Chapter 1: Passage
Kadmus
Dragon's teeth are surprisingly hard to sow
- Location
- Devon
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Chapter 1: Passage
It is an involved process, what she wants from Fajad. First, she has to hide her new wealth - and her arm - back underwater, pinned down with a rock to keep it from washing away, in the cave she rested in her first night there. Then she has to take a handful of silver, hide it in her chest wrappings, and enter the city as a beggar once more, with half her head wrapped in strips of cloth to hide the damage. She has to go from one low-society shop to another, gradually working her way up the chain until she is wearing clothes that won't get her instantly sneered at or spat upon; simple and coarsely woven, but good enough to fit in amongst the normal residents. This takes her an entire day, and she spends the whole time with a throbbing headache from the sun and the press of people, but she forces a smile and a polite attitude despite it.
That is just enough to get her to the point that she can rent a room in one of the shabbier inns on the dockside. She spends three nights camped out in various bars, talking to people and spreading a little money around, getting to know the locals and feeling out who to avoid and who to approach. She is seeking people to be avoided, really, because they are the ones who will have the information she needs. It's an old, rusty set of skills, working a room and acting like she's one of them, but she's been taught how to blend in as a monk, and it's not so different, in the end. She gets more sympathy for her missing arm and her bandaged face than she is expecting, but she doesn't appreciate the comments about her marriageability. Death has given her no more interest in that sort of thing than she had in life. Her headaches don't improve, but she enjoys the company when they aren't propositioning her.
She finally manages to get into contact with a local organisation, a gang of pickpockets, racketeers and leg-breakers who operate in the warren of twisty alleys and side-streets behind the dockside. She knows it will take her a while to get into their good graces, so she begins her other plans at the same time she starts trying to ingratiate herself with them.
First, she retrieves more of the money and visits some seamstresses. She has measurements taken, cloth ordered, and robes stitched, ready for collection when she deigns to appear. No questions asked except for payment, and that she delivers in advance, with extra for silence. Not so much that the buying of silence itself is suspicious, of course, but enough to keep mouths shut. This, at least, she is fairly well versed in; no Dynast is allowed to not learn how to give and take appropriate bribes. She also gets hold of departure manifests for the ships willing to carry passengers, and works through her options while the sun burns overhead, spending her nights lurking in dark alleys and gossipping with criminals.
They are reluctant to give her any information, at first. She finds that the dark pulse of Essence in her chest can be woven into her words, with a little effort, and those words dig into her target's brain like maggots, laying eggs that hatch into bad ideas and poor decisions. It doesn't make them do anything that they might not do anyway, but it certainly gives them a little push. Her forehead bleeds through her bandages sometimes, leaving a rusty stain across half her face, but that just makes her look either more terrifying or more pitiful. Either way, she manages to slither deep enough into their confidences that they point her to a trustworthy chirurgeon.
She shows up at their house the next night. They are a stick-thin, nervous individual, with long spidery fingers and too-large eyes, and they watch Drowned Wisdom with apprehension as they serve her tea.
"I am told you are the best person to talk to if I require discreet surgery," she says, fingers wrapped around the hot mug. She does not drink.
"Yes," they say. "I do… business… with a few people."
"I will pay triple your normal rates for absolute silence," she says.
They gulp, and their spidery fingers clench into fists. "Alright. I- I can definitely do that."
Drowned Wisdom places a bag of silver on the table, and it hits the wood with a very heavy thud. "Absolute silence. Tell me if you need more money, but be aware that this is a one-time payment."
"Oh, I know, uh- I know better than to try anything like that, I assure you," they say. "What exactly do you need me to do?"
She retrieves her arm from the bag by her chair and sets it on the table in front of her. The chirurgeon stares at it.
"That's a dead arm," they say.
"Can you reattach it properly?"
"Yes, but- it'll kill you, or just rot right off, if you're lucky," they say, looking at her as though she is mad. Perhaps she is.
In reply, Drowned Wisdom unwraps her head. The wound marring her cheek is still there, still as fresh and unbleeding as the moment it was inflicted. It has not healed. It has not rotted. The chirurgeon stares.
"There are more like this," Drowned Wisdom says. "I need them stitched up enough to be presentable, at least. Better, if you can manage it."
"I- alright. What's wrong with you? Is it infectious?"
She pauses for a moment, then smiles. "Only in the sense that everyone gets it in the end," she says. "But you are not at risk of it, do not fear." And she twists her Essence into those words, lets them sink in, lets them squirm around in their brain for a while.
The chirurgeon nods, pale-faced.
The procedure is, against all expectations, nothing but boring. The arm is reattached, neat stitches connecting muscles together on the inside, glue on the bone, and even smaller stitches around the skin. She can feel it and move it the moment it's pressed against the stump, which nearly makes the chirurgeon jump out of their skin, but they are a professional and they do a good job. She knows they have deep debts, from a gambling habit and a flirtation with drugs, and they are not as skilled as the best she could afford. But they are discreet, and that is worth more than money and pretty fixes. She is left with black thread across every wound, keeping her closed and more presentable; she's not going to be winning any beauty contests, but she is functional. She flexes her arm and moves it through its usual breadth of movement, and she is satisfied. She leaves another bag of silver on the table.
She collects her robes the next day, and, once she is clad in funereal white, her headaches ease a little. The robes cover her from chin to ankle, and the relief she gets from wearing them is worth all the funny looks she gets. They contrast her sun-starved brown skin in an unflattering manner, making her seem sickly and sallow, but she doubts that anything would really fix that; she's certainly not willing to bother with makeup. At least, with the stitching and the new growth of her hair and her new pallor she is less likely to be recognised.
It's almost insultingly easy, booking passage to Wu-Jian after all of that effort. The Guild vessel she chooses will get her there in under two weeks, far faster than her other options. She's already spent too long here, almost forty days all told, and she wants to get as far away from the monastery as possible. Her family will know what has happened by now, and a new Wyld Hunt will be coming through in search of evidence. A real Wyld Hunt, this time, and one that will question the townsfolk and read the air and taste the earth and chase two Anathema across Creation.
She does not want them to chase three.
So she packs up what is left of her salvaged wealth and her spare robes and the pair of fine steel tiger claws she purchased into a neat leather case, hefts it on her shoulder, and walks out into the sunrise to catch her ship.
Who else has booked passage?
[] Melodious Chord, a wealthy god-blooded merchant transporting his wares to Wu-Jian.
[] Junah, a hawkfolk entertainer on her way to perform for the satrap's birthday party.
[] Ice-Over-Snow, a taciturn teenager headed for the annual martial arts tournament held topside.
[] Write in.
It is an involved process, what she wants from Fajad. First, she has to hide her new wealth - and her arm - back underwater, pinned down with a rock to keep it from washing away, in the cave she rested in her first night there. Then she has to take a handful of silver, hide it in her chest wrappings, and enter the city as a beggar once more, with half her head wrapped in strips of cloth to hide the damage. She has to go from one low-society shop to another, gradually working her way up the chain until she is wearing clothes that won't get her instantly sneered at or spat upon; simple and coarsely woven, but good enough to fit in amongst the normal residents. This takes her an entire day, and she spends the whole time with a throbbing headache from the sun and the press of people, but she forces a smile and a polite attitude despite it.
That is just enough to get her to the point that she can rent a room in one of the shabbier inns on the dockside. She spends three nights camped out in various bars, talking to people and spreading a little money around, getting to know the locals and feeling out who to avoid and who to approach. She is seeking people to be avoided, really, because they are the ones who will have the information she needs. It's an old, rusty set of skills, working a room and acting like she's one of them, but she's been taught how to blend in as a monk, and it's not so different, in the end. She gets more sympathy for her missing arm and her bandaged face than she is expecting, but she doesn't appreciate the comments about her marriageability. Death has given her no more interest in that sort of thing than she had in life. Her headaches don't improve, but she enjoys the company when they aren't propositioning her.
She finally manages to get into contact with a local organisation, a gang of pickpockets, racketeers and leg-breakers who operate in the warren of twisty alleys and side-streets behind the dockside. She knows it will take her a while to get into their good graces, so she begins her other plans at the same time she starts trying to ingratiate herself with them.
First, she retrieves more of the money and visits some seamstresses. She has measurements taken, cloth ordered, and robes stitched, ready for collection when she deigns to appear. No questions asked except for payment, and that she delivers in advance, with extra for silence. Not so much that the buying of silence itself is suspicious, of course, but enough to keep mouths shut. This, at least, she is fairly well versed in; no Dynast is allowed to not learn how to give and take appropriate bribes. She also gets hold of departure manifests for the ships willing to carry passengers, and works through her options while the sun burns overhead, spending her nights lurking in dark alleys and gossipping with criminals.
They are reluctant to give her any information, at first. She finds that the dark pulse of Essence in her chest can be woven into her words, with a little effort, and those words dig into her target's brain like maggots, laying eggs that hatch into bad ideas and poor decisions. It doesn't make them do anything that they might not do anyway, but it certainly gives them a little push. Her forehead bleeds through her bandages sometimes, leaving a rusty stain across half her face, but that just makes her look either more terrifying or more pitiful. Either way, she manages to slither deep enough into their confidences that they point her to a trustworthy chirurgeon.
She shows up at their house the next night. They are a stick-thin, nervous individual, with long spidery fingers and too-large eyes, and they watch Drowned Wisdom with apprehension as they serve her tea.
"I am told you are the best person to talk to if I require discreet surgery," she says, fingers wrapped around the hot mug. She does not drink.
"Yes," they say. "I do… business… with a few people."
"I will pay triple your normal rates for absolute silence," she says.
They gulp, and their spidery fingers clench into fists. "Alright. I- I can definitely do that."
Drowned Wisdom places a bag of silver on the table, and it hits the wood with a very heavy thud. "Absolute silence. Tell me if you need more money, but be aware that this is a one-time payment."
"Oh, I know, uh- I know better than to try anything like that, I assure you," they say. "What exactly do you need me to do?"
She retrieves her arm from the bag by her chair and sets it on the table in front of her. The chirurgeon stares at it.
"That's a dead arm," they say.
"Can you reattach it properly?"
"Yes, but- it'll kill you, or just rot right off, if you're lucky," they say, looking at her as though she is mad. Perhaps she is.
In reply, Drowned Wisdom unwraps her head. The wound marring her cheek is still there, still as fresh and unbleeding as the moment it was inflicted. It has not healed. It has not rotted. The chirurgeon stares.
"There are more like this," Drowned Wisdom says. "I need them stitched up enough to be presentable, at least. Better, if you can manage it."
"I- alright. What's wrong with you? Is it infectious?"
She pauses for a moment, then smiles. "Only in the sense that everyone gets it in the end," she says. "But you are not at risk of it, do not fear." And she twists her Essence into those words, lets them sink in, lets them squirm around in their brain for a while.
The chirurgeon nods, pale-faced.
The procedure is, against all expectations, nothing but boring. The arm is reattached, neat stitches connecting muscles together on the inside, glue on the bone, and even smaller stitches around the skin. She can feel it and move it the moment it's pressed against the stump, which nearly makes the chirurgeon jump out of their skin, but they are a professional and they do a good job. She knows they have deep debts, from a gambling habit and a flirtation with drugs, and they are not as skilled as the best she could afford. But they are discreet, and that is worth more than money and pretty fixes. She is left with black thread across every wound, keeping her closed and more presentable; she's not going to be winning any beauty contests, but she is functional. She flexes her arm and moves it through its usual breadth of movement, and she is satisfied. She leaves another bag of silver on the table.
She collects her robes the next day, and, once she is clad in funereal white, her headaches ease a little. The robes cover her from chin to ankle, and the relief she gets from wearing them is worth all the funny looks she gets. They contrast her sun-starved brown skin in an unflattering manner, making her seem sickly and sallow, but she doubts that anything would really fix that; she's certainly not willing to bother with makeup. At least, with the stitching and the new growth of her hair and her new pallor she is less likely to be recognised.
It's almost insultingly easy, booking passage to Wu-Jian after all of that effort. The Guild vessel she chooses will get her there in under two weeks, far faster than her other options. She's already spent too long here, almost forty days all told, and she wants to get as far away from the monastery as possible. Her family will know what has happened by now, and a new Wyld Hunt will be coming through in search of evidence. A real Wyld Hunt, this time, and one that will question the townsfolk and read the air and taste the earth and chase two Anathema across Creation.
She does not want them to chase three.
So she packs up what is left of her salvaged wealth and her spare robes and the pair of fine steel tiger claws she purchased into a neat leather case, hefts it on her shoulder, and walks out into the sunrise to catch her ship.
Who else has booked passage?
[] Melodious Chord, a wealthy god-blooded merchant transporting his wares to Wu-Jian.
[] Junah, a hawkfolk entertainer on her way to perform for the satrap's birthday party.
[] Ice-Over-Snow, a taciturn teenager headed for the annual martial arts tournament held topside.
[] Write in.
