an arm about the knight as they struggled towards the exit. The greatsword found its way to her freehand, and a familiar throb of heat traversed the flesh of her palm. Blood-bound steel that answered to no one but her.

 

[Osytha]

Frankie’s bar hasn’t even stopped spinning around the dizzy knight when a familiar, lilac hand hauls her upward and sets it all a-tumbling once more. Osytha would have likely just whirling dervished her way back onto her arse, but a firm arm keeps her on her feet and also, tucked up against Xen’s steadfast form. The look she briefly gives the devahni is almost awe-struck, albeit, over a solid foundation of ‘dumbfounded’; one second she was on the ground surrounded by very unfriendly faces with an inexplicable interest in ladies’ undergarments, and the next, here she is, being safely spirited away in Xen’s arms. Arm. Whatever.

Yep, no doubt about it, Osytha decides. Literally a guardian angel.

Her gaze breaks away, and she turns her head downward. There’s some noise scrambling in with the messages between her legs and her brain, and it’s easier to tell what they’re doing if she can keep an eye on them. Osytha doesn’t want to spoil this miraculous exit with an encore performance from these treacherous feet of hers.

“’M sorry Frankie,” she calls back to the bar. “Tell Fred I’m sorry too, please.” Then, Osytha leans in a little closer to Xen. Her voice drops, though not nearly to the whisper she thinks she’s using, and asks, “I don’ geddit. They’re practic’lly eyedenticle. How d’you tell ’em apart?”

Then they’re stepping outside. And if Xen’s damp little manoeuvre had been a wake-up call, the squall which strikes Osy on this waning winter street is the deafening, klaxon wail of an all-hands-on-deck emergency.

She yelps a tiny bit at the sudden shock of frigid rain pelting her face. Not a solid dousing, as such, but large, fat, widely-spaced droplets which sting on impact. And an angry wind comes howling down the street, nibbling at her legs through their wool hosen. Her gambeson does a good job of fending it off, but that’s not much help to her bare hands and face. It’s dark out here, much darker than you get on any night under a clear sky, as nasty, barely-visible clouds blot out whichever of the many moons above are currently in rotation, and much of Khurun’s rings except right on the horizons.

Technically, there is street out here. It was definitely there when Osytha stumbled her way into Frankie’s, and it’s unlikely to have wandered off during her time in the bar. She can barely make out anything beyond the slant of light spilling from his doorway, though. But hey, that’s alright. She’s got a guardian angel to guide her home. She takes another peek to her side, and catches the tapetum lucidum gold glimmer in Xen’s gaze.

“You have,” Osytha remarks, alcohol having long since dissolved all her filters, “beautiful eyes.”

They set off down the street. The lashing wind and rain are doing a lot to centre Osytha’s rambling mind, and while time is the only thing capable of sobering one up, being constantly pulled back into the biting, near-painful onslaught of the present is bringing about a kind of focus which at least feels a lot like sobriety. And yet; that fumbling backwards dance, her tumble down which sent the tavern careening all around, then being pulled up and hurried away under a fresh daze of vertigo… it’s all too much for poor, sloshed, Osytha. She can feel something rising up, an unstoppable wave from deep within her gut. Panic tries to claw the urge back down but it can’t, it’s too late, too powerless against the unbridled force which comes tearing through her throat, her mouth, and then, past her teeth to fill the street with a noise which cuts through even this shrieking gale.

“Eheh… hah…!” Xen can feel Osytha’s shoulder’s begin to shake against her. “You jus’… and then I — ‘whoops!’” A giddy face, split by grin running ear to ear, tips back toward the night sky. “Right into those — aha! Ahahaha! And their, their fucking faces, ohmygods—!”

She’s losing it. Osytha slumps against her friendly little angel and just, dissolves into a wobbly, cackling mess. Some kind of sentence occasionally tries to form itself, but apart from a few disjointed, nonsensical words, most of which are warped beyond comprehension by the woman’s mirth, all she seems capable of is laughing to the point that she can’t breathe. Those twittering giggles of hers turn into desperate, half-choked gasps, and still she can’t stop her chest from heaving in a hysterical fit.

“—ah, fuck, eheh, ehuaha… ugh.” Osytha finally manages to take a nice, deep breath, which she sighs out slow and heavy. “Heh… Eight above.” She hiccups. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

At which point someone else calls out through the dark behind them. A nasty, familiar voice, which had muttered with its fellows back inside the pub in a way which made a crude eel tattoo on its throat bob up and down.

“Hey now,” it chides, in a friendly tone which sets Osytha’s hackles standing straight up, “what’re you doing, running off like this? You still owe us some drinks.” A shadowed figure comes sauntering in from the gloom, moving with a feigned unaffectedness. “That’s pretty rude, you know. Why don’t you come on back, yeah? Hang out with us a little longer.”

He stops a few yards shy, a little outside of what sober Osytha would recognise as good measure, and begins to prowl along that invisible border there.

“I reckon,” he drawls on, voice smooth as his slinking movements, “we’d get on pretty well if you gave us a chance. Get on real well…”

 

[Xenovia]

No one stops them from leaving, nor does anyone follow. The sinkhole disappears from sight, and still Xen cannot glimpse a tail. Doesn't mean we haven't grown one, the devahni reminds herself, face grim, the rain stinging her eyes like shards of ice loosed upon the land. Winter's breath has an edge to it; the chill wind burns, cutting through layers of cloth and oiled leather like a hot knife through butter.

With one arm wrapped around Osytha, and the other hefting her greatsword, its a struggle just staying upright.

The hood of her raincape serves to catch the rain, rather than keep it out. Bootsoles slip on slick cobblestones, and more than once the devahni finds herself having to stop, lest she fall flat on her arse. This just won't do, she thinks to herself, irises flaring as her blood warms, as if hewn from coloured gold. "You have... beautiful eyes." Sparing Osytha a glance, Xenovia sighed, before heaving the knightess upright.

'I know,' she replied tiredly. 'Now, come along, there's a good girl.'

Onwards, they ventured, following the breadcrumb trail of shroudlamps towards... Well. Home? She glanced around. I'm sure the Planter was around here somewhere. Without the stars to help navigate, Xen was at something of a loss. And there was no point asking Osytha - the sozzled she-badger couldn't tell up from down, let alone left from right.

Can't even see the lightning catchers atop Kingspire, Xen noted suddenly, the clouds above their heads dark as sin, and just as heavy.

It was then she heard the telltale pitter-patter of footsteps on the cobbles behind them, discerned the whispered plottings of men too drunk or too high to remember what sober ever felt like. Of course, Hope was a fickle mistress, just like her sister, Luck. Xen hoped they were piss drunk; whatever happened next would be much simpler if they were.

Beside her, Xen can still hear Osytha trying to get a grip of herself, though the hysterical laughter persists for several heartbeats afterwards. By the time she returns to her senses, it's already too late.

“I think I’m gonna be sick.”

'Uh-huh.' Freeing her arm, Xen guided the dusker towards the nearest drain, glad there was a grate in place to keep the woman from crawling inside. 'Go wild.' If you haven't already, she thought, pulling up her hood as one of the strangers spoke.

'... You still owe us some drinks. That's pretty rude, you know. Why don’t you come on back, yeah? Hang out with us a little longer.” A pause. “I reckon, we’d get on pretty well if you gave us a chance." Another pause as he looked the pair of them over, smiling in that way bad men do when they think they've the upper hand. Xen felt her skin crawl. "Get on real well…”

'Perhaps,' the Deva nodded, not so much agreeing with him as buying herself time to do a headcount. 'Bit indisposed at the minute.'

"Oh, that's alright! We'll wait, keep you company." Xen watched as he licked his lips. A nervous tic? Or a sorry attempt to intimidate me? Us? She dared not turn to check on Osytha. Despite his accomplices waiting in the wings, she could not help but note how he stood, close, enough to make the whole thing uncomfortable. An innocent mistake, surely.

"Night as cold as thissun, you're sure to require some warming up," he grinned. "We could help you with that! Both of you."

'We're fine, thanks.'

"Now, now, no need to be like that!" The thug ceased his pacing. "Me and the lads came here looking to put things right. Start over, so to speak." Xen spied lopsided grins amongst the gathered toughs. Even with their faces hidden beneath hats, hoods and masks, there was no mistaking the glimmer in their eyes, the tension in their bodies. Liquid courage coursed hot through their veins, and drunks made the bravest of fools.

"Now. You will be coming with us, you and your friend, 'less you want this to get nasty." A knife appeared in the speaker's hand, quick as lightning, cruel as the smile twisting his lips. "A part of me hopes you try and resist," he laughed. "A very big part of me, mind."

'Clearly, considering you allow it to do your thinking for you.' Slowly, she unveiled her own blade, the heated steel sizzling as it came into contact with the rain. The streetkid in her knew now would be a good time to run. Flee, whilst they were distracted, leaving Osytha to face the music alone. But she wasn't that frightened little girl anymore.

Haven't been for a long time now.

'I advise you take that "very big part" of your being and use it to fuck right off! Before it's too late.'

"You're in no position to be threatening us, girlie. Hels, your friend there's nigh gone and drowned herself, the silly cunt!"

Spitting curses, the other thugs began to surround them as the leader levelled his knife in Xen's direction.

"As for you, I'm gonna stick this in your guts, make you scream for m-"

Lightning flashed. Thunder peeled. Far away, a voice could be heard crying out in pain.

Blood hit the cobbles, alongside a hand, bearing a knife.

'You were saying?"

 

[Osytha]

The taistrel can’t see any better in the dark than Osytha, but even if the flash of pain in his wrist and the telling numbness beyond it isn’t enough to clue him in, seeing that vague, knuckled lump and glimmer of knife’s-edge down on the ground sure does the trick. He steps back in surprise — far too late — eyes wide in denial. Their yawning pupils dart from the impossible sight on the ground, to the impossible absence at the end of his arm, to the angel with her flaming sword of vengeance glaring back at him. Shock, and adrenaline, and perhaps one or two more synthetic chemical influences rise up to respond.

“You’re dead!” If he wasn’t outright saying it before, he sure is now. Screaming it in a wild, primal voice. And yet, he doesn’t move to make it happen; merely stalks and raves there beyond Xenovia’s reach. “You’re fucking dead! You’re dead meat, you fucking—!”

Meanwhile, however, those other knives circling the women seem to be a lot more apprehensive than they were a moment ago. They stop in their tracks, trying to blink away the searing after-image of that thunderbolt.

“Is that a magic fucking sword?”

“I think… that’s a magic fucking sword.”

There follows a thoughtful, heavy little silence. If you don’t count the sound of pattering rain and a drunk being heartily sick into a sewer grate, that is.

“Could be worth a pretty penny…” another posits, uncertainly.

“Can’t sell it if we’re fucking dead, you gripper.”

The raging figure shrieks anew, this time at his fellows. “Fucking KILL HER!” he screams… but no one can sound that frenzied, that angry, without betraying their desperation. “Useless cunts! Pull your godsdamned thumbs out and cut the bitch’s throat already!”

A few feet away from Xenovia, Osytha groans on her hands and knees, head hung low over an unseen black metal grate. She’s glad the heavy rains have done so much to wash the streets clean, and that they don’t seem to be down-gutter of any butcher’s shops. Though, this bit of throughway’s slightly less pristine, now, thanks to her efforts.

She fumbles for a rag, a handkerchief — anything. The whiff of lanolin under her nose tells her she’s wiping down her mouth with her sword cloth. Osytha leans back, allows the squall to help wash off her face, and listens to the trouble brewing around her.

All that, she’s rather less glad for. She got stupid, got careless, and now Xen’s standing between Osytha and the pretty horrible fate she’s invited on herself. Xen’s having to hurt, and risk being hurt, to protect this pathetic excuse for a knight. Neither one of which are acceptable.

I am indeed, she reflects, a bit of a silly cunt. It’s true.

Osytha’s hand moves to her waist. It hovers briefly over her longsword; and yeah, maybe she’s experienced and trained enough to still put up a fight despite also being completely, utterly rat-arsed. But that isn’t where her fingers wind up going. The clumsy digits work something free as Osytha staggers to her feet, swaying against the tempest. She performs a lazy, underarm swing, and a heavy little item lobs through the air to land with a rich, symphonic clinking at one of the men’s feet.

“There,” she declares, wearily. “Payday. Now you din’t come out here f’ nothin’. And nobody need lose any more hands, so… take it and go? Please?”

That ganger, a featureless figure save for some faint, wet glint off his eyes and rain-soaked beard, hesitates. Then, crouches down. Picks up the leather purse and bounces it up and down in his palm a couple of times. A muffled yet respectable jingling cuts underneath the indecisive gale.

Their apparent leader watches with equal parts fury and horror. “Don’t you dare,” he warns. “Don’t you fucking dare. Don’t you…”

The other one stands up. “C’mon,” he tells his fellows. “If we want action, we can head to Violetta’s.”

“You— you godsdamn rats! Cowards! You fucks, I’m gonna —!”

It’s hard to fear a man who’s lost his knife hand. Might be he lost a lot more than that along with it, because the footpads seem much more willing to listen to the one who’s holding a purse full of silver.

Their freshly-promoted boss just gives his raving comrade an even stare. “Nobody’s making you stay here, Cuttle.” Nods to the stump he’s now pressing hard against his chest. “Best go do something about that. Quicksmart.”

Much less wrath, now. Mostly just stunned disbelief as he watches the other men slink away into the night. “No… you fucking bastards, you…”

So in shock, so consumed with betrayal, that ‘Cuttle’ quite fails to notice Osytha’s weaving approach through the blind spots in his tunnel vision. Not until it’s too late, and a strong arm is wrapped around, pinning his own pair to his sides. He startles and tries to jerk away, but as drunk as the knight may be, she ain’t a slacker when it comes to keeping herself in shape. He can’t get the leverage to shake her off.

“Now, you,” she slurs, indelicately clamping a wad of gauze from her first aid pouch down on that bloody stump, “… uh, hold that there, go on, er… right, yew need t’ see a surgeon. And I know where to find some, um, mendicants? Medicunts? Medi-wossnames¹, who’ll patch yewwup nice an’ —*urp*— ugh, might ommust be time for round two… sorry, patch you up nice an’ proper. So we’re takin’ yew home.”

Osytha nods once, determinedly, seemingly satisfied with this idea of hers. Then she looks up to Xen.

“Where, uh… where is home, by the by?”

---

¹ Medicant. She means ‘medicant’, which, apart from being a term for pharmacological substances, is also a title used to refer to the Knights of Anathaeum’s healers.

 

[Xenovia]

Osytha's coin purse might not be laden with silver, but it's enough to convince the others that it just ain't worth it. Why tangle with some thrice-cursed ashblood when you could make off with her partner's coin? It was a no-brainer, really. Even a guy like Cuttle could understand the pragmatism behind it. Better to get one's wick dipped at Violetta's than to lose a hand over lost pride.

“You— you godsdamn rats! Cowards! You fucks, I’m gonna —!”

Lowering her greatsword, Xenovia kept a close eye on the gaggle as they walked away. Rainwater sluiced from the darkened eaves like temporary waterfalls. The storm wasn't going to let off anytime soon, and, quite frankly, she was starting to feel more akin to a drowned rat than a warrior princess descended from the heavens.

'I did warn you,' she spoke quietly, turning to face Cuttle, readying to drive the point home. Literally, if needs be.

A small, unassuming figure slipped past her shoulder, then. The she-badger, seeking to help, to render aid to someone who had until a minute ago harboured ill intentions towards her. Noble, she was. And naive. Pain and hatred were a heedy mix; Cuttle's plans might have changed, but his mind was made up.

Xen could see it written on his face, in the way his eyes hardened.

His anger subsided, but his hate lingered, colder now. She could see it. Sharp as rain in winter. "Fuckin' bastards..." Xen could not decide just whom he spoke of. "Bunch of limpdicks... Craven cunts... Fuck 'em!" Xen found herself nodding in agreement. Aye, fuck 'em! She mused, leaning down to recover the sodden velvet she used to shroud her blade, her clothes sticking uncomfortably as she straightened up to eye Osytha. Noble, naive Osytha.

Alright. On your head be it, she thought, tilting her head to the side.

'That way.' As something of an afterthought, she swept up Cuttle's dismembered hand, sending the knife tumbling away with the toe of her boot. 'Walk on! I'll direct you. Oh, and Cuttle? Don't try anything funny. I'm not in the laughing mood.'

 

[Osytha]

The badger proves aptly-named; in her markings, in her size, and notably, in her sturdiness. Her grip is relentless — for Cuttle’s own good, you know? — which unfortunately for him, just means he gets to share in Osytha’s every wind-buffeted, drunken, blind mis-step along these gloom-wrought streets. It’s not exactly helping his nerves any. And neither is the disembodied, burnished-gilt stare which flickers in and out from the dark at his back.

All of which goes entirely unnoticed by Syr Osytha.

“… it’ll be awright,” she consoles, and gives her new friend a hearty shake. Probably, she means it to be comforting. “You woodunt believe th’ things they can do wiv prost-, prost-, um, per-rost-theddics. Yew’ull see. Cuddle, wazzit?”

“… Cuttle,” corrects Cuttle. Not that he’s thrilled about these two psychos knowing his nom de guerre, but the thought of being called ‘Cuddle’ by an obnoxiously sloshed besom for the rest of the night sounds like its own kind of hell. In addition to all the others he’s currently going through.

There’s an indignant shift in the aura to his side. “’S wha’ I said, yeah. Cuh-t-tel. Azzin, ‘knife’.” Osytha rolls her eyes, which he can’t actually see, but he does feel her finger jab him in the chest. “It’s a bit, we-e-ell, on th’ nose, innit? I reckon you could do better. Like, er… like, how’s about ‘whittle’?”

“Don’t that just mean ‘knife’ again?” No. Definitely not ‘whittle’. Not with the way Osytha’s mangling her hard ‘t’s. That’d be even worse than ‘Cuddle’.

“Oh. Yeah.” Damn, names are hard. “… Anyway. You’ll figure it out.”

Cuttle falls into a sullen silence. Meanwhile, in the fuzzy warm glow of her skull, Osytha’s distracted thoughts drift smooth and slow as tangled seaweed on the gentle ocean currents. So this is mercy, huh? she wonders. It’s not so bad. Sure, we got off to a rocky start, and, yes, the stuff he was saying was pretty vile… and admittedly, perhaps I’d be bleeding out in a gutter right now, or worse, if Xen hadn’t stepped in, and old mate doesn’t exactly seem repentant. And—

A troubled feeling stirs in Osytha’s gut. A warning sensation. Could it be that this, maybe, possibly, if you look at it a certain way, have been just a teensy-weensy, itty-bitty, very tiny little mistake…?

Osytha shakes her head free of that feeling. No. It’s better than… the alternative. It has to be. We’ll just, we’ll get Cuttle the support he needs, and it’ll turn out there’s more going on than we realised. Maybe he could use a bit of help weaning off the poppy, or whatever he’s on. Yeah. And there, that guttering little flame of hope grows steady, regains its brightness. Might be all sorts of reasons it’s not really his fault. He just needs a chance. He deserves a chance. Yeah.

This is definitely the Right Thing To Do.

Xenovia drives them along, through thoroughfares deserted in this frigid squall. Now and then a warm glow can be seen peeking out from someone’s window, or a small light stands in defiance of the wind and illuminates a threshold here and there, but for the most part, apertures remain firmly shut against the inclement weather, and doorways uninvitingly dark. Some parts of the Hold see fit to brighten their avenues beneath night’s gentle shroud. This piece of it, Osytha surmises, ain’t one of them.

Not too much further to go, at least. Even blinded as she is, Osytha almost recognises the next turn Xen has them make, and an industrious low gurgling ahead on their left reduces some dislocated memory back into place. If they’re where she thinks they are… yes, and there it is. It’s got the first bit of public lighting she’s seen thus far, perhaps exactly so as to draw sots like herself toward it before they take a tumble.

She does recall this spot — just a few more streets and they’ll soon see the vague smudge of loch-light coming from the dilapidated old Planter Barracks. Thank gods. Somewhere in there is a dry change of clothes, a warm bed Osytha can crawl into, and hopefully, a room with a door she can lock, so she’ll be left in peace while she suffers through the apocalyptic hangover that she’s been working hard towards.

“Almost there now,” Osytha assures the man, punctuating her words with another encouraging jostle.

‘Almost there now,’ Cuttle notes. The declaration sends a fresh spike of anxiety through his chest.

Osytha’s busy riding the happy, blissful wave of clemency and grace. Unfortunately, Cuttle doesn’t understand such things. In Cuttle’s world, people don’t show mercy; they don’t help you get patched up after you’ve just tried to rob, rape, and kill them. What they do is lie, and trick you. If someone’s being this chummy, they’re invariably baiting you into a trap. What most people in Cuttle’s world actually do, is look for any opportunity to take from him and hurt him, same as he does to them.

Had Osytha been a little more clear-headed, she might have remembered that. Might have understood how all this would flick every single paranoid switch in Cuttle’s body. But she doesn’t, because she’s drunk. And she’s drunk because there’s no story in a perfectly well-adjusted, sober knight who’s brushed their teeth and tucked themselves into bed by 7PM.

Her badger stripe shimmers in the dark as she cranes backward to smile at Xen. A woody creak and clack underfoot, stepping onto the short, lantern-bathed bridge which spans a churning canal.

“Thanks,” Osytha tells her. “You’re a real life saver—”

A little distraction like that… it’s what Cuttle’s been waiting for. He feels the long-awaited slack in Osytha’s arm and shoves, hard, finally breaking her grapple.

Two things happen:

First, that dang third law of Sir Isaac’s again. Cuttle pushes himself away as much as he does the knight, and he gets a nice dose of inertia propelling him along the bridge.

“Fuck you!” he shouts, careening toward the waiting dark upon the other side. A taste of freedom, and he seems back to his old self. “You’re dead cunts! Just you fucking wait!”

Second: Osytha trips; staggers sideways. Until she doesn’t, because one needs solid ground on which to stagger, and suddenly there’s nothing under her feet but empty air.

Xen has a glimpse of Osytha’s shocked face staring back at her. The knight’s eyes are wide with confusion, and just enough awareness to be very scared, as the pale visage tilts off the side of the bridge to the rushing waters below.