"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.
"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.