The last job hadn’t paid on account of their employer trying to kill them. Still, with the caravan master’s wagon becoming the spoils of war, Esme was moving up in the world. Literally. She didn’t have to sleep on the ground anymore! That was very exciting news. Now she got to sleep in a bedroll on the floor of a wagon.
Esme shoved her way through the crowd at the Toad & Leech with a basket of food, marching behind the establishment to where her new home slash workplace was parked. On the edge of a no name town like this, she’d take any concealment from the road that she could get. Even if there was a mild but persistent aroma of horseshit so close to the stables.
The rest of the Salamanders and Dogs had gone on ahead while she set all of her materials to rights. The caravan master had been something of a hobbyist in her chosen profession – there was a wall of tiny drawers and a bar to secure them in transit. A bench to work on on the other side. She climbed in and sat down, digging into her provisions.
Cheese and bread and cheap wine. An apple, only slightly withered. She took a big bite, relishing a moment of solitude. Soon enough she’d be back to living cheek to jowl with all the others.
Ever since Nairn had dropped his little bomb about an offspring Ruth had done his best to avoid Megara at all costs. He’d come home late, leave early, avoid her invitations to tea for the Refectory and when she started looking, claimed to have a lead and promptly left without so much as a wave or usual witty, lewd remark. He couldn’t look her in the eye and lie that things were fine. Not with Nairn hovering over the trigger.
It was a shit show he dreaded to witness, cursing himself for growing too attached, hope kindled that two people could actually make this shit work. Nairn was an idiot, though Ruth couldn’t blame him either, faced with the same choice he’d have likely done the same in Nairn’s place. No-one had expected the kid to turn up, let alone be mentored by his own father all these years under their noses. But Meg hadn’t deserved to be lied to all these years and been abandoned till now either, having no malicious bone in her body.
Nice people didn’t get shit. Only further suffering.
He’d wandered into this village in a haze, head too busy swinging from scenario to scenario of the fallout. Anger, fits of rage weren’t the Stoner’s usual mo when things disrupted life or the boys did something she disapproved of. If Nairn landed him in the shit, Ruth was going to be pissed. It did neither of them any good if she was furious at both of them, how would they know what her plan was? His head pounded with the possibilities and lake of rest, insomnia had plagued him since he’d bumped the last of his stash with the fool. A few days past now. Ruth knew it was empty, even as he fumbled out the tin to check again. Fuck. Life really enjoyed fucking him sideways at every opportunity.
While he’d remembered to eat that morning, Ruth's stomach refused to abate its goal of a seafaring life. Waves of nausea caused him to seek some privacy on the outskirts to spew out his breakfast of rum and crackers, stomach immediately settling before the shakes overcame him.
I’mma shove my staff up that Coterie fuck’s ass for this… ugh, he spat, fuck me.
Esme moved on from the apple, setting the core aside. She cut her bread into slices and speared a piece on the prongs of a fork. By the time she heard a man vomiting in the bushes, she was well on her way to having toast and cheese over a tiny candle flame.
But he did rather ruin her appetite. Grabbing the candle and shuffling toward the back of the wagon, she cracked open the back door. There was an elf bent over in the thin light, a few horse lengths away. Golden haired, angular, exceedingly short.
”That sounds ill advised. Had a bit too much to drink, have we?” No, maybe not. The longer she looked, the more it became clear something else was wrong. Puking sucked, certainly, but not enough to cause tremors like that. It wasn’t cold out and he didn’t seem otherwise in the grip of an anxiety attack. Withdrawals? Or else something she wouldn’t be able to do fuck all about. Esme stuck her head out, peering back towards the tavern as if wondering whether this clearly very ill man had anyone else to look after him.
It seemed not. Shakes were bad. So were strange men. She heaved a big sigh, making up her mind.
”Okay, I might be able to sort you out. Come in. Try anything and I’ll shoot you.” The low ceiling made movement awkward, potentially revealing her false leg as she crab walked back to the bench and stool on the other end of the space. That left the stranger with her nest of blankets to sit in. She fervently hoped he wouldn’t be sick in them.
He wiped his mouth with the back of a hand, head shaking after in a vain attempt to shirk it off. Through the haze of thoughts and pain the voice calling caused him to scoff. Not painful enough? While unsteady, Ruth stood back up, head again shaking. No. Opposite. Not nearly enough…ran out, ugh. At least he could dull the cravings, but he’d run out of rum too though that wasn’t as much of a problem to source compared to the dust.
Ruth swayed, a hand reached out to a fence post in an effort to steady himself, breathing through the stabbing pain in both his head and chest. Every movement was slowed, even his thoughts fogged as she muttered on, the elf snorting again, unable to halt his tongue when the words finally made sense to him. A wide, manic grin swept across his features and he laughed loudly. Ha! Don’t threaten me with a good time, miss but then she was gone, scuttling away. Her strange shuffling action caused merely a raised eyebrow, but he shook it off with a slight stumble in his walk forwards, weaving a path to the agar door.
He leaned against the frame though, hand pushing it wider to peer inside yet remaining firmly where he was, lightly rocking at the threshold. He whistled a meloncolic tune while waiting and though he’d expressed being shot wasn’t off the cards, Ruth meant it in jest. He did not, in fact, wish an arrow in the ass. Not again. Expecting a trap, his brow furrowed heavy with suspicion as his one eye scanned the interior. If it’s all the same, I’d rather wait out here. The last cart I got in the back of, tried to sell me down the road and I’d rather not blow up your wee house. Know how it feels, bitterly.
Though, if you know of a bent Templar, I’m all ears.
Esme busied herself lighting a few more candles, fat slow burning rolls of slightly fragrant beeswax. She didn’t look up at the stranger again until he insinuated that she might try to sell him. Blow up her house —? That staff-up-the-arse bit had perhaps not been figurative. This not-quite-guest was a mage as well as an elf.
Perhaps that explained his attitude.
“Oh dear. I hadn’t thought about kidnapping anyone today, but now that you mention it ... Shame the mules aren’t even harnessed.” A dip of her chin indicated, vaguely, the stables. “Suit yourself, though.” She picked up the toasting fork and took a bite of her now cold dinner.
Why would a mage want a crooked Templar? It came together as she chewed. Lyrium addiction? The stuff was so hard to come by now – and so expensive – that she was momentarily taken aback. With the light, she could see him more clearly. Tremors and sweat, a glassy look she knew well.
“No templars, no.” She pulled the crossbow off the bench and into her lap. Loaded it slowly, set it back – not aimed at him but close enough at hand to leave the threat in the air. Then she bent and flicked open a toggle on her right ankle, then another higher up on her calf. The fabric parted to show a length of lyrium etched steel where her right leg should have been. Byrne’s runic script glowed blue-white in the semi dark.
“Might be that I have some left over. But can you pay?”
There was a dwarf nestled somewhere in his brain, he could almost swear it. The blows were that of a hammer and the elf grit his teeth, summoning a wave of magic to soothe some, but not able to alleviate the root cause of his self-inflicted suffering. Letting out a sigh, his eye finally focused enough to work out his mistake, the horseshit finally hitting his nose and clearing some of his senses.
His stomach lurched again, but with its contents already emptied his stomach cramped painfully instead. I’m not having a great day... the one eye doesn’t really help either, he’d bitterly admit with an apathetic shrug. His life was a series of rolling shitshows and this was just another day, it was almost normal to the elf.
The smell of toast though, brought on a wave of other, more familiar cravings, though he begrudged overstaying the frigid welcome he’d been granted. While he was visually impaired, his ears were another matter, one twitched as the crossbow loaded with a resounding click, firmly catching his attention. Still, he continued to lean, unfazed by her caution with a stranger. Smart. It's what he’d do in her place.
Disappointment with her answer quickly gave way to pleasant surprise at her prosthesis. Interesting choice. Brows rose, lips pursed to whistle out, slightly impressed and curious of the craftsmanship. He knew a few engineers and blacksmiths who’d be curious of the mouldings, the design and techniques to craft such a thing. That’s a nice piece of hardware…and I don’t just mean the lyrium leg, but payment? I’ve various ways to pay. Healer by trade, Scholar and Tomb raider on the side. Gold I have too and I’m not above doing a favour depending on the circumstances.
Did a bad day excuse bad manners? Maybe, maybe not. Esme wasn’t truly concerned just yet. For all his foul mood, the elven mage wasn’t doing a whole lot but swaying and leaning in obvious discomfort. Until that changed, this was all rather tenable – as far as semi-anonymous drug deals went.
She endured his regard and examined what she could see of his face in turn. The loss of his eye must have been recent. Why else mention it? It lent him a slightly piratical air, darkly humorous alongside her false leg. Alas, the Toad and & Leech was miles from the sea.
“Mm. I’ll pass on your regards, stranger.” She dragged her stool a few inches closer to the wall of drawers, freeing the heavy mechanism that kept them from falling open when the wagon was in motion. Of all the ways he could pay for his lyrium … Well, gold seemed by far the safest choice.
“We’re in the same trade then.” Magic probably changed the job quite a bit. Better and worse – she’d seen how tired Byrne and Lelindin were after a bad fight. Must be a strange feeling though, trading in sharp knives and gut and potions for something more direct. And entirely beyond her.
“Gold’s fine – assuming you have enough on you.” That seemed … Rather unwise? Traveling with that amount of coin in your pockets while fucked up with the shakes. He looked like an easy mark for rough folk, magic or no.
Esme stopped pretending to search aimlessly and palmed the proper vial. It was about the length of her hand fingertip to wrist, heavy and cold, thick walled to protect the handler. Worth a fair bit to an addict with no other recourse, no doubt? Not her expertise, to be entirely truthful – she knew miles more about poppy or blood lotus. She held the container so he could see it, but made no move to hand it over yet.
“Probably ought to know each other's names before we put favors on the table. I’m Esme, alchemist and field surgeon for the Salamanders and the Dogs.”
Ruth chuckled as she offered to pass on his regards to her smith. It was a hollow statement to him since she’d likely said it to merely deflect his equally empty compliment. If he’d been feeling less like he’d deep throated a barbed cock he may have been slightly less aggrieved? Perhaps, perhaps not. He had few things to be ‘happy’ about these days. His habits merely numbed existence enough that he could coast through most days.
Hearing that they worked the same profession, Ruth’s eye narrowed slightly, Well, Doctor, I’m sorry for bothering you. We make terrible patients, no? At least he did. Megara had mercifully not lectured as hard when sowing up the ragged edges of his slashed orbit, but he hadn’t made it easy. He had to have problems, constantly.
Nodding that Gold was fine, Ruth leaned back against the doorframe and slid down to the ground, drawing up a boot to unlace and eventually pull off. Pretty sure I’ve some gold and other shiny bits… gimme a sec…. His hand felt around inside for the hiding place cut into the sole, fingers deftly plucking out a number of coins and a coloured stone, clicking a little as he palmed them before slipping them into a pocket in his robes.
Rebooting his foot, he’d grin slightly, though his eye maintained its focus on his hands, pulling at laces and retying them as he spoke. Rut’theran, but Ruth is fine. Boot secured his back sank against the wood to appraise her. I already said what I do, sometimes I work with others, most times not. He’d shrug and then everything stilled as she held out the container. His attention was fully caught on the vial for a long moment, the single blue eye eventually fixed on her, the size of the vial a little unexpected.
“I suppose we do, at that.” Esme had been barely this side of consciousness the last time she’d needed care that she couldn’t provide herself. She hadn’t the time or the strength to bargain with the saw, to beg for anything other than the most expedient treatment. Maybe she’d forgive her mother for that someday. More likely she would not.
He dipped out of view, and she fought down the natural instinct to draw closer, to see what he was doing. That would be rather unbecoming of the person she wanted to present: someone collected and who was not at all afraid of strange men on the road. Eventually, there was the clink of coins. His name was unfamiliar to her – but that was hardly surprising when she barely needed a second hand to count her friends.
Then he was back up and fixated on the vial. Perhaps she’d made a mistake and this was about to go poorly? From his expression, the lyrium in a piece of artifice was different from the lyrium you planned to consume. In quantity, if nothing else. She tried not to let that momentary confusion show on her face, motioning instead for him to go on and get the rest of his coin.
Would this beggar him? Selling to an addict was a novel experience for her, beginning to lead to unwelcome questions about responsibility and so on. What a grown man did with his body was not much of her concern.
And yet. Maybe it was his height, his relative beardlessness, that made him look young by candlelight.
“Do you have a place to go once you have this stuff, Ruth? I’d feel awful shitty if I passed you in a ditch somewhere.”
It was a lot more than he’d expected. Enough to last him a good six months if he was careful, rationed it until a new supplier was found. If he rationed it. With how life had fucked him sideways of late perhaps a few mindless nights would remedy him. A lie Ruth told himself repeatedly but had yet to lift his head from.
He repeated the act of getting what coin lay in his other boot, the few small gems he’d scavenged from old ruins to make up the price.
I do, he’d admit with a nod. But you needn’t concern yourself. The best advice is to keep on going, you’ve caught me on the rare occasion where I’m not being a nuisance. His tone teasing though the roguish grin left no doubt he was a bit of a troublemaker.
No, not today. He had a genuine need for a fix, to get him into some level of functioning, and she was kind enough to oblige him. Chuckling, Ruth hesitantly stepped deeper into the cart, raising a hand to begin piling the gold pieces into lots of ten on a nearby counter. I’ve a few stones if what I have isn’t enough.
After a few tiers of coins had been placed he appraised her out of the corner of his eye, how much more was she going to charge for this gift?
Esme wasn’t sure what to make of that grin. Perhaps it would be more charming if he hadn’t so recently been vomiting into a bush? He seemed to think highly of it, in any case.
“Well then. Alright, I will. And I’d ask what you mean by nuisance but, honestly, I’ve already got a sad fuck of a mage to worry about. Don’t need another one.” That was, perhaps, unkind to Byrne – who was miles away and in no position to complain. Besides, unkind wasn’t untrue – he had sad, wet eyes and an aura of pervasive loneliness. Except when they were in a fight.
She watched Ruth stack up his coins, mentally tallying the sum against what she’d paid originally. A markup was reasonable, considering the increasing rarity of lyrium and the immediacy of Ruth’theran’s need for it. Unless the stones were exceptional, there wasn’t enough there to really pluck at her heartstrings too badly. Still, Esme leaned forward and halved one stack of coins with her free hand, pushing five back to him.
“Give me the stones and take these back so you can eat on your way to wherever you’re going. We can call that square. Although …” She tilted her head, considering.
“I’ve never been tomb diving before. Cut me in sometime and I’ll let you know if I can get my hands on more. Family name's Lachance – got a room at Harlin’s in Starkhaven you can write to.” She offered him the vial, passing it over in her palm.
Ruth snorted, Nothin’ nefarious. And I’m not sad. Just recklessly living life. Yes, had she not watched him hurl the little contents of his stomach into the bushes, he’d have appeared the more charming rogue, but alas, she had been offered a peek behind the curtain of stimulants and alcohol.
If he forgoed the lyrium, the drink and saved, his income would provide a comfortable living. Not a wealthy one, but he’d never have to settle in an alienage, rent only a room to bed in, he could have settled long ago, yet wouldn’t, or rather couldn’t. He let his eye wander the cart, idly thinking something like this would work, but then the added up keep of a horse and all complicated it, his feet and the eluvian network hadn’t failed him yet.
He wasn't about to complain as she halved a stack and pushed it back towards him. Chuckling a little, Ruth nodded, dipping into his pocket to fish out the mid-grade stones. Nothin’ exciting, but their colourings are good, be better when they’ve had some repolishin’. Swapping the stones for his returned coin Ruth quietly considered her offer, the slightest of grins tickled at the corners of his mouth.
Sounds a good exchange, not sure my usual ‘Axe’ would be up to sharing mind, but I can sweet talk her into cutting you in sometime. He’d shrug, attempting not to obviously bite at the magic bullet of acquiring a new supplier and reaching with both hands to wrap around hers. Appreciate the easy business, Esme. Next time I shouldn’t be puking, but you can never really tell with hangovers. A squeeze of her palm and one hand slipped the vial out of her grasp, the other taking it’s place to shake on it. Yes Ma’am, outside. Far away from here.
Turning, Ruth checked himself, fixing his cloak and robes, toes and feet wiggled unseen in his loosened boots. It was one thing to head back in the thick of withdrawal but it was another thing entirely if he lost his boots on the way. He liked these boots.
Harlin’s, Starkhaven, the words rolled out of his mouth, head nodding as he reached the cart door, offering a mock bow before he’d leave her. Safe journey, Esme and thanks.
