Inks
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Word count [1,533]
«VII Sors
Eloquii Aequoris wasn’t sure what he was doing, lately.
When he’d agreed (sort of) to tail Keydis and Annora in their flight from Terminus, he’d been imagining an adventure. He’d also been imagining not ending up in a reinforced prison cell for the rest of his life, but that was beside the point. Exciting fights across distant lands, the thrill of the chase, swashbuckling and galivanting and …stuff like that.
Returning to Concha Litus, El had liked; it was one of the many ports of his youth, and it had a few good memories connected with it. Drinking rum from the bottle down at the docks with his crew, pants rolled up and feet in the water. The cool sea breeze on his face, waves lapping at his shins, and the sun burning on the back of his neck. He’d gotten Keydis to fashion him a sword, possibly the first thing he’d ever owned that wasn’t stolen. He’d traded enchanting notes – not that he had any real notes, per say, just a handful of working knowledge and tons of firsthand experience with failure – with Annora. He’d…had he made friends? It was hard to say. He was following Keydis and Annora for ulterior motives and all, although that didn’t mean they couldn’t be pals, right?
Then, the desert had happened.
By comparison, the Aridus desert had been nothing but hot, dry, sand-filled misery. Even El’s chipper cheer had its limits, and he’d found them maybe a day into their trek towards Flumen Petram. Annora and Keydis had been caught up in private discussions, and besides, El had been busy avoiding the caravanners most of the trip. He’d been beyond relieved to arrive at the lakeside city, if only to wet his scales (and maybe, just a bit, to get away from the dark, suspicious looks the caravanners had been levering his way the entire journey).
And now…
They’d been idling in Flumen Petram for what felt like forever now. He wondered if Key and Nora were considering careers as fishermen. Fisher…women? The point was, Flumen Petram was a nice enough little town, but El never did well sitting in one place for too long. Especially with his pockets as empty as they were; a town like this, people would probably notice a new pickpocket running around, and he stood out as-is.
El nursed his drink – he wasn’t sure what it was, he’d just asked for the cheapest thing the barkeep had – and considered his options. He’d been hunting around for work the last few days, but if his stranger-ness hadn’t been enough to put people off trusting him, his tail probably did the trick. Being a spurii was one thing – sometimes a problem, sometimes not. Being a spurii with a tail no race possessed, that was quite another.
I don’t want to tie it down! he lamented to himself. It was the bounty issue all over again! At this point, anyway, the rumors had probably started to spread. ‘Ooh, watch out for the smiley blue-haired spurii, he’s got a weird tail, he does!’ …That sort of thing.
El drummed on the bar with his claws, took a swig of his drink. He swallowed. Coughed. It was so bad the taste was almost nostalgic; this was the sort of thing his old crew had kept down in the cargo hold for when the good stuff finally ran out.
“Hey.” Someone tapped on El’s shoulder. “This spot taken?”
El glanced up. The speaker was a laicar with short, ruffled blond hair and a dark olive complexion, dressed in loose, light clothes. One of his brows was pierced, and a detailed tribal tattoo crawled up his neck and over the left side of his face. El grinned brightly.
“It sure isn’t!” He gestured at the stool beside him with one gracious claw, then returned to cradling his drink. Really, the other bar patrons had been giving him a two-stool buffer every night for the last week – which was how long he’d been popping in here. El vaguely recognized those tattoos, meaning the guy was probably a regular. Maybe he was trying to be friendly? Maybe he was fishing for information about the visitors in town? Maybe he was curious about El’s tail, curled loosely around the legs of his stool.
Whatever his reasons, the man dropped onto the stool to El’s left. He plunked down a heavy wooden tankard, already half-drained. The two finished their drinks in silence – not usually El’s thing, but he was still thinking. Planning. Plotting. Yes, plotting felt more…piratey. The laicar waved the bartender over for another drink, then shifted sideways on his stool to face El.
“Ya know,” he said, “me and a few folks have been talkin’.”
El flashed another smile from behind his own drink and tilted his head. “Oh? What about?” Good talk or bad talk?
The laicar drummed calloused, work-scarred fingertips on the bar. “Yerself, mostly,” he admitted. “Even for a stranger, you’re a strange one.”
El’s tail twitched.
The man continued. “Ya walk around pretty confident for a spurii with a pair of horns and a tail, don’t you?”
“They’re, uh, not actually horns,” Eloquii tried to interrupt. “They’re-”
“And that tail isn’t really a tail?” The man asked. There was a dark look on his face now. Bad talk, Eloquii decided. “As I was saying. A spurii wandering town with a tail that, as far as anyone I’ve asked seems to know, no spurii ought to have, sharp claws, a giant sword that doesn’t even look like it was made for him-”
“It was made specifically for me!” El objected.
The laicar gave him a skeptical look. As he took a swallow of his drink, El debated bolting. He took too long.
“Now, I don’t like to make assumptions, but…you’re a vistra or something, right? Gotta be.”
Eloquii stared. Then he barked out a laugh; he couldn’t help it. “A…what? A vistra? Me? Why, because I’ve got a tail?”
The man scowled. It wasn’t a nice look. “Then a daemon. One of those unshackled ones. Or one of those Stricken or Aberrant races.”
“Daemon?” El echoed, still sporting a good-natured smile. He didn’t like where this was going. “I don’t look anything like a daemon! I haven’t met many, but if I were Stricken, I think I’d know it! And what Aberrant race has tails?”
“What’s your story, then?” The man took a swig from his tankard and sneered. “That yer mom just fucked a leovem and you popped out nine months later-”
El’s fist crunched into the laicar’s mouth. The man toppled backwards off his stool, still holding his drink. The alcohol splashed across the man’s tunic and the bar floor as he hit the ground in a sprawl, one hand clutching his face. “Rude,” El said.
“I bloody told you!” someone shouted from across the room. One of those ‘folks’ the man had mentioned?
There was red leaking between the man’s fingers, El noticed. If the ache in his knuckles was any indicator, the guy was probably missing a tooth or two. The key around his neck felt strangely warm against his skin. Then what felt like the rest of the bar rose to its feet in an uproar.
“He was! He was! Bell-damnit, Yorah was right!” Someone else, this time. How many folks did that guy know?
Well. It was time to go, probably.
El stood and made a quick beeline for the exit, stepping over the tattooed man’s spread legs.
“Vistra!” roared the man, still on the floor. “Daemon!”
Which one is it? El thought with exasperation. Someone – one of the folks, probably – caught him at the elbow about halfway to the door.
He turned on heel, feathered hand already clenched into a fist, a portal already tracing itself in the air. Then a boot snared his ankle and jerked. His leg shot out beneath him, and the portal fizzled out of existence as he tumbled to the floor. “My hat-!” he cried. Whoever’d had his arm followed him down, and a webbed fist slammed into his cheek before he could get his other arm up.
“Whoa, whoa, hey! What’s going on?!” the bartender shouted from far away.
“He started it!” El shouted. He struck the velen’s chin with the palm of his hand. The velen reeled, his grip going loose. El rolled to his knees and made a lunge for his tricorne, but this time, the boot caught him in the midsection, hard enough to knock him onto his side and punch the air from his lungs. His key was hot, a brand searing into his collarbone. He lay on the floor, one hand curled over the injury, and seized hold of his lost hat with the other.
“Probably stole that sword from someone you killed!” spat that third voice.
Probably...what? Before El could catch his breath, two sets of hands caught him under his arms and dragged him to his feet.
“Outside,” rasped the tattooed laicar, on his feet now. He walked over – somewhat unsteadily – with one hand still clutching his mouth. His eyes were narrowed, and locked on El. “Let’s take this outside.”
Eloquii Aequoris was, quite suddenly, having a bad day.
.
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