Inkfinger
07-21-08, 07:08 AM
Closed to Behemoth (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=16674). Subsequent posts will be much shorter, swears.
***
Cael Inkfinger didn't want to wake up.
Oh, on some level, some day, he did. But right now? Waking was the last thing he wanted to do. He wasn't even sure why. He just knew, subconsciously, that -upon waking- he would discover he was somewhere he didn't want to be; far from the...
the...
...
Where had he been, again, before this? The Inkmage's eyes - warm in a head that felt as if it was stuffed with cotton - squeezed further shut as he tried to think. Where had he been? He had the last few lasting images of a dim tavern in his mind - drinking, maybe? Was this a hangover? - but anything beyond that was fighting his touch. He reached to rub his chest without opening his eyes, wincing at the sore burn in his sternum and the hot, taut feeling of his cheeks. I don't remember Corone being this hot...
There was a sour taste in his mouth, beneath the layer of grit and dust, and his left ear itched, burning, begging to be rubbed like his chest, but he shoved physical sensations aside for a moment, pouncing on the stray thought with almost manic glee, ridiculously relieved at the return of this small fact. Corone, that's where I was, Corone, and I was...
I was...
...
Oh, right.
***
Those thoughts loosed the floodgate to his memories, hearing fateful conversation echoing in his ears; heavy-laden with foreshadowing that the present had blinded him to - sitting at the counter in a darkened tavern, the smell of bad food, worse beer and unwashed bodies crushing down on him; his empty pocket rather obviously planned to keep him from food and drink even at a place this cheap. The full mug at his elbow, the plate appearing before his face - well. It all seemed a little too planned. A little too convenient. But, then, this was future-Cael, yelling at his memories - and hindsight is always twenty-twenty.
The bartender, innkeeper, neither or both (whichever and whatever he had been) had jerked a thumb to the left, through the crowd of bodies, as Cael grabbed for the bowl hungrily. The bowl smelled rather pungently -beef and some sort of very strong spices was what he had told himself, hopefully, the tongue and stomach's method of sticking their fingers in their ears and yelling 'nah-nah-nah-nah-nah, I can't hear you' to his brain. His brain was saying dogmeat and cabbage - but three days without food? That was more than long enough, alright. "'e bought if for ya."
Cael just looked over, seeing no-one of interest, and nodded vigorously, mouth full. "Mhm, mhm, very nice of him," He managed once he swallowed a bite and it (miraculously, a sign of his hunger) stayed down. "I'll go say thank y' after 'm done eatin', yeah?" He took a gulp of the beer before driving his fork back into the meat on the plate, rather wishing that the 'tender would shove off and leave him in peace.
"Don't yew wanna know who 'e is?" The bartender was watching him devour his food as if he had never seen a man eat before. Cael-as-the-bearer-of-memories let out a soft, hoarse groan as Cael-of-the-past just eyed him, one light-gold brow raised. He finally placed the fork down on the bar, mottled fingers lacing beneath his chin. He fixed the bartender with a look of mild interest, drawling slowly.
"Fine, then. Who is he, since you're s'obviously simply dyin' t'tell me?"
The bartender was either a wonderful gambler, or didn't realize that he was being treated like a fool. "That'd be Jui," He replied, rotund belly puffing up with some form of paternal pride.
"Jui." Cael answered back, deadpan. No doubt some local celebrity, washed up and relying on charity to stay in the public eye. He turned on his chair, casually, to glance back down the bar. "Y'don't say. Honestly?" The only glimpse he could catch of this elusive benefactor was the top of his bald head.
The bartender nodded vigorously, polishing the closest mug - Cael's still-half-full mug - with a dirty rag. Weak beer splashed out over the edge, but he paid it no mind as Cael scrambled to move his notebook out of the way of the encroaching liquid. "Aye. Jui."
"And why," Cael replied, rather snappishly, picking his fork back up and waving it at the bartender, bravely (and stupidly) ignoring the little voice telling him softly that this was a bad idea. "Am I supposed t'give a rat's pajamas about this Jui?"
"Because," replied the bartender, the soft-and-senile look in his narrowed gray eyes disappearing with alarming speed. "You remember that little opinion of yours, Cael Inkfinger?" Oh, gods, he knows my name, that's never a good sign "That lovely little three page article about corruption in the Corone Armed Forces?" Cael sat up a little straighter, mouth hanging open, blue eyes startled, wide and trapped. His stomach sank though the floor at the words. Oh hells-teeth. The crowd between him and Jui was parting, water on either side of a jagged bolder, sheep around a wolf. Jui grinned as he stepped forward, silent; his thick arms crossed over a barrel chest, bald head and straight teeth and the naked blade on his belt all gleaming in the low light.
Cael swallowed hard, managing a weak smile as he felt the first fuzz at the edges of his brain. That, he thought, trying to fight the sudden wave of nausea, is a very shiny sword.
The bartender leaned forward on the bar, reaching out to take Cael's fork from the Inkmage's loose grip. "Cael, son, meet Jui, local branch of the Forces." He met Cael's eyes, his own smile polite. "You might know him better as Marshall Juian Turnbek. He has a few...disagreements on how you portray his men."
***
And that was about where his memories left, other than vague flashes of manacles and horses and cities; other than half-whispering snickers about 'tool' and something called The Citadel. He recalled - dimly, something read in a book as compared to something that happened to him - his drugged mental ramblings - Were citadels places of refuge, or places where people got sacrificed, or - oh, wait, that's a cathedral, not a citadel, a citadel's a fort - but other than those few, lightning-quick impressions, how he got here was a blur.
His stomach roiled, and he swiftly rolled to his hands and knees, ready to purge whatever was left of the drugged meal, when the series of little nagging sensations finally sank in: the heat, the rough, dusty texture beneath his hands, the pure silence. Sore, hot eyes flickered open reluctantly -
And the last remnants of fog and confusion dissolved like spun-sugar on the tongue, jolting him out of his memories and into a world of pure, blinding brilliance. Everything was white, everything was hellishly hot, and there was sand grinding into the palms of his hands. The foul taste in his mouth - the aftereffects, he had imagined, of the beer - was suddenly accompanied by the distinctive, dry grit of sand; and the rough powder coated the inside of his nose, the sides of his throat.
No wonder his voice had been hoarse.
Cael stumbled to his feet, rubbing sand from his eyes and trying to take in his surroundings all at once. He stood on the slope of a dune, the white expanse of a massive desert stretching out below and above him. He turned on his heel, watching in fascinated horror as the sand beneath his feet slid and trickled like water down the slope, the minimal breeze picking up grains and tossing them into the air in malicious, whimsical dust-devils.
He had turned a one-eighty before he saw the pyramid at the summit of the dune, a good long walk from where he stood, - a towering building of white-cut stone, looming hundreds of feet into the air. It gleamed in the sun, dazzling his already-sore eyes to the point where he had to squeeze them shut. When he finally dared to open them again, it was with a sand-dusted hand over his eyes, and a wary squint.
There was a doorway in the dune - a dark, square shadow, framed by two white pillars, opening onto an equally-white ramp. Cael paused for one moment to attempt to talk himself out of venturing up the hill - Too hot, too far, too dangerous - but the rudimentary mental protests were shunted to the side at the simple thought: You'd rather die in the sun? The answer to that was as simple as the question.
He was halfway up the dune before he heard the first sound other than the whispering rush of the wind - the crunching sound of footsteps on packed sand.
Halfway there before he realized with a jolt of unwelcome adrenaline that he was, more than likely, not alone.
Halfway there before he realized he was only in his undershirt and trousers - coat gone (thank heavens), pack gone (not so much), and no weapon. Lovely. He picked up the pace, not looking back - maybe he could get to the ramp before whoever it was got to him?
***
Cael Inkfinger didn't want to wake up.
Oh, on some level, some day, he did. But right now? Waking was the last thing he wanted to do. He wasn't even sure why. He just knew, subconsciously, that -upon waking- he would discover he was somewhere he didn't want to be; far from the...
the...
...
Where had he been, again, before this? The Inkmage's eyes - warm in a head that felt as if it was stuffed with cotton - squeezed further shut as he tried to think. Where had he been? He had the last few lasting images of a dim tavern in his mind - drinking, maybe? Was this a hangover? - but anything beyond that was fighting his touch. He reached to rub his chest without opening his eyes, wincing at the sore burn in his sternum and the hot, taut feeling of his cheeks. I don't remember Corone being this hot...
There was a sour taste in his mouth, beneath the layer of grit and dust, and his left ear itched, burning, begging to be rubbed like his chest, but he shoved physical sensations aside for a moment, pouncing on the stray thought with almost manic glee, ridiculously relieved at the return of this small fact. Corone, that's where I was, Corone, and I was...
I was...
...
Oh, right.
***
Those thoughts loosed the floodgate to his memories, hearing fateful conversation echoing in his ears; heavy-laden with foreshadowing that the present had blinded him to - sitting at the counter in a darkened tavern, the smell of bad food, worse beer and unwashed bodies crushing down on him; his empty pocket rather obviously planned to keep him from food and drink even at a place this cheap. The full mug at his elbow, the plate appearing before his face - well. It all seemed a little too planned. A little too convenient. But, then, this was future-Cael, yelling at his memories - and hindsight is always twenty-twenty.
The bartender, innkeeper, neither or both (whichever and whatever he had been) had jerked a thumb to the left, through the crowd of bodies, as Cael grabbed for the bowl hungrily. The bowl smelled rather pungently -beef and some sort of very strong spices was what he had told himself, hopefully, the tongue and stomach's method of sticking their fingers in their ears and yelling 'nah-nah-nah-nah-nah, I can't hear you' to his brain. His brain was saying dogmeat and cabbage - but three days without food? That was more than long enough, alright. "'e bought if for ya."
Cael just looked over, seeing no-one of interest, and nodded vigorously, mouth full. "Mhm, mhm, very nice of him," He managed once he swallowed a bite and it (miraculously, a sign of his hunger) stayed down. "I'll go say thank y' after 'm done eatin', yeah?" He took a gulp of the beer before driving his fork back into the meat on the plate, rather wishing that the 'tender would shove off and leave him in peace.
"Don't yew wanna know who 'e is?" The bartender was watching him devour his food as if he had never seen a man eat before. Cael-as-the-bearer-of-memories let out a soft, hoarse groan as Cael-of-the-past just eyed him, one light-gold brow raised. He finally placed the fork down on the bar, mottled fingers lacing beneath his chin. He fixed the bartender with a look of mild interest, drawling slowly.
"Fine, then. Who is he, since you're s'obviously simply dyin' t'tell me?"
The bartender was either a wonderful gambler, or didn't realize that he was being treated like a fool. "That'd be Jui," He replied, rotund belly puffing up with some form of paternal pride.
"Jui." Cael answered back, deadpan. No doubt some local celebrity, washed up and relying on charity to stay in the public eye. He turned on his chair, casually, to glance back down the bar. "Y'don't say. Honestly?" The only glimpse he could catch of this elusive benefactor was the top of his bald head.
The bartender nodded vigorously, polishing the closest mug - Cael's still-half-full mug - with a dirty rag. Weak beer splashed out over the edge, but he paid it no mind as Cael scrambled to move his notebook out of the way of the encroaching liquid. "Aye. Jui."
"And why," Cael replied, rather snappishly, picking his fork back up and waving it at the bartender, bravely (and stupidly) ignoring the little voice telling him softly that this was a bad idea. "Am I supposed t'give a rat's pajamas about this Jui?"
"Because," replied the bartender, the soft-and-senile look in his narrowed gray eyes disappearing with alarming speed. "You remember that little opinion of yours, Cael Inkfinger?" Oh, gods, he knows my name, that's never a good sign "That lovely little three page article about corruption in the Corone Armed Forces?" Cael sat up a little straighter, mouth hanging open, blue eyes startled, wide and trapped. His stomach sank though the floor at the words. Oh hells-teeth. The crowd between him and Jui was parting, water on either side of a jagged bolder, sheep around a wolf. Jui grinned as he stepped forward, silent; his thick arms crossed over a barrel chest, bald head and straight teeth and the naked blade on his belt all gleaming in the low light.
Cael swallowed hard, managing a weak smile as he felt the first fuzz at the edges of his brain. That, he thought, trying to fight the sudden wave of nausea, is a very shiny sword.
The bartender leaned forward on the bar, reaching out to take Cael's fork from the Inkmage's loose grip. "Cael, son, meet Jui, local branch of the Forces." He met Cael's eyes, his own smile polite. "You might know him better as Marshall Juian Turnbek. He has a few...disagreements on how you portray his men."
***
And that was about where his memories left, other than vague flashes of manacles and horses and cities; other than half-whispering snickers about 'tool' and something called The Citadel. He recalled - dimly, something read in a book as compared to something that happened to him - his drugged mental ramblings - Were citadels places of refuge, or places where people got sacrificed, or - oh, wait, that's a cathedral, not a citadel, a citadel's a fort - but other than those few, lightning-quick impressions, how he got here was a blur.
His stomach roiled, and he swiftly rolled to his hands and knees, ready to purge whatever was left of the drugged meal, when the series of little nagging sensations finally sank in: the heat, the rough, dusty texture beneath his hands, the pure silence. Sore, hot eyes flickered open reluctantly -
And the last remnants of fog and confusion dissolved like spun-sugar on the tongue, jolting him out of his memories and into a world of pure, blinding brilliance. Everything was white, everything was hellishly hot, and there was sand grinding into the palms of his hands. The foul taste in his mouth - the aftereffects, he had imagined, of the beer - was suddenly accompanied by the distinctive, dry grit of sand; and the rough powder coated the inside of his nose, the sides of his throat.
No wonder his voice had been hoarse.
Cael stumbled to his feet, rubbing sand from his eyes and trying to take in his surroundings all at once. He stood on the slope of a dune, the white expanse of a massive desert stretching out below and above him. He turned on his heel, watching in fascinated horror as the sand beneath his feet slid and trickled like water down the slope, the minimal breeze picking up grains and tossing them into the air in malicious, whimsical dust-devils.
He had turned a one-eighty before he saw the pyramid at the summit of the dune, a good long walk from where he stood, - a towering building of white-cut stone, looming hundreds of feet into the air. It gleamed in the sun, dazzling his already-sore eyes to the point where he had to squeeze them shut. When he finally dared to open them again, it was with a sand-dusted hand over his eyes, and a wary squint.
There was a doorway in the dune - a dark, square shadow, framed by two white pillars, opening onto an equally-white ramp. Cael paused for one moment to attempt to talk himself out of venturing up the hill - Too hot, too far, too dangerous - but the rudimentary mental protests were shunted to the side at the simple thought: You'd rather die in the sun? The answer to that was as simple as the question.
He was halfway up the dune before he heard the first sound other than the whispering rush of the wind - the crunching sound of footsteps on packed sand.
Halfway there before he realized with a jolt of unwelcome adrenaline that he was, more than likely, not alone.
Halfway there before he realized he was only in his undershirt and trousers - coat gone (thank heavens), pack gone (not so much), and no weapon. Lovely. He picked up the pace, not looking back - maybe he could get to the ramp before whoever it was got to him?