Spirits of the Earth

"Name."

"Mm. Yeah. You ready for it? Got your pen poised? Good. Fuck off."

"Name, smart ass. This'll take as short or as long as you make it."

He was under arrest. Again. It certainly wasn't the first time he'd seen the inside of a cell. It wasn't the first time he'd sassed some pissant jailor, either. Or the first time he'd thrown another man's pistol down the sewer. Or the first he'd broken a guardsman's nose. Or the first he'd gone rabid in the ensuing scuffle and bitten the same guardsman and drawn blood like a dog that just won't quit. He only knew that part because the jailor had said it. Well...and by the taste of someone else's copper that stuck to his teeth.

First time he'd been in jail in this place, though. That was something.

Fletcher gripped the bars a little tighter and wrung them back and forth. "Jackdaw," he growled. The name rolled right across his tongue and out the door before he could think to stop it, and dragged with it a shard of glass for every single time he'd said it before. He scowled. He didn't need any more ghosts following him around. Aya was bloody well enough.

"Come again?" the jailor said.

"Depends. Your mother around?"

"You make that one up all by your cheeky little self?" His captor sneered over at him, then returned to his book and jotted something down. "Jackdaw? What in Ansgar's holy prick kind of name is that? Fucking Adelans, I swear...hmmf." More notes. More ungodly scratching of pen on parchment. Fletch bored a hole in the man's forehead for lack of anything better to do. "Surname, Mr. Jackdaw? Or are you one of those types with the animals and the straw huts?"

Fletcher's eyes narrowed at the all-too-familiar jab. No, he thought. But I know a man who'd have a thing or two to say about that. Or...knew. He knew a man. And that was the whole bloody point, wasn't it? Ven was gone, the coward, and now he was left to carry on alone. Or, as it would seem, to start fights with the locals in this forsaken place. There wasn't much else to carry on with, after all, and rage was the only force that still propelled him forward.

"Daw," he snapped. "Jack. Daw. You pick your ear a little too close to your brains?"

"Ooh, hit a nerve," the jailor tutted, undeterred in his line of questioning. "Daw," he chuckled. He drew a line and revised his entry. "Well, Mr. Daw. Best make yourself comfortable in there. I hear we're paradise compared to the Reajh prison."

Fletcher scoffed. "Prison? For chucking some twat's gun down a drain? For getting in a scrap?"

The jailor set his pen aside and regarded Fletcher over his great fleshy nose. For the first time, he seemed serious. "That twat was a Mordecai. I don't know how things are done in Adela, Mr. Daw, but you'd best hope you have some friends in high places here. If you don't — and you sure don't look like it — I'd be prepared to sit and rot a good, long while."

With that, he moved the logbook aside, kicked his boots up on the desk, produced a pipe, and lit it. Fletch released the bars and stepped back to slump down against the cold stone. He leaned his head back and stared up at the ceiling, turning his predicament over and over. He'd find a way out. He always did. Didn't he?

"Fuck," he muttered.

Archtaryx had had a long day already. It was hard enough being a double agent for both the Connlaothian government and the underground. He sighed, letting himself into the jail complex and signing in to the guardhouse, adjusting his belt which held his dual pistols, before picking up his set of keys and heading to his assigned sector for the day.
Oh great.

The political dissident section.
Wonderful.
Most everyone in this sector were either jailed for political dissent or the Connlaothian government simply didn't have a better reason.
Most of the unfortunate souls fell into the latter category.
But this sector was the prime spot for much needed political insight.
The jailer that he had come to relieve looked positively pissed.
He had smoked a pipe and was on his second, a scowl settled on his face.

"What's the matter with you, got a stick up your ass?"
Archtaryx teased, bending down to the desk and signing off for the other jailer.
"No, just a certain bird," the jailer muttered, pointing in the general direction of Jackdaw's cell.
Archtaryx grew solemn as he scrutinized the book.
The charges were serious.
Assault and battery against a Mordecai, along with vandalism of Connlaothian property.
The prisoner's name was Jack Daw. Interesting.
"Well, you can go home now," Archtaryx said, motioning for the other jailer to get up out of what was now Archtaryx's seat.
The other jailer just nodded and left, not even bothering to sign the book. Archtaryx settled in the chair.
Any minute now, Olwyn should show up.

Any minute was what should have been happening, except Olwyn had been busy. She had heard about the man that had brazenly fought a Mordecai then had the guts to throw his pistol down the sewer, no less.
She wanted to visit this guy at least. No one deserved to be locked up for that long just because of that, and knowing the Connlaothian government...he'd probably literally rot away in there.
Well.
Not if she could help it.
She honestly had no idea how she's gotten so many people out of prison and not been caught. Probably because no one wanted to accuse her of something because of her family name. She was practically untouchable, which made going in the jail system pretty easy.

"Excuse me," she asked as she got to the prison,
"Is Archtaryx here today? I was supposed to bring him this," and she held up a basket full of food.
"If you need to search it you can. I know the drill," she said, putting the brown wicker basket on the desk.
The captain merely raised an eyebrow at her, and pushed the basket towards Olwyn.
"Archtaryx seems to have a new girlfriend every week. Man sure gets around."
Olwyn merely laughed, suppressing the sudden urge to vomit, and took the basket back.
"If you would just point me in the right direction I'm sure I could find it."
"Lower level, the political dissident block."
"Oh, the fun one," Olwyn said, and then headed down to the lower level.
She knocked on the door with a brisk knock.
"Visiting hours are over," Archtaryx yelled through the door.
"Come back never, thanks."
Olwyn kicked the door.
"Open this damn door or so help me I will kick it down and throw you in prison myself."
The sound of Archtaryx's chair grating against the floor could be heard as he lazily pushed it back and got up, opening the door for Archtaryx and shutting it behind her.
"I brought food. Homemade bread and some cheese. And a few...other things," she left it ambiguous, not knowing much about the prisoner and now wanting to risk anything yet.
Her eyes fell on the prisoner inside his cell.
"What are you actually in for?" She asked, leaning against the wall with her arms folded.
Archtaryx snorted, digging through the basket.
"Socializing with the prisoner already?"

Olwyn rolled her eyes.
"There isn't a law against it, is there? Well maybe there's a law against socializing with you."

"Olwyn Jyrn, I swear I will put you in a cell."

Olwyn looked insulted.
"I will take back this food. Or you know what, maybe I'll just give it to the prisoner-"

Archtaryx interrupted.
"His name is Jack Daw."

"Jack Daw," Olwyn corrected.
"I bet he'd actually eat it."

It took all of five minutes before the pipe smoke got to him. At first, he just sat there and jiggled his leg and picked at a callus on his thumb. He knew what the answer would be if he asked. These types loved having power over a man in a cage, and he hadn't exactly ingratiated himself with the jailor, either. Still, as the scent of tobacco filled the room, Fletcher found his resolve slipping. He wished he'd had the mind to smoke before he socked that guardsman in the nose.

"Can I get a fag?" he blurted out.

The jailor let loose a short, sharp bark of a laugh. He drew a breath, no doubt to make some witty retort, only to be interrupted by his relief: a bored-looking man of Fletcher's age. Well. Now Fletch had a blank slate, and with it, a fresh opportunity to bum a smoke. He straightened up and watched the two exchange the usual brief greeting at the changing of the guard. He thought on how he might best convince this newcomer to give him what he wanted. Then the new jailor turned to take a seat, and Fletcher's good eye went dark and dangerous at the sight of those shiny twin pistols.

The man didn't say a word to him. He didn't say a word to the man, either: just stared him down with that same mad-dog gaze. It could have been seconds or it could have been hours that he spent in that tunnel with his ears ringing and his vision honed in on that singular point of focus. Then a knock came at the door, and he was back again.

It was a woman this time, armed with...a basket. Bread, not guns. Probably some missionary for the local church, though by the looks of her, she was the practical sort. They bantered. They seemed to know each other. Did she come here that often? Then Fletcher was likely just another poor soul to her.

"What are you actually in for?"

Fletch grunted dismissively. "Ask your boyfriend." But he eyed the bread and cheese that she'd threatened to deprive Mr. Guns of, and his stomach growled audibly. It could be his last decent meal for a while. He stood, brushed off his trousers, and gripped the bars again. He craned his neck to try to get a better look into the basket. "If Hot Shot over there doesn't want your pity food, though, then sure. I'll take it."

Olwyn snorted.
"I'd rather hear it from you," she said, talking to Jack Daw.
She put up a hand to gesture to Archtaryx to shut up before the poor guy had even opened his mouth.
Archtaryx shrugged, and leaned back in his seat.
Olwyn eyed Archtaryx's pistols. Those could be a problem...Archtaryx didn't know about her double life...and she had lied to the guard outside. The food wasn't for Archtaryx. She had meant it for the prisoner. Her basket did have food in it...but under a soft blanket rested a dangerous, razor sharp pair of knives. No one ever searched the basket...usually. She hid them well enough.
But she also wasn't keen on releasing murderers onto the streets either. So if this guy had killed anyone...she would hand him the food but not the basket.
She walked over to the cell, holding the basket of food.
"So...an answer to my question for the food? What did you get thrown in this dump of a jail for?"
She extended her hand to Jack Daw.
"My name is Olwyn, by the way. Sorry we had to meet under these circumstances."

Fletcher squinted. It was clear that this woman knew Hot Shot, and what was more, he seemed to listen to her. She could read the ledger her own damned self if she wanted to. So what was she up to? His stomach growled even louder, and he desperately wanted a smoke now. He hated cooperating, but he had to. He groaned, ran his hands over his face, and relented. He began to pace as he answered her question. "There was a man, with a pistol, showing off with it near someone's kid. So I helped him learn a little lesson in firearm safety, and now his toy is down a drain. His friends didn't take kindly to that, and their faces didn't take kindly to me."

Fletcher paused, sighed, then added, "How was I bloody well supposed to know that he was one of your loony inquisitors? Whatever you call them. Mordickies or some tosh."

The woman extended her hand. He frowned and raised an eyebrow at it. Well now, he thought. That was dangerous. As a young spitfire of a smuggler, he might have tried to take advantage of that lapse in judgment. She was lucky he'd learned a few lessons of his own in the decades since. Instead, he crossed his arms and shifted his weight. "Beginning to think Hot Shot has a point. You make a habit of coming down here and getting chummy with criminals?" he asked.

While Jack Daw was explaining why he landed in prison, Archtaryx was relaxing in his seat, twirling a pistol around in one hand. But when Jack Daw finished his story, he sheepishly set it down on the desk and pretended to busy himself with the logbook.

"And they jailed you for that...can't say that surprises me." Olwyn shook her head, a scowl growing on her face as Jack Daw kept talking.

"Loony inquisitors...I'll have you know my father was a Mordecai...and him and my mother were murdered by a group of mages...Mordecai keep us safe," Olwyn said, glaring at him through the cell bars.
She dug around in the basket before she produced a small loaf of bread and some cheese, which she handed to Jack Daw. As she turned towards Archtaryx again, a glint of metal could perhaps be seen in Olwyn's basket, if one was paying attention. She set the basket on the ground and got some more food out, handing some to Archtaryx and retaining alittle for herself.
"Oh so I do get to eat?" Archtaryx asked, sitting straighter in his chair and taking a drink of water out of the flask offered to him.
"Don't push your luck," Olwyn warned, before falling silent as she started to eat.

Fletcher held his tongue. It wasn't for lack of a biting retort, mind. He had plenty loaded and ready to fire. But arguing wasn't going to fix his predicament. In fact, giving in to his own rage and flying off the handle was what had gotten him into this mess in the first place. He chewed on the inside of his cheek instead, arms still crossed as he glared at the two of them. At least Hot Shot had the decency to look ashamed. This Olwyn, though...

"Condolences," Fletcher muttered in place of what he'd wanted to say. By the tone of his voice, it wasn't clear whether he meant it sincerely. Truthfully, he wasn't certain, himself. Then the woman offered him some food through the bars, and he stepped forward to take it. And when she turned, he saw it: something silver in the bottom. Something sharp.

Now it made sense.

Fletcher's good eye narrowed as he backed away from the bars. Behind that eye, the gears began to turn. This Mordecai bastard was a bigger fish than he'd realized if an assassin had come along within the same hour that Fletch had socked him. Was Hot Shot in on this? Had the woman paid him to look the other way? How much time did he have to prepare? Carefully, quietly, he set the uneaten bread and cheese down on the filthy bench and began to tug his jacket down off his shoulders. He laid it lengthwise on the bench as well: a makeshift rope. A backup plan. Then he began, ever so casually, to pace. And as he did, he drew closer and closer to the one thing in his cell that wasn't bolted to a wall: the latrine bucket.

It wasn't his first choice of weapons, but he'd certainly brought stranger objects to a brawl.

Olwyn and Archtaryx had almost finished their food when a knock came at the door. Archtaryx frowned, and stood up, walking over to the door and talking to the guard that had knocked.
Olwyn cast a furtive glance at Archtaryx, and then quickly grabbed the key ring he had left on the table, reaching into the basket with a smooth motion and switching it out for a fake, laying the fake one back on the table and quietly dropping the real set of keys into her pocket.
Archtaryx walked back, sitting at his chair and looking at the table with a frown.
"You took my bread didn't you?"
Olwyn merely shrugged, finishing off the flask of water and leaning back in the chair.
Her eyes wandered over to Jack Daw's cell.
"I think he needs something. I'll go check," she said, standing up from her chair.
"Who died and made you the jailer?" Archtaryx scoffed, making sure the keys were still on the table. Which they were, so honestly he didn't care.
"Why don't you get out the chess board?" She suggested to Archtaryx. His vice was chess. Add in a bit of money and some alcohol and Archtaryx would be preoccupied for a long time.
"You still want to play me after the last match?" Archtaryx asked, an eyebrow raised in disbelief, but opening up a drawer and taking out the board and the pieces regardless.
"I'll win this time," Olwyn said.

Her hand had reached into her pocket and had grabbed the keys, while her other hand made a "shh" gesture. She hoped this 'Jack Daw' had some sense about him. Although with how many jailbreaks she's done she wasn't terribly worried.
"What did you do for work before you got thrown in this prison?" She asked, mainly to cover the jingle of the keys as she showed him the keys, and prayed he would just take them and wait for a good moment.

Yeah. That was it. She was definitely a hired killer. He watched her deftly swap the keys out and cover her tracks. It was like she'd done it a hundred times before. Was Hot Shot really thick enough not to notice? He had to have figured her out by now if she'd made a habit of sneaking and murdering behind his back. Or maybe this was her first mark in this particular jail. Either way, one thing was clear: he wasn't in on it, and she meant to keep it that way.

Fletch picked up the twisted rope of his jacket, swung it over his shoulders like a towel, stopped in his tracks right next to the latrine bucket, and waited. His fists clenched either end of the jacket, knuckles white and skin taut. His every fiber was tense. How was she going to do it? How would she convince this idiot jailor to leave long enough for her to shank him and hide the body? That was the part that he couldn't quite sort out...especially when the woman goaded Hot Shot into a game of chess.

What? Was she toying with him? Showing him she'd come here to kill him and then making him wait? Women. And now she made another excuse and approached the cell — probably to gloat. She reached for her pocket. She withdrew the key. Fletcher clenched his teeth and watched her silently. Words wouldn't make a lick of difference anymore. And then...she offered it to him.

His mouth fell open ever so slightly. He tilted his head like a dog and scrunched his nose up. "What?" he mouthed silently. She pressed a finger to her lips and then asked, in a loud, carrying tone, a question that he knew full well was bullshit. Was she...helping him? What in the fuck did this woman want? There had to be a catch.

Fletcher wasn't going to let the opportunity slide, though. He got just close enough to reach out and snatch the key from her fingers. He kept well clear of shanking distance. "Dog training," he replied just as loudly as he dropped the key in his own pocket. "What's it to you? You come here to look at men like you're at a fucking menagerie? There are better places to window shop, you know." He shot her a questioning look. Now what, lady?

Dog training? That wouldn't help her at all. She fell into thought. Well. He still didn't deserve to be rotting in a prison. She was hoping for a mercenary or something of the sort.
"Never hurts to look in prisons too," she shot back, not meaning a word of it. That whole phrase Jack daw had said was insulting. She didn't need a man. Not in that way. She was perfectly happy.

Archtaryx had been setting up the chess board, meanwhile, and accidentally knocked one of the pawns into Olwyn's basket.
He had almost had the whole chess board set up too.
He sighed and got up and knelt down next to the basket, reaching his hand down past the spare water flask and the blanket. Where did the stupid piece go—-his blood ran cold. Were those knives under the blanket?!  What was she planning to do with those?
He finally found the pawn and got back up, setting the piece down on the chess board.
An unwelcome thought settled in his brain.
Was she the phantom that kept breaking people out of jail?
His gaze landed on the keys again. He didn't remember them being that color of copper...when did she possibly have time to do that? He kept casual, and grabbed the spare water flask out of the basket, and walked over to the cell.
"Chess board is set up," he announced, at the same time drawing his pistol and putting it to Olwyn's side.
"You have some explaining to do. Give me back my keys."
Olwyn froze and winced, feeling the pistol dig into her side.
How did he figure it out?? Did he know? How much did he know?
Her gaze flickered from Jack Daw to Archtaryx. This wasn't good. Surely he wouldn't kill her right there?

"Whoaaaa, whoa, whoa." Fletcher froze where he stood. It had all happened too fast for him to react, and now this Olwyn woman had a pistol to her ribs. The ornate plating flashed in the lantern light. His ears began to ring again, and he'd gone green in the face. He raised his hands, palms out. The last thing he wanted was to see another person get shot. By the angle Hot Shot had stuck the muzzle at her, it wouldn't be a quick death, either. He had to act fast...and their only option would dig him even further into trouble. And her, too. And even though she'd gotten herself into this mess, she didn't deserve to get gut shot. Fuck it all, he thought savagely.

"Hey. Slow it down, Hot Shot. Just...put the pistol down. Yeah?" he said. He shoved a hand in his pocket and retrieved the key. He shook it out of the man's reach. "Here. Here's your key. I was trying to be sneaky. I took it off her. Alright? Put the pistol away and it's yours. Just don't shoot."

Archtaryx's eyes narrowed.
"How did he get those keys. Huh, Olwyn? How did he get those keys!" He pushed the pistol harder into her side.
"I'm not putting the pistol away. You give me the keys and then we'll go from there. You know what? I don't have patience for this," and Archtaryx reached through the cell bars for the keys, the pistol shifting as he did so.
Olwyn saw her chance. She twisted out of the way and swiftly brought her elbow up into Archtaryx's nose, stunning him, with which Olwyn followed up with a knee to his groin. She knocked the gun out of his hand and then slid it across the floor with her foot. She pushed Archtaryx to the ground.
Archtaryx yelled for the guards.
"We've gotta go!" Olwyn yelled, running to her basket and grabbing the two daggers out of the basket.

"Shit."

Days later, he would realize that he should have stayed in that damned cell and let her sort out her own predicament. But now, caught up in a panic, Fletch darted forward. He stuck his hand between the bars and shoved the key into the lock. It didn't turn. "Shit, shit, shit," he hissed. He twisted it back and forth. Slowly — painfully slowly — it creaked to the left. Of all of the cells he had to get thrown into, why did he land in the rusty one? Then the lock clicked open and the door swung and he was out.

He wasted no time in grasping Hot Shot by the shirt collar, knocking his head roughly against the floor to daze him, and dragging him back into the cell. "Sorry, mate," he muttered as he locked the door again, separating the man from his pistols. Then he turned on heel and began to toss the room, jacket still hanging forgotten around his neck. "My effects," he called to the woman. "Where do they keep prisoner effects? They nicked my shit."

"On the level below this one," Olwyn answered.
"There's two guards patrolling that area...we'd have to be fast. Once we get your stuff we've got three levels to ascend to get to the ground level, and then you've got the main prison, the courtyard, and then an outer wall."
She took one of the daggers by the blade and extended it hilt first towards Jack Daw.
"I'm assuming you want a way to defend yourself?"

Olwyn scrutinized the logbook on Archtaryx's desk.
"Have you happened to hear of the Niv Collective? It's a group of radical mages that have vowed to eradicate the Mordecai...and that was the group that killed my parents...that's partly why I've been breaking people out of here...hoping someone would have heard something."

Fletcher listened carefully, but as she continued to describe this maze of a place, he grew more and more agitated. "And I'm all the way down here...for getting in a scrap with a Mordicky," he growled. "Really? Fuck, you people are something else." He found the whole thing so implausible. Hell, even the prisons he'd been thrown in in the past weren't guarded from teeth to arse like this. And wait. If it was going to be that much of a fight to get out of this place, then how in the fuck did the woman get in with so much contraband? None of this added up.

He stared down at the dagger hilt. "Can defend meself just fine," he murmured, but he took the thing anyway and stowed it beneath his belt. Then he met her gaze with frightening intensity. "They took something from me that I need back. I'm not leaving until I get it. My sword's down there, too." He straightened up and gripped the jacket again. "Look, miss, er...Olwyn. I appreciate the jailbreak, but you're getting yourself tangled up in six different kinds of mayhem by sticking around. You should leave — "

But Olwyn had busied herself flipping through the logbook, and she didn't look particularly pressed to escape anymore. "Have you happened to hear of the Niv Collective?" she asked.

It did ring a bell. Past the buzz of adrenaline, Fletcher tried to remember. Months ago, while tracking some lowlife thugs involved in a smuggling operation, he'd stumbled across something he hadn't understood: a clandestine meeting in the rotting bowels of an abandoned house. He'd heard them say the words she'd just asked after. He wondered if they were the ones she was searching for. "Well yeah, actually," he muttered. He cocked his head and squinted. "That my price? You break me out and I tell you? Bit steep, love. You must really want them dead."

But that much Fletcher understood, and he eyed her now with considerably less suspicion. He knew that place and the fires of revenge, ever-raging, that drove a man inexhaustibly until he hit dirt and stayed there. It burned in him, too. "Alright," he said. "Deal." He strode around her to the door and held his ear against it. "I don't think they heard your boyfriend," he said. "No one's coming. Maybe we can keep it that way. Much as I hate to ask this...have you seen a sewer grate between here and the surface?"

"You want to go deeper into the prison?" She rubbed her eyes and sighed. He seemed sane enough.
 
"How's this for a price? I break you out and you help me find them, yeah? No price is too steep for those bastards. I don't just want them dead. I want to see them burn." Her eyes were pained. Full of regret even. Regret that it's taken her so long to even find clues.
She cleared her throat and got her mind back at the task at hand.
"A sewer grate? Aw hell no," the last part she said mostly to herself.
Think think think...she had seen a grate of some sort down near where they store the prisoners' things...but she wasn't sure if it led to the sewers or was something else.
She cautiously cracked open the door and looked both ways. Coast was clear, so far.
"Cmon, we're going to the right and then down the stairs. It gets dark on the lower levels, so watch your step."

"Not want. Need. I'm not leaving without my effects," Fletch insisted. "As for helping..." He trailed off. He didn't know enough about this Olwyn or her mark to make that call yet. For all he knew, her mum and dad could have been the villains in this story. He wasn't about to get involved in it without knowing the full picture. "One thing at a time. Let's get out of here, first."

He followed her down the stairs and tried his damnedest not to look suspicious. It was eerily quiet as they descended. Maybe this prison wasn't as well-guarded as he'd thought. Or maybe they just assumed that anyone trying to leave would go up and out and not further into that dank cave of a place. He hoped that was it, but he couldn't help but remain on edge as they reached the landing.

"Where to from here?" he asked.

Olwyn looked around for longer than she would have liked.
It's not like she had the entire place memorized. Even she was prone to mistakes.
There were seemingly no cells down on this level, in fact, this whole area seemed abandoned. There was one lit torch on the end where Olwyn and Fletcher were, and then way down at the end of the hall was another lit torch.
The entire place was built with dark brown stone, and the shadows cast from the torches seemed to have a mind of their own. There were only two doors on their end, both constructed out of iron. One was covered in cobwebs, and didn't seem like it had been touched in centuries.
The other was missing cobwebs, but also looked ancient.
"We need a key to get in, please tell me you grabbed the key."

"Yep." Fletch retrieved the key from his pocket and got to work on the door. It was just as bad as the lock to his cell. "Fucking hell," he spat. "Haven't they heard of oil?" With an almighty shove, he shouldered the door open. The resounding creak of the rusty hinges echoed down the hall, announcing their presence to anyone nearby. "Wonderful," Fletch muttered as he stepped in.

It was indeed a storage room, filled to the brim with crates of contraband and cabinets detailing each prisoner's name and effects. He scanned the labels for his own name — or rather, the one he'd given them. As he did, his fists clenched tight again, and his heart began to beat in his throat. What if it was gone? What if, by removing it in a rage, he'd lost it forever?

Then he spotted it: a freshly-inked label bearing his alias. He yanked the drawer clean out of the cabinet, set it on a nearby desk, and rifled through it. He stuck each item he removed into his trouser pockets until they were absurdly full. Wallet. Cigarettes. More cigarettes. Tobacco to make even more cigarettes. Matches to light the cigarettes. Some hastily scribbled notes that could double as a backup for rolling papers. Finally, his fingers brushed something worn and frayed. There. There it was. Fletcher's shoulders fell as he released a quiet sigh. He pulled forth the bracelet: a simple thing woven from grass and jet-black hair. A thing he'd carelessly cut from his wrist.

He held it in his palm for longer than he should have, his good eye tracing that singular strand of gray that wove in and out with the pattern. For a moment, he seemed lost in thought, unaware of the urgency of their situation. Then he shook himself, cleared his throat, and stuck the bracelet in his pocket with the rest of his possessions, pushing it all the way to the bottom to keep it secure. He stepped away from the now-empty drawer and glanced about the room for his sword. He found it in a corner, haphazardly stashed with a pile of other confiscated weapons. As he affixed the scabbard to his belt, he turned back to Olwyn. "I'm good now. Let's get the hell out of here."

At first Olwyn couldn't believe it. He had risked getting thrown back in prison for a bracelet? Well, and other things, but he seemed to really like that bracelet. She was going to say something but then the weight of the necklace she was wearing hidden under her shirt reminded her that that bracelet was probably important. She quietly reached up and felt the chain around her own neck. The last relic she had from her parents.

There was a ton of stuff in this room...a lot of valuable things. She halfway wondered if some of the Niv Collective had ever been thrown in this particular jail. But there wasn't time to look.

"Yes let's go. Before Archtaryx alerts the guard."
Olwyn left the storage room and bent down and with a lot of effort, managed to get the sewer grate off so they could climb down. There was a very rickety wooden ladder going down for a good 15 feet at least. At least by her estimation.

There was a faint thudding in the distance, along with shouting, that was rapidly growing louder.
"I think that's our cue to leave, let's go!" 

The ladder was rotted to shit — literally — but it held as they scrambled down it. Finally, Fletcher's boots hit muck, and he stepped aside to give Olwyn room. As she descended, he unwound his jacket and tugged it back on. He held a sleeve to his nose to block out the fetid stench of wastewater. "Fuck, that is nasty," he commented, and the sewer tunnel carried his echoing voice into the dark.

By the looks and smells of it, they had found what they were seeking: the city sewer network. The tunnel was easily three times his height at its tallest point, and it amplified every little sound. The ladder had descended onto a raised service walkway, and Fletch was thankful for that. A few feet away, that walkway dropped off into a flowing river of raw sewage. He gagged at the thought of wading through it. That smell would never come out of his clothes.

Above them, the scuff of boots on stone grew louder. If the two of them couldn't find a way to shake their pursuers, it was going to be one hell of a fight. And, much as Fletcher loved a good brawl, he wasn't keen on this one. Maybe laying eyes on the bracelet had tempered him. Maybe having a well-meaning stranger with him changed the stakes and made it feel too risky. Whatever it was, at this particular moment, he preferred running. And to do that, they'd need to slow the guards down. "Watch out," he murmured as Olwyn planted her feet on solid ground. He waited for her to step aside, gripped the ladder, and tore with all his might, snapping it free a few feet from the top. He swung the broken bottom half and released it to land with a deafening crash along the walkway. "Enjoy your broken ankles, chaps," he grinned. "Come on. Let's find a way out."

The smell was going to kill Olwyn. It was the kind that felt like you could feel it. The stench was overbearing, and it took all concentration to just climb down the ladder into a place where the smell was worse.
"This is not fucking normal what the fuck is wrong with my people," she muttered, half to take her mind off of the smell and half because she genuinely was wondering if Connlaothians were quite right in the head.
Finally, her feet touched solid ground, and she let go of the ladder and turned around.

Fuck.

The walkway they were on appeared to quite inconveniently just disappear into foul, acrid filth. One could not tell how deep it was either.
How was one supposed to breathe down here?


Up above, Archtaryx had been rescued from his unfortunate prison by guards. He was angry. He had had a perfect record. No jailbreaks under his watch. Until Olwyn came along.
No, he was going to catch both of them. And they will both rot in a cell.

The thuds and shouts stopped as the guards and Archtaryx reached the open grate.
Archtaryx stood at the top, an unnerving smile on his face as he stared down into the darkness.
"And so the fox begins his chase," he muttered to himself, signaling to the guards to put the grate back on.


Jack Daw ripped the bottom half of the ladder and threw it, revealing an old, decayed skeleton leering at them.
Olwyn shrieked, discovering a fear she did not know she had until just now, leaping behind Jack Daw.
She cleared her throat and hesitantly looked at the uninviting sewage.
"I guess we have no other choice but to go forward."

Olwyn ripped a small part of her skirt and folded it lengthwise, before wrapping it around her nose to help dampen the smell.

And as they stepped off the walkway into the sewage, Olwyn wanted to die.
"So uh...where are you from, Jack Daw?"

"Fucking hell, woman," Fletcher hissed as they started off into the dark. He rubbed at his ears. They weren't bleeding. They felt like they should be with how loud she'd just screamed. But he quickly became more preoccupied with how fuck-awful the stench was down here, and his complaints about her outburst stopped there.

"Just Jack's fine," he replied, choking on the air and burying his face in his sleeve again. "Not here. Not Adela, either. People up here keep trying to put me in that box. I don't even know where that bloody box is." They carried on in silence for a little bit, though Fletch could swear that he heard someone rapping on something up ahead. There was just enough light from the grates for them to make their way forward, and...yeah. One of those points of light definitely kept flickering. Like a shadow kept passing over the top of it.

Fletcher shrugged it off and picked up the conversation again. "You don't look like you're from here, either. Almost everyone up this way is a ghost."

"I desperately hope there's a way I can change out of these burn trash pieces and get into clothes that don't make me feel like I'm a walking germ."
They finally made it out of the worst of it, and there was another walkway, which they got onto.
"Solid ground, finally!" But there was a noise coming from above.
"What the—-is that a raccoon?"
She couldn't tell. It was too big for a raccoon.
"It's...complicated," Olwyn sighed, answering Jack.
"You're right though, I'm not from here. Honestly, I don't like Connlaoth much—-" she trailed off as she studied the grate above.
"What is up there?"

Fletch barked a laugh into his sleeve. "If you'd rather fight a prison worth of armed men just to smell pretty, you're welcome to turn back anytime, love." He glanced up as the scratching sound grew louder. Olwyn noticed it, too, now. It would start at the grate above them, and then move along to the next one down, and then the next, as though it was... "Following us," Fletch muttered. He groaned as he realized what it was. "Aw, fuck it all, Aya, you shit-for-brains."

He turned to address Olwyn. "Not a raccoon. Wish it were. A raccoon would be SMARTER." That last word he called up through the sewer grate above them. He could just barely hear a little whine in response before the massive wolf-dog trotted off again. "Bloody dog's going to fuck up any chance of a stealthy exit," Fletch grumbled. "I'd be prepared to fight if I were you."

"Oh, that's your dog?" Olwyn asked.
After what felt like hours of winding tunnels, the tunnel they were in came to a dead end. There was one final grate, and sunlight was streaming through it.
There was a ladder, luckily, and it wasn't as rotten as the first one they encountered.
"What's the probability that there's guards waiting above us?" Olwyn whispered quietly to Jack.
"Maybe your dog scared them away," she said hopefully.

Fletch snorted. "Definitely not my dog. She won't listen to a damned thing I tell her to do." As Olwyn stopped, he stopped, too, and put his hands on his hips as he squinted up at the little slits of sky above them. "Dunno. Depends on how smart your friend is." He glanced over at her. "Would he know where to follow? You want to try and chance it? I don't think I can stand this smell much longer."

"I don't know...but I'm getting out of here," Olwyn decided, climbing up the ladder, and with much difficulty, opening the grate and pushing it to the side.

There was a dog.

A beautiful dog.

Olwyn practically became a kid again.

She cautiously held out her hand. The dog was huge!!
What did Jack call it? Ara? Aya?

"Aya? Awww you're a beautiful dog! Who's a good girl, who's a good girl?"

Fletcher climbed up after Olwyn, only to find her already smothering the mutt with attention. Aya seemed to be well pleased with this, though she did make the mistake of sniffing Fletcher's unlikely savior and paid the price by launching into a sneezing fit at the smell. Then she lifted her head and sniffed again. She pushed gently past Olwyn and approached Fletch as he stooped to drag the grate back into place.

"Don't reward her for it," he grunted. "She doesn't need a bigger ego." He straightened up and eyed the dog skeptically, hands on his hips again. "What? I don't have anything for you. Go pretend to be starving and beg from a butcher. You're good at that." But Aya edged closer, nose still working until she pressed it into the side of his pocket and breathed deep. Fletcher's face fell. "Oh," he said as he realized what she'd found: the bracelet. The smell of her master's hair. He set a palm to her muzzle and pushed her away. "No...come on, now. He's gone. You know this. Stop bringing it up."

Fletch sniffled and shook his head. "Fucking dog." He glanced about to get his bearings. It seemed that they'd popped out at the edge of town near the city wall. They could try to leave through a gate and risk being seen...or they could find somewhere quiet and bide their time. When he spoke, he seemed gruffer than usual. "Erm...look...Miss Olwyn. We should find somewhere to lay low. There's no way it was this easy. Do you know a place where we can hide out until this blows over?"

Olwyn was grinning from ear to ear just looking at the dog.
"You must treat her well," Olwyn observed, gently petting Aya.
"Can you sit?" She asked the dog.
Aya seemed smart.
She remembered the task at hand, and turned her attention back to Jack.
"Hm? Oh yes...a hiding place. There is this one place we could go to..."
"Follow me!"
And with that, Olwyn turned, and led them down a dirt road that roughly followed the city wall.
There was this building, butting right next to the wall, that was the same color as the wall, and had a simple Connlaothian flag flying above it, making it seem like it was an outpost.
Olwyn led them right into the nondescript building, where a jovial man with a leather apron and a skillet slung round his back was sweeping the floor.
"Ah, lass, brought me some more, aye?" He stopped sweeping and his eyebrows rose at the sight of the dog.
"A dug? Ya know the rules here aboot dugs..."
"But this one is super smart!" Olwyn protested.
"Awa' n bile ya head, bonnie lass," the man argued, but Olwyn merely walked past him.
"Kkärsvig, the dog has to stay. Or we go somewhere else." That last part she didn't mean, they had nowhere else to go.
Kkärsvig shrugged.
"Do ya want somethin ta drink? The both of ya look drouth."

As they walked, Fletcher finally allowed himself a smoke. He'd thought it would help a bit, but it did nothing to ease the tension. They were on the run, the both of them. It was only a matter of time before their names and faces were plastered on every corner of this city. And now he'd have to set up somewhere else and start from scratch. He wouldn't have enough coin to feed himself for a long while, let alone that mangy mutt. He was still deep in thought and strategizing his next move when they approached an outpost. "Wait. In here? Are you daft?" he began, but she'd already barged in through the door and started arguing with a very large, very broad man. With one final glance over his shoulder, he tossed his cigarette to the street and followed her in.

"Ah, lass, brought me some more, aye?"

Some more? Fletcher mouthed to Olwyn behind the big man's back. Did she seriously make a habit out of jailbreaking strange men and bringing them here? He looked their apparent co-conspirator up and down. This poor sod, he thought. Then the woman started arguing about bringing the damned dog inside, and he scoffed.

"No, no, no," he butted in. "You want fleas in here? She stays outside. Go on. Get."

Predictably, Aya didn't go on or get. In fact, she sat pointedly at Olwyn's side, leaned into the woman, and wagged her fluffy tail with a little thump thump thump on the floor. Fletcher groaned and scratched at his head. "You fucking serious?" he muttered. He shot an exasperated look at Big Man as if to say, can you believe this shit? "Fine. I'm too tired to argue. But she's your problem now," he warned Olwyn. "Clearly not my bloody dog. And, er...no, thanks," he added to Big Man. "Appreciated, but I'm not much of a drinker these days. Erm...thanks for having me, though. And...sorry for the smell. You wouldn't happen to know where I could wash up and clean these clothes, would you?"

Kkärsvig seemed to truly notice Jack for the first time. He stopped short and studied Jack.
"Aye, there's a wall divvied off with a auld peerie in the dost, there's a wooden tub. You can get water and heat it up on one of the ovens. It's not a loch, but aye it will do. Ye're lookin' a bit peely wally."
"Have I met ya somewhere before? A bata, perhaps?" He questioned, before picking up the broom and putting it back in the corner behind the door.
"O, whit's fur ye'll no go bye ye," Kkärsvig said, pointing in the general direction of the kitchen.

Olwyn, meanwhile, was delighted with Aya.
"Awww you're just a cuddle baby yes you are!"
"I could go for a wash myself."

Fletcher squinted, nose scrunched, as he tried to make sense of that thick accent. There was a pregnant pause after Big Man finished. He blinked. Then...

"Erm...sorry...what?" He thought back to what he had heard and slowly pieced it together. "Oohh...Have you met me? Is that what you're...? Erm...no...I think I'd remember your, er, voice." Unless I have a twin running around out there, he thought. In which case, emperor save the lot of them.

Fletch sighed and addressed Olwyn. As he did, he grew serious again. They had matters to attend to before either of them could take a breather and wash up. "We need to have a little chat, you and I. Come on." He passed her by and ducked further into the building, searching for a little bit of privacy. He found a quiet side room and beckoned her in. The dog slipped in last. Fletch scowled at Aya and shut the door. He turned, his good eye now regarding Olwyn with a piercing, skeptical gaze.

"Right. Look," he murmured, keeping his voice low. "I'm not ungrateful for you bailing me out. Really, I'm not. But I need to know what in the hell is going on, here. There are easier ways to recruit a merc. So why the prison, and why me?"

Olwyn followed Jack into the room, leaning against the wall with her arms folded.
"Why the prison and why you? Simple. Reason number one: The most skilled people almost always end up in prison. At least in Connlaoth. Reason number two: asking around in a prison won't get me arrested. Well. At least, not until today when we almost got arrested.
Honestly, it was kindof coincidence, I was just going to ask whoever happened to be under Archtaryx's watch today. But I didn't miss how you were prepared to fight."

Fletcher stared. He blinked. "The most skilled ones stay out of prison. I did something mighty stupid to get myself thrown in there. So did the rest of em. But...fine. Alright. Supposing I believe you. You want to track down the ones who murdered your parents. I can help, sure. Any merc worth his salt could, but...what's in it for me? Especially now that we're on the run and all. Stakes are pretty high."

"My parents were ridiculously rich...left me their estate and a huge amount of money. The money is hidden in a vault somewhere. Name your price. But I don't just want to find the people who killed my parents. I want those bastards dead," she said.
Olwyn dug out a small leather pouch.
"In here is 100 pieces of silver, plus one small emerald. It's yours, plus whatever you want from the vault."

Fletch eyed her curiously, his suspicion slowly fading. The tension in his shoulders began to ease. He glanced from Olwyn to the pouch, then down to Aya, then back again. But it wasn't the money that his thoughts turned towards. "You're...serious, aren't you? You really want them dead."

He took in a deep breath, released it in a sigh, crossed his arms, and drummed his fingers on one bicep as he considered what she was asking of him. He still didn't have the full story. Sometime between now and drawing a knife, he'd need it. "Much as I'm a merc by trade, I don't make a habit of offing strangers without proof. You want that, you find an assassin. But here's what I'll do. I'll help you find them. Seems like we've already got a lead, anyways. And if, along the way, I decide that I believe that these people deserve punishment, then I'll take them out. Otherwise, you're on your own in that regard. Deal?"

Olwyn punched the air and let out a celebratory "yes!", and then hugged Aya.
She then cleared her throat and looked at Fletcher.
"Deal."
She handed him the pouch, and looked towards the door.
"I don't know about you, but I'm stinky, and tired. I'm going to take a bath and go to bed.
She looked towards Aya, and grinned.
"You're such a good dog. Don't let Jack tell you otherwise." And then she left.

Fletcher did a double take. "Wait. Bed? I think we need to skip town after dark, don't y— "

But the woman left the room before he could finish. He made a grating noise in his throat and stared at the open door. "Unbelievable," he grumbled before remembering Aya. "Don't listen to her, dog. You're a right pain in the arse. Only reason she doesn't see it is you're both the bloody same."

Sighing, he slipped through the door and found a quiet place to wait. When it was his turn, he took his time scrubbing the shit smell off of every part of him, then emptied the tub and refilled it and got his clothes. His trousers he pulled back on damp. There was nothing that could be done there without giving the girl a proper fright. His shirt, coat, socks, and boots, however, he hung up near the fire to dry. He knew they wouldn't get all the way there. If they did leave town that night, he'd be miserable in them...but it beat the hell out of stinking like a sewer.

When all was done, he sat down, shivered, and waited for Olwyn to wake up, resolving to knock if it grew too late.

Olwyn took a bath, sighing with relief. Finally she didn't smell like an abomination. 
It dawned on her then what Fletch had said. He wanted to leave tonight?!?!
He was probably right though. They couldn't afford to sleep. 
So she went into the room and fixed herself as best as she could so she didn't look like she had just practically swam in a sewer, then, sighing, opened the door. 
"You're right," she half grumbled to Fletch. 
"We should leave now, before—"
A commotion out in the tavern sounded. 
The guards had found them.