Chapter Text
Killian of Blackrest never runs from a challenge.
Grip tight, sweat dripping from his brow, a focused glare with piercing arrow eyes—Killian takes his lower lip between his teeth as he grips the edge of the small splintered bar table. Using the hand of his opponent to hoist himself up for better poise, he shuffles himself to the edge of his chair and cracks his neck to steady himself. Their elbows knock against the top as he repositions, and their grips tighten; his hand is dwarfed by the man's across from him: a dexterous archer's hand in that of a trained warrior's.
But Killian never runs. And he most certainly does not lose.
Hoards of bar-goers surround the two of them, huddled in close to watch their wrestled duel with hazy eyes and excited smiles. A hush has fallen over them as a stout dwarven man at the edge—with messily tied beard and shaved head—raises a hand.
"Get ready!"
Killian lifts his gaze to meet that of his rivals, and so does he in turn. Boozy breath fills the air between them and a rush of adrenaline swells his chest, tapping against his breast like a torchbug in a glass jar. A co`in-purse is passed somewhere in the crowd, whispers and bets between many of them as the innkeeper swerves in and out; the splash of drinks from her tray hits the floor, and he takes it all in. He breathes—holds the sickly honey-sweet smell of mead in his nose and throat for a time-stilled heartbeat—then out again.
"GO!"
Both of them are out of their seats, chairs falling back in a clatter as they squat just enough so that their elbows stay on the table. The referee squats too, his nose all but touching the edge with darting eyes as the lumbering orcish man pushes against Killian's grip with the ferocity of a wild animal. He grits his teeth, knuckles turning white as he desperately tries to stop his hand from dropping. He leans his chest forward over the table, grunts, and tries to regain a foothold.
He manages, with all the strength he can muster, to get them back to even. Again, he locks eyes with his opponent who stares back with a wicked grin, not even a hint of fatigue or drop of sweat on him.
"Easy there, Killian. You might hurt yourself." He goads, but Killian only huffs an exerted laugh and shakes his head.
"No," He breathes, barely managing to keep them at odds, "But I might well shit myself if this goes on too long."
He feels the resistance give up a bit as a low, gritty chuckle escapes him, suddenly turning the game in his favor, if only just.
"Don't do that, now. What would your ma say, you coming home with soiled britches?"
Killian doesn't grace him with an answer, only stares at their conjoined hands as he focuses all his will into winning. He doesn't make any ground, but he doesn't lose any either.
"Besides, if everyone started calling you 'Shittian,' I'd never hear the end of your whining."
"Then…just…let me—"
In one fluid, almost effortless motion, the back of Killian's hand hits the table with a painful thunk, and he slides to the floor.
The crowd erupts in equal parts cheers and groans, tankards clap together as gamblers both lucky and unlucky dance away into the lively tavern. A fluted song starts up from the corner of the room, and laughs replace the tense silence.
"Grey's Curse, you lumbering oaf!" Killian clutches his hand to his chest with a wince and a frown, staring up at his subjugator with a half hearted glare, "You can never go easy on me, can you Rhys?"
Another laugh, this time full and warm. He holds his own hand out, helping Killian to his feet before patting him on the back.
"Now if I did that, who'd keep that ego of yours from swelling your head? You'd have a pumpkin on your shoulders before the night was over."
"Oh, shove it." He punches his arm with his good hand as they walk together to the bar and order a pair of drinks.
"Or a melon. Maybe a gourd? Though, you wouldn't make a very handsome gourd…"
"Alright, alright, enough! You're insufferable, you know?"
"Aw, Killian! You can never go easy on me, can you?" He mocks, but Killian only smiles.
Just then, the bartender slides up to them with their fresh-poured drinks and a friendly nod. She's a lithe young elven woman with peach-pink hair tied in a messy bun. A silver ring hugs the end of one of her ears, and a yellow swipe of paint is smeared across her cheek and nose. She smells partly of sea salt and ale, with the faintest lilt of lilac. Her clothes are loose fitting and somewhat ragged: a pair of simple trousers and a tunic—just as mundane and threadbare—with rolled up, stained sleeves. She makes a stark contrast to that of the innkeeper and serving girls, looking more like a laborer than anything else.
"So, fellahs, which of ya won?" She leans against the bar, flitting her eyes between the two of them eagerly.
"Who do you think?" Killian rolls his eyes and grabs his tankard with a huff before Rhys cuts in.
"Oi, Niamh, since when do you work the bar? Not really your style, last I checked." Rhys takes his drink from her with a funny little look that says he knows exactly why. He smirks at Killian from behind his rim.
"Oh, ya know. just takin' a note from Killi's book and makin' bets I can't win."
Killian sputters into his drink, slamming the mug down and wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
"Now look here—you're lucky I like the pair of you, or I'd string you both up by the ears." He tries to keep a mock-offended tone, but can't help the smile that overtakes him.
"You're too sweet to do that, Killi." She teases and gives him a wink, "You and your brother, both."
"Bloody do-gooders." Rhys mumbles into his drink, and Killian shoots him a joking glare.
"Say, speakin' of stupid bets," She steps back from the bar and crosses her arms, looking at Killian with a sudden sincerity that puts his hairs on edge, "I hear you're goin' out sometime soon."
"I'm out now, aren't I?" He replies coolly, taking a sip with all the care of a cozy house-cat.
But she looks around the bar skittishly, checking if there's anyone near to hear; she leans in again—closer to Killian—and leans her head into her hand to muffle the sound, tucking a bit of hair to seem unassuming.
"But I hear you're goin' way out. Greyside even. And I could use a favor."
His brow shoots up and he purses his lips as he swallows his whisky; it's bitter in his throat, acrid, but somehow he doesn't think it's the alcohol.
"Depends on the favor." He looks down into his mug, swirling the amber liquid as he waits out her pause, and when he looks back up she suddenly seems so much older than her twenty some years. She's also staring down at his mug, a melancholic frown perched there on her lips. He wonders what thought is just behind her sad eyes and as he does, they look up to meet his with a sudden, steely resolve.
The air between them goes static. Rhys chugs the last of his drink, slides the mug back towards her and stands.
"I think that's my cue. I'm going to take a piss."
Niamh keeps her eyes locked on Killian as his steps fade into the hubbub of the tavern, and only when she's sure it's just the two of them, she says:
"I need you to fetch me somethin'."
"I'm not going to Greyview to do your shopping. And I'm a hunter, not a dog." He says finally.
She sighs, pulls out a hefty pouch of coins, and sets it quietly on the table in front of him, scooting it behind his mug and out of view of the rest of the bar. Killian eyes it for a still moment, then takes another drink.
"Beyond the walls," She mumbles through grit teeth, a worry etched into her face, "It's not for me. You know that. And she's gettin' worse, Killi."
"It could not even work."
"What choice do I have?"
Killian sighs, a panic racing through his mind and an aching sympathy stabbing somewhere between his ribs. He knows exactly who it's for, and he knows Niamh doesn't ask lightly. Some sicknesses aren't so easily treated, and some hopes are waiting beyond the walls: herbs and cures in the forests beyond Greyview.
'That's where hope dies, too, Killian.' His brother always tells him, 'You can't help anyone from a monster's stomach. Promise me you'll stop going, at least on your own.'
But Killian of Blackrest never runs from a challenge.
"What am I fetching?"
Even if he did promise.
There had been a time, once, when Killian had been terrified of the forest.
After all, home for him had always been the sea: waves crashing and gulls calling to one another in a nonstop echo of noise and life. His brother used to take him to the cliffs, down a ways from the docks, where the crags were too steep and sharp for anything other than climbing. They'd sit there on a perch above the world, eat fruit they'd snatched on the way, watch the waves and spot scales glinting beneath the murky waters. He'd always loved how the sun—pale as it was—would sometimes catch and illuminate them, and how rays would occasionally pierce through the wave tips like emeralds dancing on a black-stone ballroom floor. It was mesmerizing, otherworldly.
He'd imagine what it was like, far beyond the horizon away from World's End. Were there people out there beyond the sea? Was there someone on the other side, wondering about him, too?
But then they got older, and somewhere along the way they lost the time for daydreams. There were people here, after all, real people that needed someone to look out for them. He'd learned to use a bow and, with it, how to hunt.
The first time he'd gone into the forest, he was bewildered by the silence. He thought there should have been animal calls, birdsong, skittering critters in the underbrush…but the only noise had been his own heartbeat thumping in his skull and the eerie crackle of rain pattering against battered leaves.
That was the first time, too, that he'd seen one of them. He hadn't gone alone, had tagged along with a group of vagabonds headed out after dark, and though it was near impossible to see clearly, the memory of it still strikes an uneasiness in him. It had been a beastly figure, a humanoid whose silhouette could easily be mistaken for a distressed, hunched over woman from afar, but up close it was instead something from a nightmare: gangly and ragged, with unnaturally proportioned limbs that hung low and seemed to drag it down; it had a sinewy dewlap hanging from its neck like some goat, and wiry hair atop its head that draped over its face like tattered strips of cord. He couldn't see its eyes from where they hid, but the sound of it—like a ragged, breathless death rattle—sent chills through him.
He learned then to take the forest's stillness for what it really is: a warning. If you venture deep enough, the animals will poke out their heads, the crows will croak and even the trees seem to liven with the breeze. But nearer the treeline, the towns and roads—near where people live and die—it's quiet. And when it is, there's always something wrong, something lurking in the trees that the animals can sense before it's seen. And they run.
This hunt, however, it had been lively when he'd come in. It was a good omen, and he had whispered his thanks as he cut through vines and unruly brush. He'd spotted the herbs for Niamh pretty early on—scouted a lucky patch not even a ten minutes walk in, so he'd stashed them and continued on. He'd figured he shouldn't waste the trip, and set out to hunt instead. Like second nature, he'd gotten on the trail of some game not long after setting off.
He's tracking now what he figures is a doe by the size and shape of her hoof prints and grazing, a rush of freedom and adventure filling his lungs as he treks ever onward. He's following her deeper into the forest than he'd usually be comfortable going, but the day has been a good one, and he didn't want to forfeit the chance to seize it. After all, he'd fill a lot of hungry bellies with this venison, could sell the extra for coin to help his ma—tell her he got it working with Rhys—or salt it for later and stash it somewhere in the cellar.
His stomach was growling just thinking about it.
Then, as he pushes aside a bundle of leaves to open his view towards a meadowed clearing, there in the drizzling rain behind a small cropping of young shrubs, stood his prey. She didn't hear him approach and grazed freely, stopping only to drink from a puddle of rainwater and swivel her ears back and forth attentively. He watches for a moment, something serene and childlike in the innocence of it that he wasn't quite ready to break. Strangely he thinks this image should be captured in paint, framed and displayed on a wall in his room. It'd stand out amidst his simple livings—far too beautiful a thing—but a pang hit his chest as he wished he could take a piece of this world with him when he returned to Blackrest.
But as beautiful as she was, there were people that needed fed. He pulls an arrow from his quiver, notches it to his string and gets ready to shoot when she shuffles away from the bushes to continue grazing. Seeing her unobscured now, he suddenly realizes that she's with fawn. A soft gasp escapes his lips, followed by a sigh as he restraps his bow over his chest and continues to watch from his hiding place.
"So much for dinner. Take care of that little one." He whispers, a feeling of contentment settles the hunger in his stomach for the time being. He figures he could track her a bit longer instead, maybe follow to see if there are others nearby. There's still some hours of daylight left; if it doesn't come to fruit, he could always find a hare.
'Better than eating a pigeon.'
Killian breathes in a heavy sigh, settling himself into the leaves with crossed legs, listening to the birdsong and watching the doe patter along. After a while, he turns his gaze up to the canopy—no light near Greyview was ever strong enough to pierce it fully, giving the constant illusion of either sunset or daybreak—and closes his eyes as he lets the rain drip across his face. It was admittedly a bit chilly now. Having come so far through wet foliage, his cloak was thoroughly damp and his clothes beneath were starting to stick. It didn't bother him much, though; such was life in Vale, but it made him think of home and a warm cup of Cragberry cider.
A sudden flutter of crows rips from the forest, flocking away with a cacophony of calls. Killian opens his eyes slowly with a frown and watches after them; black blots flit in and out of view from beyond the treetops, and a woodpecker hammers somewhere nearby in a steady rhythm.
Toc-toc brrrm. Toc-toc brrrm.
But an odd feeling grips him, like a premonition of lightning; goosebumps freeze over his skin, and he glances over his shoulder when the feeling of not being alone suddenly strikes him. But there's nothing there.
He hops to his feet, squatting down with one hand in the mud. He waits. Listens.
Toc-toc brrm. Toc-toc.
Toc. Toc. Toc.
He re-readies his bow.
Then the forest goes quiet.
He holds his breath, his heart hammers in his chest as his fingers go numb from the blood-chill that courses through him. As silently as he can, he reaches for his back and pulls an arrow with a scraping hush. He waits, stills, and turns his ear up to listen.
What's out there. What are you?
An abrupt, guttural wail pierces the air like the scream of a dying hog, and he startles; it comes from the other side of the clearing and, before he can even fully register his fear, the thundering of hooves runs directly at him. He shoots up into a stand but he moves too late—the doe whips past him, crashing into him with her flank and throwing him back into a tree.
He cries out, his fingers slipping on the wet bark uselessly as he tries to catch himself. His side scrapes against it as he falls, tearing through his shirt and drawing blood.
The sound of hooves is replaced by the erratic, watery slap of meaty paws, and Killian watches in horror as a beast three times the size of any man bolts so close to him he can feel the air it splits. In just four long strides it catches up and hurls itself at the doe, flattening the animal with its sheer size and speed, both of them tumbling and slamming into a stump. And as it locks its lipless gums around her head, it bites down with a sickening, piercing squelch.
With one brutal tug of its teeth, the doe's head is wrested from her spine and her body drops lifelessly into the murk.
He dares not breathe. Instead, he watches the creature feast with wide eyes. He's seen monsters before. Many, many times before. But never this close. He can smell it: a rotten, festering swamp that reeks of blood, and dog stink, and bile. Never this large. Standing tall, surely it would be at least two of him. It looks emaciated and malnourished but its frame, even without heft, is just as wide.
Its face grotesquely resembles that of a man's, but its gums have stretched far out of its mouth into the shape of a snout, only its flesh doesn't reach as far and has split into hanging chaffs. Its teeth, more than he could possibly care to count, jut every which way—some sharper than daggers, others blunt like stones—and a thick mane of coarse, spiny dark hair trails from around the sockets of where eyes would have been, down its hunched back, to the base of its huge, wolven hind legs.
It sits atop the carcass, biting into its belly with a frenzied fervor, legs in an exaggerated squat as it cradles its short, skinny arms around its chest.
He feels like vomiting.
What the fuck—what is he supposed to do now? It hasn't noticed him, or maybe hasn't cared enough yet? Where are its eyes—does it even have them? Could it see him if he tried to sneak away? Could it hear him? Steward's balls, if he gets caught…
He glances down at his feet and spots his bow; he must have dropped it when he fell. He looks back up to the beast, completely oblivious to his presence, and dares to take a single step forward.
It snarls, choking down bits of meat like a starved, rabid wolf. But it does not turn to look at him.
He takes another step, squatting down slowly to lift his bow from the soggy leaves, then straps it as gently as he can to his back. Every movement feels as though he's about to shatter glass, even the faintest rustling of cloth sounds like a strike of thunder. Without turning around, he steps back again, feeling behind him so he doesn't trip. When the bark of the tree touches his hand, he slowly dips himself behind it, putting at least something between him and certain death.
Right, what in the hells do we do now, Killian?
The sickening splatter of viscera echoes off the trees, and the wheezing grunts of the monster fill his bones with dread. It hollows out his chest to admit, but he thinks his brother might have been right. Never again. He promised, didn't he? Never again.
Hope comes to die…hope comes to fucking die…
He breathes in shakily, closes his eyes, steels himself and—before he can change his mind—he inches forward. One step, two—Each swells his heart with promise and anxiety. He dares not look back. A hacking cough bursts from the creature followed by a gagging retch. He walks faster. He doesn't look back.
It chuffs. Three times in quick succession like the sniffing of a dog, only grittier, drier like its throat isn't made for sound at all. He walks faster.
Then he feels it, eyes on him only…it feels so much more than that. The creature has no eyes—it has none, but it sees him. The boarish squeal strikes the air again and Killian can't help the distressed noise that escapes him. He glances over his shoulder and the head of the beast is facing him now, blood drooling from its wicked maw as its gums quiver. Its body turns to do the same—stalking slowly, quietly with a grace that's uncanny for a creature so large—and he throws himself into a run.
He hears it lunge forward and, thinking fast, he abruptly turns right, slipping a bit on the leaves but he forces himself to stay upright. The beast is too large to halt itself, loses its footing on the wet ground, and slams into a tree as it tries to follow; the whole forest seems to shake, branches and seed pods falling to the ground with worried clunks. It roars angrily and Killian spurs himself to run faster, darting in and out of trees to put as much obstacle between the two of them as he can. It steadies itself quick—quicker than he'd hoped—and starts to close the distance.
Glancing back as he runs, his heart sinks with each raptor like stride it takes. It snaps its jaws at him, breathing heavy and furious the closer and closer it gets.
"Oh fuck, fuck—leave me alone you slimy, stinking bastard!" His lungs burn as he gulps down air, willing himself to go faster, faster, faster; his legs ache, his shoulders heavy from the wet cloak that weighs him down. And just as he whips his head back around—hoping for any kind of miracle—his foot suddenly catches, and he falls.
Not to the ground, but down.
He gets a face full of grass first, a crack of pain shoots through his sternum as he lifts his arms to guard his head. Then he slides and tumbles, rolling down the steep incline of a craggy hill; his clothes catch on stones and ledges that stagger his momentum but do little to actually stop him. The monster's loud wail splits the air again as he hears it skid and topple after him. It crashes against trees, smacks against rocks, flops over itself, snarls and whines, and—just as Killian comes to an abrupt stop, his body jerking violently as his satchel snags on a jutting tree root, one of his legs dangling over the side of a sheer drop into a ravine—the creature shoots past him, digging its feeble front claws into the mud helplessly as it falls over the edge.
The sound of it smacking against the cliff side and its body splashing into the river rips a painful but hopeful cry from his lips. Then the forest goes quiet again, just the rumbling of the water below and his own ragged breathing. He listens, lies still on his back and waits for any sign that the thing lived. When nothing stirs, he lets himself open his eyes and laugh.
Everything hurts. His chest feels like he's been kicked by a horse, his legs burn, every inch of his body is achy and bruised, and—adrenaline slowly leaving him—he realizes the left side of his neck is tingling like needles and his shoulder is screaming in absolute agony. He winces as he turns to look; his satchel, bless the old thing, got wrapped around his forearm before snagging the tree. Luckily for him, the strap stopped his fall and prevented his watery demise. Unluckily for his shoulder, however, it yanked it thoroughly out of its rightful place.
"Dammit," He groans, turning his head away as he sighs. There wasn't much time now before the sun would start to set, he knew, but it was going to be a veritable feat trying to make it back to the city.
He looks back again at his satchel—trying to think of the best, least painful way to free himself—and notices that the leafy red herbs for Niamh, bundled in a bit of linen, have spilled out. A weariness settles in as he thinks of returning and he realizes he's going to have to explain his state to his mother. And his brother, for that matter.
An indignant panic fills his chest and he huffs. No, he can't let him see him like this. He had promised to stay away. But even if he did face him, what could he say? Promise again, admit that he'd been right all along, that he understands now how dangerous the forest is? Or maybe make a vow, a true one this time?
But what about Niamh? What about all the others in Blackrest and Greyview and all across the island that got sick, day after day, from what miserable food they did have? Or that caught something from the constant cold, the constant damp? Even the air some days feels tainted, like nature itself was out to get them.
Killian swallows shakily and grits his teeth as he struggles to sit up. It takes a lot of effort not to let himself scream; the pain, he could bite down, but the frustration that swells inside him threatenes to choke. He knows, deep in his chest, in his lungs—where a fire often overwhelms him—that the answers are here in this forest. In these mountains. It had to be; the monsters were here, the grey was here, his people were here. Not on some foreign land, far from where he could even dream of reaching, and certainly not out at sea on some lost ship.
Yet he was expected to just, what…stay home? Stand by and watch the people around him die slowly, waste away? Wait for it to catch his friends, his brother, his ma?
Was he supposed to wait for it to catch him, too? Sit on his hands, wait for better times, hope for someone better than him, better than his family—
No. He was not his grandfather. He can't remain idle for fear of making the same mistakes.
He won't.
The cold and pain, now that he's no longer in danger, finally catch up to him and he starts to shiver aggressively. A throbbing pain shoots down his left side, but he bites his tongue and tries to carefully free his arm from the vice of the strap. The old, frayed leather has snagged on his wrist and dug into skin from the force. It holds tight, his fingers turning blue from the pressure, and there's no doubt in his mind that his wrist is at least sprained. He only hopes nothing's broken.
After a moment of clawing at the strap and trying to loosen it, he mutteres a curse, pulls his knife from his boot and decides he doesn't have the time nor patience to deal with it. He cuts the poor thing in two and unravels it gently.
As soon as blood flows through his fingers again, a warmth surges into them along with a stabbing ache that feels like he's shoved his hand into a bag of broken glass. He sucks in a pained breath then sighs defeatedly as he tries in vain to clench his fist; if he ran into anything else on his way out…well, he wasn't sure how well he could fight one handed, but he was at a huge disadvantage without being able to use his bow.
His bow! His brows shoot up and he jerks his head around, realizing that its weight is decidedly missing from his back. He hadn't been laying on it, he would have felt it, but it was no where around him within arm's length. Squinting up the steep incline, he realizes there's no way it could have gotten stuck somewhere without him seeing it easily; it would stand out against the pale stones, especially if it was dangling from something.
There was really only two things, then: either he lost it as he ran—which he can't afford to retrace his dance with the devilish beast —or, more likely, it had been cast over the edge in his place. Either way, he felt naked without it and a heavy anger, more at himself than anything, coiled in his stomach.
It's foolish. All of this is just…it's so much fighting—against the ways of the world, illness, against everyone else, against beasts, his bloodline, against circumstance—and for what? Some days it feels like he can never catch a break.
He wonders maybe if it's because he hasn't earned one.
It's dark by the time he reaches Greyview, but the city itself never truly is. The people always set candles in the windows, lanterns by the doors, anything to chase away the shadows that threaten the possibility of something sinister lurking just within.
Tonight, he supposes, he's the 'something sinister'. He chuckles wryly at himself and readjusts his arm that's situated across his chest in a makeshift sling, then hugs his cloak close.
Bloody rain, he sighs softly and shivers just as a yawn pulls itself from him. What he wouldn't do for a warm bowl of gruel and dry socks right about now…
His boots splash somberly in dark puddles that pool between cobblestones like mimicked, tiny lakes. Glancing out over the bridge as he slowly makes his way closer to the Slum's gates, he listens to the low roar of the river and shudders. There's something about the inescapable drop and the events of the day that has him wondering if he'll ever get the sound of that monster out of his head. The crack of it against the stone, it's plummeting splash. What a mess.
The wooden gates into the Slums are closed by this time of night and as he approaches, he glances up and down the looming things and hopes the journey home is an easy one. Approaching slowly with tired, shuffling steps, he knocks gently against the wicket. He waits. Yawns. There's no sound from the other side.
Just as he lifts his knuckles to knock again, an aggressive shlunk from the peephole's sliding visor startles him. Half a face, weathered and obscured by shadows, stares at him for a moment before it flicks closed again. The door is opened to him, but the guard leans nonchalantly in the frame. He takes a large, crunchy bite from the apple he has in his hand, and munches with his mouth open as he stares at him.
"Bit late for a stroll." He says, then takes another bite. Killian winces. He really didn't wanna have to deal with this.
"Let me through, Lawrence." The man stares at him, not so much with a glare, but an irritated question of, 'did you really?' Killian clears his throat and shifts his weight before adding: "Please?"
He chews his apple, every crunch grating on his nerves. He looks him up and down, hums to himself, then stares distractedly at his snack.
"Nah."
Killian groans.
"Why not?"
"'Cause you've been hunting again," He smirks at him, a poisonous little thing that makes Killian's eye twitch, "Cough up what you've got, you know the drill."
"But I haven't got anything—"
A quiet but very finite and disbelieving chuckle cuts him off. He takes another bite, then tosses his apple core out towards Killian's feet.
"Don't downplay yourself. We both know you're good at what you do, now get in here and put it all on the table. You're making me cold just looking at your sorry ass." He ushers him into a small room to the right behind the gate, Killian dragging his feet every step, then points towards a table near the back. He plops himself down on the edge of another near the door and watches him expectantly, but Killian only stares at the table then looks back at him with a shake of his head.
"I told you, I haven't got anything on me, so I don't know what you're wanting," with a gesture towards his back he says, "I don't even have my bow, see?"
Lawrence squints at him, biting the inside of his cheek for a moment before he crosses his arms.
"What're you doing out so late for?"
He sees no reason to lie. It wasn't a crime to forage, after all. He pulls the right side of his cloak back to show his satchel—the cut strap tied to his belt—and nods down at it.
"Picking flowers," he offers cheekily. Lawrence takes it though, and chuckles. He throws his hands down to his thighs with a slap and shakes his head at him.
"One of these days you're gonna get yourself killed, Killian, fool that you are."
"Yeah, so I keep being told."
"Maybe you ought to listen then?" He shakes his head and stands, opening the door for him, "You look like shit."
"That makes us a pair at least."
"Oh, fuck off before I charge you with something." But the both of them chuckle. Lawrence frowns suddenly though, as if remembering something and he pats Killian on the arm gently, "Just be careful getting to the inn. You might not get the same kind of welcome there."
"What do you mean? Don't tell me the inns closing at curfew now? They set up a checkpoint, too?" He jokes, but Lawrence only shrugs.
"People don't sleep so soundly these days, what with that last incident. It's getting more common, so folks lock themselves in. Makes my job easier. Only vagrants roam around after dark in here," He gestures towards the city, "All I've gotta worry about is out there." He lets his arm go with a knowing look, then dips back into the door.
"So what's that make us?" He calls after him with a smirk, "Roaming around after dark?"
"The worst of the worst." He hollers back, then reappears with an unlit torch and passes it to him. Killian looks down at it but hesitates to take it. Lawrence shakes it at him expectantly.
He reaches his arm out but as he does, a shooting pain radiates through his sternum and he grimaces.
"Thanks," he breathes as he takes it and holds it to his chest. Lawrence shakes his head.
"Forget the inn, you ought to go see the healer. What happened to you, anyway?"
"Tripped." He breathes out, then squeezes his eyes closed as another shock of pain hits his chest. It came and went on his way back, but he figured the cold had distracted him greatly. Now, a bit warmer, back around people, finally having stopped walking…well, he really needed to lie down. Maybe for a whole week. Or the rest of forever. That sounded nice.
"Got kicked by a horse, more like. But don't tell me then. Seriously though, stop by Solus' place and get yourself looked over."
"Now?" He lowers his head, keeping his eyes shut as he tries to breathe without his ribcage goring him from the inside out.
Lawrence huffs, "If he doesn't answer the door, go back when it's light out. I mean it, Killian. You don't look great, and I'd rather not find your body on the street tomorrow morning."
"How terribly…inconvenient…for you." He hisses through grit teeth, then groans out a sigh as the pain lessens just enough for him to breathe comfortably again.
"How terribly dangerous for everyone in this fucking city. You might be on some kind of suicide quest, but that doesn't mean the rest of us are," they're both silent for a moment, and Killian looks up at him apologetically. He knows he needs the healer. He knows dying within the walls is probably the worst possible thing that could happen.
Not…that he was dying, mind. He didn't think he was? Damn, he really hoped not.
"Lawrence, I—"
"Just get yourself looked over, alright? Your ma would kill me if anything happened to you."
Killian bites his lip, then nods.
"Yeah, okay. I'll go. I'm going," he wags the torch at him as he turns in way of goodbye, "And I'll be careful or whatever, don't worry."
"About you?" He scoffs, but Killian knows he does nothing but.
Walking back into the rain is an unfortunate inevitability, he knows, but he grimaces as the cold wind pierces his cloak all the same. He sighs expectantly as Lawrence closes the gatehouse door behind him; it's not that far of a walk to the healer's if he's remembering right but, having had a moment of respite, the sheer weight of his exhaustion hits him all at once. He doesn't bother lighting the torch and instead sets off towards the east side of the Slums, trying to recall if he's ever actually met this Solus before. The name was familiar, but he'd never been to the healer here, had he? Maybe he's seen him in passing?
Ah, no, that was it. There had been a particular night here in the city, with a particular Orc, and a bet, and a gorgeous elven woman, and some kind of whiskey cocktail that he'd never even heard of before.
Killian shakes his head and grimaces. That was not a lovely memory, that. It'd ended with a killer hangover, a hole in his memory, and his coin purse significantly lighter than it had been before they'd started drinking. Thinking back, he was pretty sure she was giving them spiked drinks to rob them…
The next morning, Rhys had been suffering for the both of them. Whatever was in those drinks had turned his stomach sour; he couldn't keep anything down, would hurl at even the mention of food, and had the shits like you wouldn't believe. Naturally, the big whiny baby that he was, had insisted Killian go with him to the healer despite his migraine-induced reluctance. He could never say no to that pouty lip of his.
He laughed at that part of the memory at least, hoping he could still find his way there despite the little—and unreliable—reference he had to go on.
Speaking of whisky…
Killian reaches a hand beneath his cloak and into his jacket to find a pocket that was sewn right about the heart. Pulling out his small silver flask, he smiles and sighs contentedly. Of all the things that went to shit today, at least this little beauty stayed nice and safe. He takes a swig, breathes out slowly, debates leaving it at that, but decides instead to sip on it as he treks through shadows and rain puddles. He had a splitting headache coming on anyway, his mouth was dry, and if he was gonna be cold, have wet socks—wet everything—and be in pain, well, he wasn't going to do it sober. At least not completely.
There was something quite nice about it, actually, being alone in the city, in the dark, in the rain. It was still only just a drizzle for now but the wind was telling, whipping between his limbs and clothes and messing his hair; and, though he shivered from the cold, he really couldn't feel it much anymore. The warm swirl of whisky in his stomach certainly helped, but he was sure he was just numb to it by now.
A smile made its way onto his lips and he took another swig. The wind really was something free: freer than every last soul that slept here, lived here, died here. It brought tidings of home—comfort, familiarity, family—and it took it away, far away to sea, just as easily. He wondered what his sister was up to, beyond the gates in the heart of the city. He scoffed, shaking away the idea of stopping in on her, even if it would have been funny.
Killian looks up suddenly and realizes…he has no idea where he is. One moment he'd been leaving the gatehouse, the next he was squished between some dark houses in an alleyway he didn't recognize. How long had he been walking? When he turns his head to try to get his bearings, his head spins and it takes more effort than he'd like to remain upright. His stomach swirls viscously, and his legs suddenly feel heavy as if he was feeling them for the first time. It wasn't the drink, no. Maybe the cold, exhaustion. Maybe all the grime in an open wound: the scrape on his side, cuts on his legs and hands from the rocks.
Maybe he really did need the healer.
He closes his eyes, breathes in from his nose and out from his mouth. Slow. And tries not to vomit all over himself. His heartbeat thumps against his skull and a warmth flood his cheeks then drains just as quickly, and he shivers.
Begrudgingly, he shuffles forward. His muscles really are starting to ache now, a stiffness that's making it harder and harder to move, harder to breathe, harder to think. He makes his way out of the alley, into the candlelight of road-facing windows, and hopes that he's even on the right side of the Slums.
C'mon, Killian. C'mon, not far now surely.
But there's no indication of any shop. No tavern. No doctor. Where in the hells was he again?
There's a metallic clang somewhere in the distance, it echoes far away but—surely it was right beside him?
"Fuck…I need…" His knees give out and he sinks to the ground, "I need to sit. I need…"
Honestly, he wasn't entirely sure. Help, maybe. Or sleep. Home? Food? A damn break, for sure. Just one, tiny, itty bitty break from this absolute shitstorm of a day…
And slowly, as his eyes drift closed and the rain soaks through his shirt, and as the wind—with a life of its own—brushes over him with the care a mother would a sick child, he gets one. Dark. Cold. Lonely. But painless sleep.