It's not easy being horn-ed...

[ChikenKannon]

[Mon-da-oth]

Jim the Sirloin

Ha! The legend continues.

Gald to see Chia back.

[Will]

Keep up the good work!

[Chia]

((Just to dissuade the notion that Chia is any great hero of unequalled martial prowess. Teshalia does seem to like her, though. Or maybe is just amused. I sure am

Quick word doodle at work in celebration of the coming weeked.

Thank you for reading, everybody!

*

*Plink*

The bolt ricocheted off of the large shield in front of her, harmlessly.

So far, so good.

*Thud*

The second one went straight through the shield, its point scraping against her plate.

That was most definitely not good.

It seemed such a good idea, at the time. The Kalem haul got her well within required budget for the next week or so (fine, stretching the money a bit – a girl had a right to have expenses, after all). Given the odd looks people were giving her in town, and the new guards being all overbearing and bossy (what was with that, anyway? Like, you started to wear blue, and suddenly you could order everybody around or something?!), she decided to try making her way back to the Mill.

Of course, that meant getting past the bandits and the undead. Perhaps wearing the plate, while offering superior protection, was not exactly the best of an idea when it came to trying to sneak through unnoticed.

But… it was shiny!

*Thud*

She looked at the new bolt-head that pierced her shield. That was about it. She liked the shield. It had a nice squiggle on it… though it seemed to, for some reason, attract attention. It reminded her vaguely of something, in the nagging way of possibly important things that remain just beyond the reach of recollection…

*Thu-Screech*

The arrow pierced through the shield, making another hole in the metal, and gauged a deep grove in her shoulder pad. That was going to cost!

With significant effort, she rose from her protective crouch behind the shield. Thrusting it forward, and praying feverishly to Teshalia (gods do have their uses), she charged forward with a blood-curdling scream, the point of her rapier wobbling ahead of her.

“I always get my wa-!”

The tall female bandit, dressed in leathers, reached with the butt of her spear. For a moment, the world slowed down, and she felt herself tripping over the thick shaft of the weapon. Her outthrust rapier slowly circled quite some distance from the crossbowman’s face, a one-eyed squint of aiming his weapon at her momentarily frozen on his face.

Then, the world bloomed in chaos. She felt the jarring crash itself, as the bodily fall transferred the impact through her armor to majority of her body. Her vision blurred by the force of impact, then became hindered by the skew of her helmet. She heard, vaguely in her half-stunned state, the sharp twang of released crossbow, then a hoarse cry.

In the meantime, she kept falling further.

Her shield-arm, with the straps securing the large block of metal to her forearm holding, was flailing about as she tumbled down the hill. With her vision impaired by the twisted headgear, it seemed like ages before she stopped with a splash with head spinning from the fast and uncoordinated travel down the slope.

She also took a deep breath of water in.

With a surge of strength fueled by the sudden panic attack, she spasmed to her knees, the metal plates of her armor sliding over the muck and smooth stones of the creak’s bottom. Jerking the helmet off of her head, she coughed violently, half-bent over the water that still seemed to circle around in her blurry and distorted vision.

Coughing her lungs out, she hazily realized that the sudden journey down the hill’s side left her with no serious injuries… or at least ones that would immediately herald their presence by incapacitating her in some manner.

Of course, there was still the matter of bandits behind her.

*Th-clink*

She yelped, grasping back at the shaft that pierced the skirt of her plate, digging through the leather and carving a shallow wound in the flesh underneath. A loud guaff sounded out further up the hill, followed by a female voice.

“Don’t damage the merchandize, idiot!”

Scrambling out of the stream and trying to, unsuccessfully, remove the bolt stuck in the protrusion of the armor covering parts of her... uh… lower back, she turned around to see the blonde woman bandit slowly coming down the hill. The short crossbowman, leaned over his weapon, was clearly getting ready for another shot her way.

Her rapier was gone. So was the short-sword, usually counterbalancing on the other side of her belt, fallen out during her tumble glimmered at her invitingly. Far in the distance. Beyond the approaching bandits.

The only upside was the sprawled body of a half orc on the crest of the hill, with a bolt sticking out of his chest. That meant only two bandits now.

Right.

Feeling her legs wobble underneath, she rose up from the brook. Its water, browned by the muck stirred by her impact, flowed from every crevice in her armor. She could also feel something squishy under her left knee…

*Th-clink!*

She yelped as a bolt went through her upper left arm, just above the edge of her shield. Absently, she wondered if she should have been glad that the crossbowman failed to hit anything important. Then another of throb of pain from the wound came, even more intense. She yelped again.

The human bandit stopped, looking in her direction with sudden wariness. Ignoring the tears in her eyes, Chia frowned, then yelped again. This was… odd.

The blonde bimbo with the spear looked actually afraid. It also seemed to help the pain a bit. Plus, it was actually interesting. Odd, but interesting.

She yelped again, this time with a quizzical inflection to the sound.

The bandit turned, and started to quickly climb the hill back. She was scared!

The crossbowman stood with the weapon at the ready, yet failing to shoot at her. He did seem to be looking somewhat behind her, though…

Turning around, she faced the inviting grins of two skeletons, clad in tattered remains of armor. The halberds in their hands carried the promise of not only grievous bodily harm, but also assured blood poisoning from the filth covering their surface.

Not yelping, then…

She backed through the stream quickly, casting a wary gaze at the bandits. Luckily, they seemed more inclined to get back onto the top of the hill than sending another bolt her way.

She really did not like the undead. First of all, it was incredibly difficult to do anything to them, unless you were a six foot tall meat-sack with ham-like muscles. Secondly, there was no way to talk your way out of problems with them, either – something that not always worked with people, either, but at least was an option.

Luckily, they were usually quite slow, too. Couldn’t cross the river, either, from what she recalled.

The leading skeleton hastened its pace. As she scrambled backward, noticing with a quick glance the increased intensity of the bandits’ climb, it splashed into the creek, gaining both speed and distance.

Can cross running water, then. Maybe it was something else that couldn’t… Orcs? That would explain the smell…

She jerked out of her reverie. No time for that, really. Did she have any silver on her…?

No, that was weres. Maybe…

Her questing hand found a small vial, miraculously having survived the mad tumble down the hill, still intact within the leather harness now mainly filled by jagged edges of broken glass. The marking on the cork told her that Teshalia still seemed to like her.

Another piercing pain from her injured arm, clearing through the dull cloud of panic and battle fever, told her that perhaps not quite. Still…

She quickly downed the potion, her wet boots sliding on the grass of the hill as she continued the frantic climb up. She shield, hanging loosely from her injured arm, kept hitting her side as its bottom rebounded against the ground.

The skeleton, now just a few steps away, was positively grinning. Of course, it did not have much choice, really.

She turned, feeling the surge of magic fill her body and making the task of carrying the heavy armor and shield all the so much easier. Her feet, until now falling heavily on the ground, suddenly turned a burst of speed that immediately negated the skeleton’s already reached fast pace.

Being scared to death helped, too, really. She scrambled up the hill, realizing after a few moments that she was actually catching up to the bandits, too busy making certain not to slide down by a badly placed step to watch the events unfolding below.

They must have heard her approach – hardly a difficult feat, given the furious pace intermixed with the damage to her armor causing the plates to skit and clash against each other. The human, slightly to the side, spared her merely a glance, then hastened her own climb.

The short guy holding the crossbow, though, turned around, swinging the weapon toward her at now point-blank range.

He shot her in the butt. He shot her in the arm. He also shot his own colleague, which went to his credit, but not far enough. She was rather displeased with the individual, to put it mildly.

The shield, swung with all the ferocity the magic empowering her body, combined with the fight-rage, allowed, caught the fellow straight on the face, dropping him over the hill’s crest. The crossbow fell to the ground, its discharge ricocheting off of her ankle plate. She continued running, feeling the force of the swing as well as the graze of the bolt reeling her off-balance, until after a few more steps she simply collapsed to the ground.

The pain from her arm was bad, but not as intense as to suggest the bone was damaged. Thankfully, because her fall gave her a good glimpse at the skeletons charging over the hill, while the bushes she fell among offered enough cover to pass initial examination. With the blonde bandit already running toward one of the camps around the area, the unfortunate crossbowman, groggily sitting up with his face a bloody mess, was the sole focus of the undead creatures.

His cry was cut short, as the halberds fell, taking his body to pieces in a matter of a few heartbeats. For skellies, they sure had a lot of control over what remained of their bodies…

The naked skulls turned toward her. The bloodied weapons were upraised once again as they both took the first steps toward her no longer a hiding place.

The loud roar that followed caused her to exert as much control as she could ever muster to prevent soiling her underpants. With a crash, a massive creature landed by the skeletons, swinging a large club.

It might have been a personification of Teshalia herself, for all she cared. She was certain to donate quite a lump sum to the Goddess’ temple. As soon as she found one open. Assuming she got out of this alive…

While the battle raged between the huge creature and the, admittedly, quite nimble skeletons, she scrambled hastily away. Maybe she would find her rapier and short sword later. Assuming she ever, ever, came back to that place. Not for a while, for sure, without a bunch of other people to get hurt first. Or, better yet, instead.

As she departed, the last glance over her shoulder showed one of the skeletons exploding in a cloud of smooth, shattered bone, forced out of the confines of the rusting and rotting armor by the impact of the creature’s massive club.

As the white fragments of bone flew through the air, she realized that, in the light of the slowly setting sun, they looked quite pretty, actually.

[Chia]

((I blame any and all mistakes or flawed composition below on any paladin of your choice. For no particular reasons other than because.))

When Buxom Mae sailed into the Cear bay, a palpable murmur ran through the docks.

The ship was captained by a local man, and most of the dock workers knew how regular his trips usually were.

Yet here she was, five weeks late. Strangely, the ship did not carry any signs of damage or adverse weather braved on its way back.

By the time she came closer to the wharfs, it was already apparent that the trip was not a good one, though. The thirty-two man crew was working sullenly, and keen eyes could not see the captain anywhere on the deck. Which, for a ship coming into its home-port, was rather exceedingly rage. More so since Kirvest was known to be very much a hands-on person.

When she docked, though, any worries for the man's well-being were dismissed by his thundering voice from the small aft cabin he usually occupied. The words were indistinguishable, but his mood seemed even fouler than that of his crew.

As his sailors moored Mae to the wharf, the cabin's door swung outward. A tall, feminine shape, clad in dark leathers, came through backwards, dragging a large sack. Her head was wrapped in a style very well known to anybody familiar with the desert people – a large head-scarf, covering all but the small opening allowing unrestricted vision, its folds coming on shoulders and back in long swaths. Although the raised face-veil was generally only used to protect from flying dust – something distinctly lacking in the maritime Cear.

A longer study of the stranger would probably be interrupted now by the full power of the captain's outburst coming through the open door,

“Get OFF my SHIP!”

*

Captain Kirvest was not happy. Mae's holds were full, and the profit from visiting the usual ports of call along the east coast of Cuhanna was always very good. Both the Empire and the kingdom could supply valuable exports with regularity, making it a steady source of income with only the occasional storm or local plague interrupting the predictability of his trade.

He should have expected trouble just from the amount the woman was willing to pay for passage. But, it was a significant sum, and he could not see the harm in bringing her on board. She looked odd, but a lot of his passengers did in the past. Normal people did not travel often between the two nations, at least not by paying for passage at the last moment. But, her problems were hers. Or so he thought.

Until too late.

*

He was happy with her demand on using his cabin. For one, she paid a lot for it. Moreover, while its comforts would go missing, he hoped for reprieve from the usual problems stemming from the presence of a female on a ship. His men were certainly not suitable for high-salon parties. Which became rather apparent as soon as she emerged from the cabin a bell after they left the port. He could deal with a woman distracting his men from work with a few shouts and threats, but he was certainly not going to stop them from making their snide and suggestive comments. If only because there was still a choice that the damn woman would stop parading on her deck in the loose-fitting robes. They certainly had a tendency to press against her with the wind, and he did not blame his men for admiring the figure they outlined. Even if they still better start focusing on their work. The deck always could use some more washing if they had too much time.

She definitely invited attention. Particularly given her odd gray skin, and the strange orange eyes, barely visible between the folds of her head-scarf he had yet to see her without.

She sounded young, as she exchanged insults and derogatory remarks with his men. The slang she used, now that he had a chance to hear it, surprised him – something he would expect from a random walker in Cear's docks a few years back than from a chance encounter in the desert fishing village where she approached him. He knew she was from the Empire as soon as she spoke. But some of the phrases were very distinctively local, if mixed with others that he had never even heard.

Finally, after a particularly implicative response from young Mathias, she stomped back into the cabin.

Good riddance.

He turned to bellow on the men, more to remind of his authority than any particular need. They had all been with him for a few years now, even Mathias, and all knew their work well. That said, compliance was a fickle thing on a sea-going ship, no matter how small, and a curt reminder at one point of who was in charge often saved a lot of effort some time later.

The door to his cabin creaked again.

He turned, and watched her use a piece of chalk to make an outline of a man's silhouette on the wooden wall by the door. Watched walk to the main mast, heft the slim throwing knives in her hand. Watched her roll up the sleeve on her right arm, exposing more of the strangely hued skin. Watched her fling the knives in rapid succession as if the rolling of the ship was inconsequential.

The catcalls and “helpful” suggestions from his sailors stopped. Cut short by the dull impact of the blades.

All within a hand's breath distance from where the two inner lines of the legs came together.

The vocal commentaries on her presence stopped. The whispers, particularly below decks, doubled, although their subject did change somewhat.

*

On the third day the shout of the lookout brought him up from the shared meal in the sailors' quarters where he now resided, aside from the infrequent times when he needed his maps and charts from the cabin. Not that he needed them much, either – he knew the waters by heart all the way to Cear.

The sail on the horizon, though distant, was already causing murmurs among his men.
A chaser, and not one of theirs. Which meant either the scant Cuhannan navy, or, more likely, an individual with a less problematic view of the whole concept of paid work and possession rights. It did not help that, from his experience, the two possibilities were often quite interchangeable.

The weather was not the best for it, which is why they weren't flying all canvas, but now there did not seem to be much of a choice.

They made more sails.

*

She tried to help. Out of boredom, as far as he could tell. Did manage to climb the mast up faster than his objection could be voiced.

There ended the similarity between her and his men.

She tangled up the rigging. Made a tear in the sail trying to correct her first mistake. Almost caused one of the sailors rushing to help to fall overboard, leaving him entangled in even more then-nonfunctional rigging.

By the time the damage was contained, the deck was all awash with the breakers coming over Mae's side as she wallowed dead in the waters. It was either that, or lose two top gallants.

They all needed a drink after that, just to calm the nerves.

*

He thought they lost their pursuer, but there it was. Whomever was captaining the other ship knew his trade – they emerged from the fog of last nights' storm far too close for Kirvest to be comfortable.

The colors they were flying did not help his mood, either.

He pounded on the door to, by the Gods, his cabin.

“Hey, gimme a moment!”

She was explicitly forbidden to come on the deck without his prior knowledge by now. Too many little incidents made it all too clear that the ancient maritime curse was embodied in this woman. She was Bad Luck. Although, strangely, there damage caused always seemed to end up being relatively minor after the bout of initial panic. At least... so far.

He could hear her moving the bar from the door. She barred his own door. To his own cabin.

The covered head peeked out from behind the door at his already reddened face.

“Yeah?”

“We need to talk”

“Yeah... sure, hoss. Get in, just watch th-”

He tripped over a thin line spread on the ground. Something discharged at its other end. He felt the rush of air as something -else- rushed behind his neck, sending chills down his spine.

“What in Rhauth's name are you DOING?”

“Hey, you told me I can't go out much now. I got bored. Not like I barged in a paid-for cabin with all this “you better talk or else” look on-”

She paused, her eyes even stranger in the dimmed light of the hooded lamp swinging from the ceiling. Her pupils turned vertical, and her irises were glowing faintly, reflecting the lamplight.

The effect was like a cold bucket of water on his temper. Even after he spotted the small dart lodged in the wall to his side...

“Look, miss, there's a Cuhannan war ship chasing us. -Still- chasing us. Though you could tell me why.”

Her posture changed from that of injured innocence to honest surprise,

“What? I don't know anything about ships.”

Her eyes shifted. So did the weight of her body, all the more perceptible as it went against the natural rhythm of the ship.

He spent too many years both as a trader and a captain not to recognize the signs.

“Either tell me what I need to know, or you get off. Now.”

She scowled. Not that it would do much to defuse the situation – she was threatening his ship by withholding crucial information, and passage fee be damned, she had long gotten on his nerves that even he was not sure if what he said was a mere bluff.

She might have even notice some reflection of his thoughts. Shifted again, glanced to both sides, lowered her voice. For whatever reason.

“Look... They might be looking for me, but it was just a complete misunderstanding, all right? I didn't even get why they got such a hard-on for me even back before...”

She trailed off. He nailed her with one of his rare looks reserved for the most undisciplined of men, just before locking them in the bilge for the remainder of the journey. And yet again he was not certain whether or not simply do it.

“Look... I may have collapsed that balcony, but it wasn't my fault she was on it. Besides, they were chasing me! I just wanted to see the party!”

“What are you talking about?!”

“Oh. Um. I kind of accidentally put one of the royal concubines under a pile of wood.”

Before he could voice all the emotions that seemed about to explode him to pieces, she quickly interjected,

“Hey, but it was that guard guy that dropped the torch. I never even thought of burning any part of that palace!”

*

They outran the chaser. Sailed east. Caught the edge of the storm that passed by them, used the winds for risky north-north-east bearing at full sails. Not because of any consideration for their passenger, but the simple fact that they were dead men if the Cuhannans boarded. They were fickle at the best of times, and given the circumstances there was little doubt in his mind what would follow their surrender.

Slave market, at best. Ceremonial execution to placate the ruler and assorted officials, likely. Assuming it wouldn't end on immediate simple and effective butchery of all on board.

When the wind died down, he waited until the stars came out. Took a reading. Went back to the cabin, spending an hour figuring out where they were, pointedly ignoring the passenger. Went up to give orders to the first mate, putting them back on course for the, now long, voyage home home. He went below decks. Locked himself in the cargo compartment for the rest of the night. With a bottle of their medicinal concoction used during debriding of wounds.

*

They ate figs and dactyls he hoped to sell back in Caer. Thankfully, the storm changed direction again, and they could refill the water barrels with rainwater. It also put more wind in the sails, so they all made back. Including the passenger, although there were a few close calls. She probably did not even realize how close she came to being fish food, and that only his stout refusal, for principle's sake rather than any particular feeling of goodwill toward the woman, saved her from being unceremoniously tossed overboard. With several mooring chains wrapped around her body, just to be sure.

But by all the gods, he was damned if he would let that... woman... demon... whatever she was stay any longer on his ship. Unless he was already, and she was it.

The infernal female, forcibly evicted from his cabin, took a glance around.

“Hey... this isn't Sheppard's Landing!”

“No. We ate what I was supposed to deliver there, and I'm not going to talk to those people before having a hold full of what was promised AND whatever payment they may demand for delays. Now get OFF!”

She tripped, the bag catching on the doorstep. He fumble turned into a quick swivel and two taps, the leather-clad body lithely tumbling back to its feet.

Even in the throes of his anger he was impressed. Her next words, though, did not impress at all.

“I'm so not getting off here. You said Sheppard's Landing. This isn't Sheppard's Landing, this is cursed Cear! I'm NOT getting off!”

He paused, glaring at her, his chest heaving. The sailors scuttled away – even those that knew him all those years. Never before was he so infuriated, not even when Mae lost both masts because of a badly secured boom.

He reached for her bag, struggling to get it off the ground.

“Hey, CAREFUL!”

Her voice gave him the strength he needed. He hauled the large bag on his shoulder, its contents shifting and clattering. What was she packing in there?

Whatever it was, she could pick it up from the bottom of the bay...

“Hey, what are you doing! That's my stuff! Don't...”

She grabbed at the bag. He stumbled, turned around, pushed her. He never raised a hand on a woman before.

She sat down on the deck with a loud expulsion of breath at the force of his shove. He took a few more steps toward the railing, then raised the bag in both hands above his head.

“DON'T...!”

As he launched it into the waters of the bay, he thought he heard the pattering of quickly departing feet behind him...

*

She launched herself over the other side of the ship, to the uncomprehending gazes of the sailors.

That was her stuff!

She dove deep, while behind her the water brightened in a successful succession of bright flashes. A small shock-wave pushed her deeper under, and she used the extra burst of speed to put as much distance between herself and the ship.

The former ship.

When she surfaced, Buxom Mae was already listing to the side, cries of alarm ringing from her deck and the wharf. Billows of black, noxious smoke rose from behind her.

She used the moored ships to reach the wharf while staying as much out of sight as possible. Knowing life, they'd likely blame her for this, too.

It was so unfair!

By the time she finally found her way into the old tunnels, their outlets into the bay made accessible by current low tide, Buxom Mae's deck was already getting covered with the bay's waters, the huge gaping hole in her side still covered with faint flickering of the green, inextinguishable fire.

He should not have thrown her stuff overboard!

[Elrith]

Good stuff Chia. Things should be more lively with you around.

P.S. The part about throwing knives into the crotch area of the chalk outline was my favorite.

[Kell]

Yes! Good stuff indeed

[Chia]

She was sitting in one of the darker corners of the Vissen tavern. It had a dartboard on nearby wall.

Nobody liked to sit there.

She thunked another dart in the red circle in the middle. Stupid woodie, and stupid humans, and stupid... everyone!

She should have known the job was going to go sour as soon as it turned out the woodie was going to pretend to be the leader. Never trust a woodie...

She ran a hand over the disfigurement of her left face. Should had learned that already...

That stupid human cow annoyed her next. Boo, hoo, hoo, no stealing from the dead. Was she mental or something? Dead did not need stuff. Especially when they were lurching around trying to kill them. That was... spoils of victory, and everything. But, nooo, “don't touch the coffins,” “we need to burn the book,” “you are a thief”.

A thief! She never had stolen. She... appropriated. When somebody tried to stick you, or shoot you, or magic you, you sure had every right to anything they got on them. Or around them. Or... generally lying around in the vicinity.

None of it was stealing, thought!

Er... Except for that one time when she just owed Minuvas for having had to run out of the town. But that was totally different, and she lost money on it, too. Ink and stuff. That was totally not stealing, either!

She grumbled into her face-veil, the fresh memories drowning out the troubles of the past.

When the whole job was done, the stupid woodie decided to magic both her and the dwarf. Admittedly, the dwarf had been pretty much asking for it, seeing how he wanted the better part of the payout. But her? All she said was the truth, and nothing else - she had had disarmed the traps. Right, maybe not all, but she still did. Wasn't her fault some stupid people would run over them or botch the disarming and everything. AND she had gotten that door opened and they wouldn't had been able to do that at all without her! So not like she didn't deserve the double play she was asking for, and SURE did not deserve to be magicked up by the woodie!

Then everybody started shouting when she was defending herself. And the dwarf! She was defending herself and the dwarf! She didn't even pull out a weapon before the woodie magicked them both up, either!

Apparently Aria was great friends with the woodie, because she kept defending her. For whatever reason. Probably slept together or something. Woodies always got to people that way.

Aria had scared her. Which was weird, because she kind of liked the chick, but the way she had looked when she stood there over the bleeding woodie was... well. Chia decided to scram then, even without getting paid.

She hit the side-alleys, but then saw some nobby guys come over and just had to hear what was going on.

And...

Un-believable!

Some stupid “I know better than you” guy was giving a lecture on how they weren't supposed to defend themselves in the city to the dwarf. She was dumbfounded. Seriously? They had gotten all magicked up at a payout, and the moron wanted them to stay there and bend over or something? And what was that whole stupid talk about "equal force" about, anyway? Equal to what? Getting blown apart because you let some woodie finger-twitcher go ahead with throwing magic at you?

But the man's equipment looked very expensive, and he had that whole “You shall obey” attitude that meant either a noble, or a guard, or basically nobody she was going to want to stick around. Even if she really felt like sticking HIM just to show how fun it was getting back-stabbed when one didn't even see it coming.

That, and the way he was speaking really got on her nerves.

Another dart hit the board, this time just on the outside of the line circling the center. She was so angry right then she couldn't even throw right at twenty paces!

And the worst part of it was, she didn't even get paid.

Somebody owed her. And she was going to collect.

[Chia]

((Circumstances finally got me to sit down to actually put down the long-established ideas for Chia's background. She's a totally serious character *Nod nod*

The night has long fallen as Rudwig made way back to his house. Lord Caltboth locked himself, again, in the vault, and it was a well built one. Rudwig knew, he built it. The air probably would not had lasted till morning.

He had planned to see old Windlow about the new litter she mentioned. Picking a cat would had certainly been more gratifying than facing an obese human complaining about the time he had had to spend locked in because of his own carelessness. By now, Rugwig felt that the new house could do with a touch of life.

But, sometimes, being the best locksmith within any reasonable distance had its disadvantages. Though, as he considered the weight of of the purse, perhaps not entirely. Especially since he was more of a tinker than actual locksmith by trade.

Despite the weight, he preferred to carry it himself. The two guards provided as part of the agreement, escorting him back through the dark valleys of the city, would probably not risk their assured prospects of long-term and profitable employment by one of the richest noble residents, but one could never be too certain.

Humans...

Somewhere nearby a child wailed, the sound amplified by quiet of the late hour.

The gnome was just setting his foot on the bridge when the guards closed in, the light of their torches dancing on the cobbles. He tensed for a moment, but then recognized it only as a reaction to the hooded figure in the middle of the bridge.

Professional, but likely unnecessary, he thought. The... man? Woman? It was hard to tell at that distance, especially with the strands of fog still hanging in the air. Regardless of the gender, they were clearly more preoccupied studying the currents below.

Then the sound repeated – the cry of an infant coming from ahead.

The figure raised a sack in their hands, clearing the bridge's railing.

He was a gnome. The situation was not difficult to decipher, as shocking as it was.

“Hey! What ar-?!”

He did not finish, as the figure startled. The wail repeated. The sack fell from its hands, and it started to run toward the other end of the bridge.

The gait suggested a man, he though.

Then another wail sounded, and that brought reality back, especially since the bridge was a rather low-hanging one.

He rushed toward the drop-off point, the guards still apparently attempting to figure out the situation. Perhaps lord Caltboth's decision-making skills were lacking in general, not merely where vaults and tamper-proof locks were concerned.

He peeked between the baluster shafts of the railing. The full power of another wail assaulted his ears. The child did have some rather healthy lungs.

The sack was hanging below, caught by an extending wooden strut. A large hole at the bottom was presumably where some kind of customary weight fell out, though now it featured part of a tiny wiggling leg.

His sight was good enough, and his initial determination was confirmed almost immediately as one of his escorts leaned out with the torch.

The leg was gray, even if the coloring was very light.

He heard the guards swear above him. It annoyed him.

“Get the sack.”

The two men looked at him with incredulity.

“Get the sack.”

His annoyance increased. They were being paid to help him, Varanite standards be damned.

The sack looked close to slipping.

The two men looked at each other. They must had worked together for a while, because that was apparently enough. Their refusal was clear in the expressions.

He was incensed now... but another glance at the sack made him toss the coin purse at one of his uncooperative escorts and begin to carefully slip down the construction himself. With some satisfaction, at both the solidity of the impact against the man's leather-armored chest, as well as the brief look of panic as he fought to prevent the purse from falling from his hands and, possibly, into the river.

At least they did not seem inclined to outright rob him.

*

When he climbed back up some time later and the sack was opened, his mind was already racing making the necessary plans. It seemed most fitting the situation, especially after another bout of soft curses from his escorts as the little gray face came to light. The strange eyes, their pupils shifting from round to horizontal slits in the shifting light, the orange irises seeming to glow. The tiny horns that left little to imagination as to both her tainted bloodline as well as the presumed reason for the recent events. Even though she was not a new-born, so somebody clearly had had to care for her early on...

Humans.

Personally, he thought the child adorable.

Even though all he wanted was a cat...

[Chia]

He was a part of Ondune, even more so than the buildings that rose and fell with times. While most probably no longer knew it, he still remembered the celebration at the news of Nadja being crowned the Emperor. No other family in the city could claim uninterrupted residence, much less any other single individual.

No other family in the city was gnomish.

His own had moved into the city when it became apparent that the strange new nation of the last few hundred years was not only not waning in power, but despite all the setbacks in the east steadily growing and stabilizing. With gnomish acuity, his father had moved them to one of the larger settlements on the coast. Its proximity to both the capital and ports in Rell validated his choice in the long run – Ondune grew, and the land investments turned in steady and ever-growing profit. His siblings grew, married, and left, while he remained behind learning the family craft until his father passed away, with mother soon to follow. Then he married, a chance introduction by his cousin to a guest during one of the large blood-kin gatherings, and his own family set root in the growing town.

Rudwig Cogswhittler. The gnome to call for any work that involved moving parts. Or for any enterprise that demanded mobility from things that usually would not.

In time, his sons joined in, and even after Nudlut married himself he decided to stay in the growing family complex rather than setting out on their own. They were true Cogswhittlers, and the most interesting work took place in the compound's large workshop space.

Then came the riot.

He had been away on business, conducting meetings with another family, a business partner-to-be. The plans were made, and only the profit split remained under the usual protracted negotiations. Fizzlewinks had the tendency to drag those things out longer than necessary.

When he had finally come back with the good news, there was nobody to tell it to. The last embers over the burned out ruin that used to be a home had been long extinguished. As had the lives of all the people he cared about, trapped in that blazing wreckage by the incited mob.

All because of words from a priest's mouth.

He had fought for justice even knowing perfectly well its extent of application to non-humans in Varana. Technically, by Imperial Decree, he was a citizen, but it was always a different kind of a citizen nonetheless. Some random miscreants from the edge of society were hanged, supposedly as the culprits of the crime, but the priest was untouchable. One of Lochwar's, the only time they had come face to face had smugly claimed no responsibility for the misunderstood meaning some “reactionary elements” attributed to his own words.

The new house, merely a shadow of the former glory of the complex, was built, and the case dragged on. He had not intended to relent and relent he did not, until one of his letters sent to Varana itself was answered in clear and very absolute way.

He had locked himself up for a few months, working in the large basement. The house was enormous for a single person, but even in the throes of grief he had built for the future. The work space below was more than a single gnome would need, no matter how extensive his pursuits.

He paid for the food delivered to the door, and used the lift cage not to have to open the doors.

It took years, but finally he did emerge back. Went back reestablishing himself professionally, but never again with the cheerful amiableness of days past.

People expected him to do something drastic, the rumors always whispered behind his back.

Days, months and years passed, and nothing happened. Soon, as humans were wont to do, the matter began to slip from the collective memory.

Now, he was just a strange old gnome, living in too big of a house, and emerging only when called to do something impressively difficult.

Such as unlocking nobles from their own vaults.

[Chia]

He dismissed his escorts at the door to his house. Testily.

Not that they would not fit through the main entrance, anyway.

The gray babe, displaying ever-amazing lung capacity on their way in, fell silent as they immersed in the smell of his daily life.

The wood of the house intermixed its aroma with the bouquet coming from the cellar. Oils, rare chemicals, the smell of acid-etched metal blending with the sharp tint of metallic dust settling on the high timbers framing the basement with every grinding.

The little nose worked, and he was amazed to look at the expression of concentration on the face of the child. One heard stories of changelings often enough, and while he never did find anything to give them any credence...

Then the tot bubbled out a series of happy sounds, and Rudwig's thoughts derailed into a completely different track.

*

It took three tries to find a woman willing to wet nurse and housekeep, even with the help of the all-knowing (or, sufficiently-enough-knowing) old Windlow. Which in itself was quite the achievement, given the limitations to height his house impaired on prospective candidates.

He did not like the looks the first two were giving the child.

*

Iona's family very well might had had some gnomish or dwarven blood in them. The woman did look like a dwarf, her stature short yet wide, with impressively protruding breasts worthy of the more primitive figurine of Ineania. He never did figure out just how old she was, but it had to be definitely younger than the mid-forties her appearance suggested, if only because of the now-dead child she recently gave birth to.

She did work like a dwarf. Or, perhaps, a gnome. Either of. After the first few weeks, they both fell into an easy pattern of daily life that got things done with limited theatrics so often enjoyed by humans.

He went by old Windlow with another purse, just to thank her for finding somebody so suitable.

*

“Why did you call me that, Dad?” she asked some seven later.

It was one of the quiet winter evenings, when the howling wind outside was inaudible in the warm bowels of the basement. He was working on a small crossbow catch mechanism for a hunting custom order for one of the nobles. She, as usual, was toying with one of the locks he just made, occasionally explaining in loud and unimpressed voice at the ease with which it could be operated through other means then intended.

Tools fell from his hands as laughter broke through her tirade. The orange eyes, glimmering in the soft light of the lamps, turned the at him. Yet again he marveled at the ease with which her heritage accommodated various light intensity as he watched the pupils narrow. Her expression, though, sent him in fresh paroxysms of laughter, even as he attempted to wave her ire away.

It took some time for him to calm down. It took even longer to placate the young girl. Profuse in his explanations that, no, he did not think her just a pet.

Then he had to spend the entire evening apologizing for the choice of her name, as unlikely as the meaning was to be known to others. Riazanskii was a very difficult language for outsiders to learn, and the very term itself was only in use, as far as he was aware, by Cogswhittlers alone. Unsurprising, seeing how it was his aunt that coined it, though he never really did inquire about the specific circumstances.

In retrospect, saddling what was going to be a young female with “Chia” was probably not a good idea.

Even if “little adorable bundle of furry trouble” seemed so fitting at the time.

And, lying in the bed that night still amused by the events, remained a very applicable description, he though.

*

When the child began to crawl, he found himself spending more time watching the enthusiastic travel than doing any actual work. There was something joyous in seeing the little tot boldly venture past yet another doorstep, accompanied by happy gurgles.

He was yet again amazed at how fast she learned. Soon enough, the crawling turned into stumbling steps, and the gurgles were slowly transformed into, first, imitations of words, then actual coherent expressions.

Seven months after he took her in, they were talking.

*

She was about five. They were playing in the large carefully cultivated park sprawling in the middle of the High Court district. The park – as well as the district itself - was meant to be frequented solely by the nobles, but he was not worried. For one, he was a master craftsman, his personal worth (and wealth, for that matter) often perceived even by the humans as higher than that of their noble acquaintances. Particularly, to think of it, family members.

Also, he happened to own quite a large part of the land comprising the exclusive part of the town itself, including his large premise smack down in the middle of it, next to the park. Which, in fact, was itself his property, and he certainly had the money and patronage to keep it that way. The later not so much out of generosity as to maintain his presence as an unvoiced buffer between the various in-fighting human nobles.

Chia was off playing by the pond. He gave Iona a day off to spend with the family, herself. It was a pleasant day, the last remnants of winter being chased off by the unseasonably warm weather. He was lost in the complex notation of the recent alchemical treatise, freshly delivered from the capital, when he heard the commotion.

The wooden doll he made for Chia was lying on the ground, with a lanky youth stomping over it. Two others were poking the girl with sticks, while three more hovered a few steps away, laughing.

The tome slammed into the ground as he jumped to his feet, infuriated. He could see the caretakers of the little brats close enough, and none bothered to stop the unseemly behavior. Judging by their placement, and the little whispered exchanges, they were as likely to step in as he was to ignore the event.

Though he never did get to them. Darkness suddenly blanketed the group, and the boisterous laughs turned into shouts of panic.

He ran in, tripping over somebody crawling away as soon as his head went into the cloud. There was repeated slapping against something nearby, but his panic did not help make any specific determination.

Then, as soon as it occurred, the darkness disappeared. The caretakers were swarming now, each seeking out their charge, as Rudwig clambered to his feet. His clothes were in ruins where he landed in the soft and rich earth, as were those of the boys around him.

One of the boys that were poking Chia with sticks was wailing sprawled in the cold waters of the pond. The other was still crawling away, his face contracted in an expression of terror. The three cheering witnesses appeared to attempt to have ran, only to end stumbling in the darkness onto the ground. He did trip over one of them.

The boy that was stomping the doll was also on the ground. His clothes were torn, and a few fresh bruises over his face and hands suggested the source of the repeated slapping he heard.

One of the sticks Chia was being poked with ended its flight, splashing into the pond. Her own clothing suggested some scuffling, but was still in rather presentable state. The smears on her hands, however, suggested a recent contact with, oh... say, a piece of wood, perhaps used to chastise recent assault on a doll.

Her expression, though, as she gazed at the uneasily hovering caretakers around, was one of pure innocence. The effect was, unfortunately, spoiled, as she walked back to Rudwig.

Stepping on the still prone body of the doll-breaker was probably not helping her maintain the air of guiltlessness.

He laughed. Even more so in the faces of the angry nobles later accusing his daughter of assault on their elder sons.

His mirth disappeared when the court ruled his daughter forbidden from the park. To “avoid legal complications,” the town confiscated it from him.

He hired the best landscapers on an exclusive contract to work on his property alone. A month later, Chia merely had to step out of their house to be in the middle of finely-sculpted gardens and retreats sprawling all around.

It took him longer to explain to the child why she could not go play by the pond, though.