Mirror of the Past

Dace 3- Hangovers as usual

Ugh, my head. Dace thought and tried to ignore the pain by keeping his head under the pillow. He could hear gulls squawking, unable to sing, outside. Their piercing notes sending hammers through his mind like smiths at an anvil. He got up out of the bed and walked across the room, his mind still dazed from sleeping and from drinking the night before. His leg got caught in something and he kicked it aside, muttering an obscenity under his breath and carried onwards, shielding his eyes from the pre-dawn brightness coming in through the open window as he approached. The cool morning breeze tingling his skin pleasantly. Once he got to the window he closed it with a thump, eyes scrunched up, and turned to walk back to bed. He froze.

This isn't my room. He thought as he looked at the unfamiliar walls, a light green paint where his was brown, paintings hanging where he had none. That isn't my bed. Looking at the bed in the middle of the room, large mattress. Clothes around it, his own and those that he would never buy, or likely ever wear sober. Shit. There were two other figures in the bed, one turned towards him and another hidden by the duvet.

Dace padded softly over to them and looked down. Thank the gods. Both were female, that's all he needed to know as he pulled the duvet from the other girls sleeping head. The one facing him was sandy haired and had a face full of freckles, face calm in sleep and smooth as a pebble, her head turned up towards the ceiling slightly enough so he could see all her features. The other girl beside her had darker brown hair that was certainly long, she was facing the other way, but by the slimness and curve of her body she was young and attractive and that suited Dace fine. I've a reputation to uphold after all.

Another throbbing pain came unbidden behind his eyes and Dace shook his head fiercely, the air shimmering around him and the pain passed as he willed it. It left him with a clear focus, although he couldn't remember much of last night after Tinker had brought out the smoking pipes, and they burned the Grasses of the Summer Isles, that were smuggled in through the southern ports and sold in black markets. To be caught up North in Kanal or in the High King's realm was a death penalty, but in Port Hordo, even the city guard would ask for a draw if they caught you, even with its deadly reputation. It's poison. Dace thought grimacing. He gathered up his clothes and knocked over an empty bottle of wine, it rolling slowly towards the bed as he stared at it and shrugged. However some poison is needed to stay sane.

Pulling his black shirt over his head, and noticed a wine stain on it, a large one at that. Dammit. He then donned his equally dark leggings he walked out of the room, bare feet padding softly. He looked back to the girls sleeping, their naked chests rising and falling slowly and rhythmically, and a grin grew upon his face. He had done well last night of that he was sure but anything else remained a blur.

He put his hand to the far wall in the corridor beyond and focused his ears and sensing around him, drawing on the gifts that were in his blood he sought out what he was looking for. The faintest of ripples emanating from his body, spinning and coursing through the air of the house around him.

He ignored the heartbeats of the girls behind him, and the three heartbeats in the room adjacent to the one he slept in. One of the heartbeats he recognised as Tinker's from years in the man's company and dozens of similar situations. I hope he knows where we are, hell if I do. Moving on he found it, he thought he missed it, but the air never lied and Dace listened to its beckoning call. Dace loped through the corridor and danced his way down the stairs, making no sound upon the wooden boards.

In the main hall, what greeted him almost made him believe the house was robbed in the middle of the night. He stepped over fallen chairs and glass bottles, all littered over the floor. Bits of food were still on the table, and he picked up a piece of cold chicken and chewed on it as he made his way into the back of the house and to the one door that held the secret he was looking for. Must have been messy. Messy nights were good, and were always cleaned up well in the morning. Clean nights left hangers on and expectations, messy ones allowed you to leave once the cleaning was done, without needing to look back.