Post by Venus on Sept 30, 2009 16:48:21 GMT -5
(A long, long time ago - probably last summer? - I said to Fury that I was toying with the idea of writing some of our characters as humans. That idea grew and decided to spew itself out on the page. This is the opening few paragraphs. A very, very rough version, and as much as I have so far since the plot left me flailing about half-way through. xD
Welcome to the wonderful world that is my DW alternate universe. I hope you enjoy your stay. ;D)
The sub-market stank to high heaven.
There was nothing quite like being hit full in the face by that distinctive smell of sweat, blood and sour magic. It almost made him retch. Almost. He used to take it with bad grace, cursing the residents and dolling out painful punishment with torture-magic and the occasional fine. But after the first few trips, his ego forced him to alter his view. Now, the stink and his reaction to it were yet another confirmation of his superiority to these people living beneath the streets. He was one of the few who could still experience that particular brand of acute disgust when visiting the underground. They, too accustomed to living in the endless maze of alleyways and sewers, would barely notice the scent at all. Hence, he was superior. End of.
Unfortunately, this was the type of man Byron Bastiel had become. Too many years in the overworld, sitting in the senate house and arguing amongst self-important peers had easily convinced him that matters of triviality and squalor were far beneath his weighty notice. This facet of his personality was obvious even to the seller-men who laid their wares on moth-eaten blankets, rough stalls thrown together from scrap pieces of corrugated iron. They could see it through the boat cloak hiding his figure; this was a politician. This was someone in power. Someone inherently selfish. An enemy.
No wonder the crowd melted away before his feet.
Not that the aura of magic permeating the air around him didn't play a significant role in clearing the way. Far from it - the only ones who dared stand within a few feet of Byron were the gutter-children, the orphans without developed mage-sense who stole about his legs, searching with quick eyes for lost coins. He gave none.
The onlookers weren't surprised.
Bastiel halted outside one of the three precinct bars – probably the only real building left standing in the area after the last bombing, stone-hewn and built into the curving wall of the sewer. Candlelight flickered from the darkened windows. A sign half-hung from a rusty nail above the door; it swung ominously as he walked beneath it, feebly attempting to warn those of the criminal persuasion lurking within, metal creaking, ‘Danger, danger.’
Luckily for them, Byron paid little attention. He was too busy fingering the hilt of the jewelled knife hidden in the folds of his cloak, stalking over to the bar. The tender - a young lad of seventeen, sickly and pale - immediately poured him a drink.
Byron left it. It would almost certainly taste like piss anyway. Probably was piss, for all he knew.
"Wasn't expecting to see you here, Bastiel."
The voice slid easily from the shadows - from the outline of the man suddenly obvious in the seat next to him. He lounged lazily in the makeshift stool, toying with what appeared to be a small lighter. Something made it almost impossible to register his presence; odd, as he couldn't sense any trace of magic in the stale air. A spell like that would be difficult, even for a politician like him. Byron sat up straighter, keeping his eyes on the smashed wood above the bar. Perhaps Leyland was telling the truth when he said they were dealing with a professional.
But he still wasn't reassured.
"I trust you're cleared?" Byron gifted the man with his best condescending smirk. "Unless, of course, you're just another urchin hoping for a pretty penny. In which case I think you'll find yourself sorely disappointed. And possibly dead, if we release your identity.”
Yellow gleamed. The flame of the lighter flickered into life.
"Why try to force me to answer something you already know?"
Apparently Leyland spoke truth about this man's arrogance, too. It chafed against his own – to have his high opinion degraded by a mere gutter dweller...
'Impudence!'
Magic collected in his palm as he slid it into the gape of the cloak, half-tempted to strike him down here and now and be done with it. Instead, he withdrew a roll of sealed parchment and shoved it at the yellow-eyed man with a disinterested flick of the wrist.
"Here."
The eyes glanced up and down, assessing. Shoulders rose in a lazy shrug. For a moment Byron once again toyed with the idea of whipping out the dagger and teaching the impertinent bastard a lesson, but the jingle of the watch chain beneath his cloak reminded him that time was short. He afforded one last glare at the reclining figure - pale hands now empty of the precious scroll - and lifted his hood.
"I expect a report within the week."
Byron didn't wait for an answer. He turned smartly on his heel and moved towards the exit, the usual sneer of authority obvious even beneath the shadow cast by hanging fabric. The yellow eyes watched his retreat with a measure of humour. Stool creaking beneath his slight weight, their owner turned to face the bar just as the tender stepped forwards to fill an order. The boy was as pale as before but his eyes spoke of intelligence and wit. Stray strands of light hair fell into his eyes - evidently enough to be annoying, as it was only a matter of seconds before he set down a half-filled tankard to shove them back behind his ears.
He could place that face.
'I wonder what they'd say if they knew you were working bar shifts, hm?'
"Aleiko."
"Yeah?" he blinked, confused. "How do you-"
"You know Tatsu." The cut-off wasn't a question. The tender, unsure, treated it as one.
"The doctor at the field hospital? Yes... I know him well - why?"
The stool creaked again as the man sat back. He could see Aleiko's wariness in the way he took a step backwards, preserving the distance between them even with the tumbledown wood of the bar acting as a barrier. Clever boy.
"Is he on shift tonight?"
Suspicion was beginning to build behind those blue eyes.
"Not sure - who are you, anyway? And what do you want with Tatsu?"
He didn't want to drop his concealment in the middle of the bar - and it was probably better that Aleiko didn't know he was here. Kid got in enough trouble with Tatsu and Tia as it was. He stood easily.
"No matter, I'll find him myself."
"Hey, wait-!"
But the man was already turning away, slipping into the shadows surrounding the door and disappearing into the market crowd. Behind the bar, Aleiko poured his last pint, hung up the tender-apron and immediately left for the field hospital at a run, not bothering to wait until the next worker arrived.
He wasn't going to let some shady guy get hold of Tatsu. No way.
Welcome to the wonderful world that is my DW alternate universe. I hope you enjoy your stay. ;D)
+
The sub-market stank to high heaven.
There was nothing quite like being hit full in the face by that distinctive smell of sweat, blood and sour magic. It almost made him retch. Almost. He used to take it with bad grace, cursing the residents and dolling out painful punishment with torture-magic and the occasional fine. But after the first few trips, his ego forced him to alter his view. Now, the stink and his reaction to it were yet another confirmation of his superiority to these people living beneath the streets. He was one of the few who could still experience that particular brand of acute disgust when visiting the underground. They, too accustomed to living in the endless maze of alleyways and sewers, would barely notice the scent at all. Hence, he was superior. End of.
Unfortunately, this was the type of man Byron Bastiel had become. Too many years in the overworld, sitting in the senate house and arguing amongst self-important peers had easily convinced him that matters of triviality and squalor were far beneath his weighty notice. This facet of his personality was obvious even to the seller-men who laid their wares on moth-eaten blankets, rough stalls thrown together from scrap pieces of corrugated iron. They could see it through the boat cloak hiding his figure; this was a politician. This was someone in power. Someone inherently selfish. An enemy.
No wonder the crowd melted away before his feet.
Not that the aura of magic permeating the air around him didn't play a significant role in clearing the way. Far from it - the only ones who dared stand within a few feet of Byron were the gutter-children, the orphans without developed mage-sense who stole about his legs, searching with quick eyes for lost coins. He gave none.
The onlookers weren't surprised.
Bastiel halted outside one of the three precinct bars – probably the only real building left standing in the area after the last bombing, stone-hewn and built into the curving wall of the sewer. Candlelight flickered from the darkened windows. A sign half-hung from a rusty nail above the door; it swung ominously as he walked beneath it, feebly attempting to warn those of the criminal persuasion lurking within, metal creaking, ‘Danger, danger.’
Luckily for them, Byron paid little attention. He was too busy fingering the hilt of the jewelled knife hidden in the folds of his cloak, stalking over to the bar. The tender - a young lad of seventeen, sickly and pale - immediately poured him a drink.
Byron left it. It would almost certainly taste like piss anyway. Probably was piss, for all he knew.
"Wasn't expecting to see you here, Bastiel."
The voice slid easily from the shadows - from the outline of the man suddenly obvious in the seat next to him. He lounged lazily in the makeshift stool, toying with what appeared to be a small lighter. Something made it almost impossible to register his presence; odd, as he couldn't sense any trace of magic in the stale air. A spell like that would be difficult, even for a politician like him. Byron sat up straighter, keeping his eyes on the smashed wood above the bar. Perhaps Leyland was telling the truth when he said they were dealing with a professional.
But he still wasn't reassured.
"I trust you're cleared?" Byron gifted the man with his best condescending smirk. "Unless, of course, you're just another urchin hoping for a pretty penny. In which case I think you'll find yourself sorely disappointed. And possibly dead, if we release your identity.”
Yellow gleamed. The flame of the lighter flickered into life.
"Why try to force me to answer something you already know?"
Apparently Leyland spoke truth about this man's arrogance, too. It chafed against his own – to have his high opinion degraded by a mere gutter dweller...
'Impudence!'
Magic collected in his palm as he slid it into the gape of the cloak, half-tempted to strike him down here and now and be done with it. Instead, he withdrew a roll of sealed parchment and shoved it at the yellow-eyed man with a disinterested flick of the wrist.
"Here."
The eyes glanced up and down, assessing. Shoulders rose in a lazy shrug. For a moment Byron once again toyed with the idea of whipping out the dagger and teaching the impertinent bastard a lesson, but the jingle of the watch chain beneath his cloak reminded him that time was short. He afforded one last glare at the reclining figure - pale hands now empty of the precious scroll - and lifted his hood.
"I expect a report within the week."
Byron didn't wait for an answer. He turned smartly on his heel and moved towards the exit, the usual sneer of authority obvious even beneath the shadow cast by hanging fabric. The yellow eyes watched his retreat with a measure of humour. Stool creaking beneath his slight weight, their owner turned to face the bar just as the tender stepped forwards to fill an order. The boy was as pale as before but his eyes spoke of intelligence and wit. Stray strands of light hair fell into his eyes - evidently enough to be annoying, as it was only a matter of seconds before he set down a half-filled tankard to shove them back behind his ears.
He could place that face.
'I wonder what they'd say if they knew you were working bar shifts, hm?'
"Aleiko."
"Yeah?" he blinked, confused. "How do you-"
"You know Tatsu." The cut-off wasn't a question. The tender, unsure, treated it as one.
"The doctor at the field hospital? Yes... I know him well - why?"
The stool creaked again as the man sat back. He could see Aleiko's wariness in the way he took a step backwards, preserving the distance between them even with the tumbledown wood of the bar acting as a barrier. Clever boy.
"Is he on shift tonight?"
Suspicion was beginning to build behind those blue eyes.
"Not sure - who are you, anyway? And what do you want with Tatsu?"
He didn't want to drop his concealment in the middle of the bar - and it was probably better that Aleiko didn't know he was here. Kid got in enough trouble with Tatsu and Tia as it was. He stood easily.
"No matter, I'll find him myself."
"Hey, wait-!"
But the man was already turning away, slipping into the shadows surrounding the door and disappearing into the market crowd. Behind the bar, Aleiko poured his last pint, hung up the tender-apron and immediately left for the field hospital at a run, not bothering to wait until the next worker arrived.
He wasn't going to let some shady guy get hold of Tatsu. No way.