Note: Under extensive reviewing, and likely does not match up with the other chapters, continuity-wise. If you'd like to help- leave a comment!
Breathe in. And out.
She summons every ounce of courage in her body and knocks on the door.
Hobbling, shuffling steps. From this gait....
Drunk again. All the better, isn't it?
Mella keeps her gaze steady and stares directly at the bulky old man that opens the door. His beard is bushy, overgrown, and stained with booze. His watery green eyes are bloodshot, and his face, all-round, is pink.
The proximity stirs a Sense in her. His consciousness is viscous, sticky, and sour, like some kind of sour fruit preserve. Fruit vinegar.
Who will guess that this is one of the most powerful men in Geraldine's Heartlands? Perhaps only from those clothes- the cloak that hangs around his bulging frame like a shadow, parting in the middle to reveal a prim, pressed jacket-coat. An important-or rich, or both- person’s clothes.
He, and three others, rule the Heartlands. The hub of crime and desperation. This place is primarily composed of the jaded exploited and deplorable exploiters.
And of course, the Surgeon- or really, the slave master- fits squarely into the latter category.
She tries her best to ignore her Sense. There is no way to stop feeling the touch of other people when she gets too close.
"Icy! Yer back," he slurs.
Mella clenches her fists, steels her heart, and enters.
The walls are covered with fabrics of every shade and colour- jade green and ruby red, as blue as the Atlan to the west of the continent, and the grey of the eastern Stone Seas. A lounge sits opposite an old-style fireplace, where the Surgeon takes a seat, tapping a leather-clad foot on the hard wooden floorboards to indicate that she should do the same.
He glances at her and grins.
"How's my favourite student progressing?"
Student- such an innocent term to describe such a vile profession. In this line of work, of course, there are euphemisms used. Tasks, assignments, students... as well as mutts, geldings, and of course the "taking care".
What he's really asking is whether she got any information. And the fruitless night's work has left her drained, tired- unable to play these games.
"He got away," she says, blunt. There is no point in dancing around the truth with the Surgeon. He will cut the truth from you- and your tongue with it- eventually.
The Surgeon's eyes flash. Sobriety descends.
"Well now," he says, careful. Mella looks over his face- but the colour is unchanged. Everything is still. He still has the half-smile, and it doesn't betray anything.
Those unpredictable moods are as dangerous as any enemy.
"How long will it take for you to... finish up this task?"
Mella has to be careful. This dance atop brittle glass- the tiniest misstep can send her to the worst of fates.
"Another week."
The Surgeon's eyes harden. Mella bites the inside of her cheek.
Wrong answer.
"We don't have a week."
YOU ARE READING
Reidier
FantasyIn the bowels of a city called Reidier, Mella makes a mistake. She loses her temper. To avoid the oncoming shit storm that results from that, she finds shelter- with the secret Incognita revolution. But their leader is missing, and tensions are high...
