Esme wiped her hands on her trousers and turned away from the grisly sight to grin up at the new arrival. By necessity, she hadn’t seen much of the other Salamanders since the artist job – too much activity at Harlin’s would draw the eye of the guard.
“Hey. It’s good to see you, big guy.” She clasped his arm, then spent a moment looking over his new armor. It didn’t seem to be of local make – and it wasn’t quite sitting right on his frame. Loose buckles dangled and rattled with each step. “Need any help with all that?”
The chantry mother cleared her throat, a disapproving gleam in her eyes. Esme shrugged, slightly abashed. The woman had the same icy manner as her own mother.
“We’ll get started right away, ma’am.” Steering Genthus out of the catacombs by the back of his belt, Esme didn’t speak again until they were standing in the weak autumn sunlight. “You got my letters? Or did the Dogs fill you in?”
It rankled a bit, how wrong things had gone. Caro had nearly died, pinning them in place until he was fit for the road – still a week or so off, in her opinion. They’d spent nearly as much coin as they’d earned for the job on lodgings and medicine and bribes. Then something had happened to the Maker-damned Prince of Starkhaven himself, leading to the city closing its gates and locking down.
The chantry wanted these ritual-killings solved before news of them spread. The mother’s writ of passage was hot in her palm.
“Everything’ll be alright. Byrne included. I just don’t want to leave with empty pockets.” She gestured vague behind them at the palace, by way of explanation. The words didn’t sound right to her own ear, failing to muster the confidence she was reaching for. A couple seasons into this new profession and she’d seen just as many horrible injuries. As stir crazy as sitting in an inn room for days on end made her, it was hard not to feel a little bit of trepidation about diving back into the work.
They collected the horses from the stable and she mounted up.
“Have you ever fought a demon, Genthus? What do you think it does with the skin?”
“Hey. It’s good to see you, big guy.” She clasped his arm, then spent a moment looking over his new armor. It didn’t seem to be of local make – and it wasn’t quite sitting right on his frame. Loose buckles dangled and rattled with each step. “Need any help with all that?”
The chantry mother cleared her throat, a disapproving gleam in her eyes. Esme shrugged, slightly abashed. The woman had the same icy manner as her own mother.
“We’ll get started right away, ma’am.” Steering Genthus out of the catacombs by the back of his belt, Esme didn’t speak again until they were standing in the weak autumn sunlight. “You got my letters? Or did the Dogs fill you in?”
It rankled a bit, how wrong things had gone. Caro had nearly died, pinning them in place until he was fit for the road – still a week or so off, in her opinion. They’d spent nearly as much coin as they’d earned for the job on lodgings and medicine and bribes. Then something had happened to the Maker-damned Prince of Starkhaven himself, leading to the city closing its gates and locking down.
The chantry wanted these ritual-killings solved before news of them spread. The mother’s writ of passage was hot in her palm.
“Everything’ll be alright. Byrne included. I just don’t want to leave with empty pockets.” She gestured vague behind them at the palace, by way of explanation. The words didn’t sound right to her own ear, failing to muster the confidence she was reaching for. A couple seasons into this new profession and she’d seen just as many horrible injuries. As stir crazy as sitting in an inn room for days on end made her, it was hard not to feel a little bit of trepidation about diving back into the work.
They collected the horses from the stable and she mounted up.
“Have you ever fought a demon, Genthus? What do you think it does with the skin?”
10-04-2024, 10:49 AM
