phonotactical

[phonotactical]

Payout (Coward's Way Out Ch. 2)

Decided I wanted to expand Coward's Way Out a touch into a longer thing. Here's the next part!

At the end of a job, most normal vagabonds can be found up to their balls in strong drink, cheaper women, and rattier inns. I found myself fed, watered, and pressed, presenting myself and my small strongbox at the door at one particular bank in the financial district. The first strains of sunlight had just started to light up the marble façade I was facing, the reds and yellows dappling across the front. For a moment, the building almost looked interesting. The bank was neither huge nor modest, but comfortable in its size. It was, as far as multi-story fortified buildings go, unassuming and easy to miss. Perfect for our purposes.

Sighing, I made my way up the steps and approached the door, flanked by two cracked columns. At one time strong and soaring, the pillars had deteriorated past stately and now looked as though they needed a nap and a sandwich. I was in the main foyer for about seven heartbeats before I was whisked through door after unremarkable door, past counters and desks staffed by unremarkable men and down hallways lined with unremarkable stone floors. The farther we got from the foyer the less opulent everything wast. Near the end I was worried the hallway would be closed to construction.

At the end of this process I was presented through a slightly more remarkable door. Made of solid metal, its once bright glint had faded to a dull sheen while the short nameplate was as well shined as ever. Three crisp knocks later and the attendant left standing me before a desk that would barely fit a tea kettle when compared to the Baron’s. However, the room it was in was cozy, with good lighting and fashionable–if aging–trappings. Well worn but clean, the desk was lit by the windows behind it as well as several focused lamps. The pale man seated in the plush chair had neatly combed black hair and wore a well tailored suit. He had yet to make eye contact with me, choosing instead to lock his gaze upon my strongbox. Flush with anticipation, he leaned onto his forearms, rising just slightly out of his chair like a vulture about to take flight.

“Good tidings, then?” he asked, eyes steady on his prize.

“Exceptional, if I do say so myself. Our prospects proved even more fruitful than we’d hoped.”

So saying, I thumped the strongbox down on the desk in front of him, subtly shaking feeling back into my arm as I stepped back. His gloved hands quickly spun the box around, an inset wooden turntable spinning soundlessly. A key appeared in his hand, clicked into the lock, and vanished before the lock had rattled onto the table. His right hand slammed the lock home and slid it back to me, while his left hand and eyes seemed to try to burrow through the box. I tucked the lock away, standing idly while he took a breath before carefully cracking open the box and reverently removing each item. 

I was three years into my five year contract and Feddigan had been my moneyman since the beginning. In the intervening time, I’d gotten to know him. His official title–like most banker’s–was longer than would fit on the door, but he dealt in the valuing, storing and selling of “items of interest”. Anything that was worth something–from fine art to rare literary works to common gold rings–would come across his desk first.

Some time ago, his skills had been turned to also benefit those of us who operated extra-legally. He was in charge of valuing the goods we retrieved from each job and getting the relevant cut to our mutual employer through a complicated network of stocks, bonds, and money orders.

My mind re-entered the room as he placed his jewelers loop in his eye, cleared his throat, and began to speak. 

“I know courtly life is not of interest to you, but this may prove an exception.” His eyes flicked to mine, betraying the importance of his speech.

I shrugged, holding my jaw tight to fight a yawn, “I would not describe politics as a hobby of mine, but don’t let that stop you.” 

Eyes back on the prizes, he continued, “I was taken in by a very quiet rumour. A certain knight has just returned after besting another. This was quite a coup for him, as the other warrior was one of some renown.”

Leaning back in his chair, his enlarged eye met my gaze steadily. “Much to his consternation, not to mention the chagrin of his household, he had scarcely returned home when a metaphorical glove was found adorning his doorstep.”

I buried the sinking feeling in my stomach and responded, “I’d imagine that was quite an unwelcome surprise.”

Nodding, he leaned forward to consider the next piece. “Quite so. Decorum would call for a rest period, but I suppose honour waits for no man. What makes this more unusual was that the challenge specified a ring round, not a bout. You’re familiar with the concept?”

I sighed an affirmative, saying, “Instead of ramming each other with a big stick, the knights use the stick to try and pick up a series of rings, the one with the most rings wins, right?”

A small smile played across his face. “That’s the gist. Although less interesting to the common spectator, the match is surprisingly important to the court at large.”

“Must be a lot of pressure on our noble knight.” I responded in a monotone.

“Truly unfortunate, but necessary I suppose.”

Tucking the Baron’s signet ring away into his desk, he emerged with a small coin purse which he clunked onto the turntable.

“Would you care for a receipt?”

“Nah,” I waved it away as I picked up the purse, “they trust me.”

A single nod dismissed me, leaving him to update his ledger and the man outside the door to collect the sorted goods. 

Exiting his office, I turned the opposite way that I had been led. Generally, I’ve no reason to spurn the familiar, but I make it a habit to vary my exit routes. Entrances are less important; I have the only other key and I never carry it with me. The “lock” is actually magically tied to the keys in some arcane manner; no pick would open it. I’d know, I’d had Sarey try. The box itself was also rather obstinate; no hammer would even scratch it. I’d know, I’d had Baret try that too.

I hummed as I walked, letting my feet carry me through utilitarian offices and dusty storage rooms as I turned Feddigan’s words over in my mind. Many lifetimes ago, some smart thieves decided they needed a way to discuss crime in broad daylight without arousing suspicion. They developed a language within a language, called a cant. Everyone uses their cant differently, almost like an accent to disguise their words. Take Feddigan, for instance. A banker speaking of the noble court and duels is par for the course. But if I were to mention the phrase “knight of some renown” in a tavern, the room would be deprived of oxygen when everyone collectively gathered breath to laugh. This accent, as it were, meant that I had to spend a little bit of time decoding his words. 

I checked my fingers off as I considered. Firstly, the only thing he might know about is our next job, but he generally wasn’t given much more warning time about jobs than we were. Secondly, the fact he’d met my eye pointedly when he started to speak meant that his words carried a pretty big meaning. Fourth, using the setup of a “knightly duel” meant that this job had a third party, someone who was already contracted to steal the thing we were assigned to. Fifth, a “ring round” meant that the third party wasn’t intending to harm us. Yet. 

I closed my hand, unwilling ot count higher. Unfortunately for me, the mention that the outcome was important to the “court” meant that this job wasn’t just for profit, it had political repercussions. In short, I had to hurry back home, as we were on a time limit.

In about half the time it took to get delivered to Feddigan’s office, I emerged out of a back entrance into the light of the now firmly risen sun. As much as I wished to participate in the regular post-score activities, I turned my feet and headed for home. Duty called, apparently.

[phonotactical]

Dialogue Scrap #4

“I won’t claim that it was easy. I won’t claim that it was necessary. But I enjoyed it, that’s for damn sure.”

“…Yeah so you’re into some weird shit.”

OPT: “Mmm, but it’s jolly useful, isn’t it?”

[phonotactical]

Dialogue Scrap #3

"Now why the hell would you call backup for me?"

"Because it doubles the chance that I get what I deserve."

OPT: "How'd you figure that?"

"I'm much less likely to succeed if it's two on one."

[phonotactical]

TW: preying on women, death, ghost

Word Count: 829

The path along the lake wasn't safe. Not for women, and not at night. The pleasant crunch of gravel and lapping waves that were so comforting during the day turned the forested path into a dark, foreboding slice of campus when the sun fell beneath the horizon. It was well over a mile long but had fewer than five access points. Once you were on it, you stayed on it.

It was a popular spot for runners, naturalists, smokers, and hammocks. The thick walls of the forest provided solace and quiet to those who needed it. One road ran parallel to it, but that was hundreds of meters away, all of it up a steep slope.

The University saw fit to place one aid station along its path, halfway between the two main access points. At night, the blue glow of the tower acted as a lighthouse and distance marker for those on their late-night exercise excursions.

For Sally, it was like a bastion. A siren, calling her to safety. Her feet pounded along the gravel like thousands of runners before her. Unlike them, however, her motivation was external. Her roommate would later explain that Sally frequently went on night walks to clear her head.

One mile out to the pier, one mile back. Not used to running so far, her breath came in short gasps as she stared straight ahead at the blue light, hoping that she'd make it in time.

She had heard the person following her a few minutes after she left, the sound of footsteps trailing her. The forest and the water made any sound carry strangely, sometimes echoing like a tunnel, other times dissipating faster than it should.

When she heard the steps speed up behind her, so did she, darting her head to look at the shadowy figure. She knew the stories of what had happened to women in the past. Shaking with fear, she had begun to run, all the while her footsteps being echoed behind her, a sinister drum beat that thumped in time with her heart.

When her roommate woke the next morning, Sally's bed was empty. She knew her usual path, so she threw on her jogging clothes and went out to investigate.

It wasn't until she got within sight of the red tower that lay just past an S bend in the path that she saw the blood. Branches had been snapped on the right side of the path, and a small splash of now dry blood marked the gravel where they'd fallen.

The police would later determine that this was Sally's first point of impact. She'd run right into the forest, not noticing the bend in the path. Recoiling, she snapped branches with her arms as she tried to escape. In pain and blinded, she'd stumbled off the path.

Her roommate never saw her body, half submerged in the lake, blood running from where her head had hit the rocky shore.

The investigation never determined who or what caused Sally to panic and run, but every woman who heard the story shook their head and wondered when change would come.

A plan was put in place to add lights and more emergency towers to the path, but that was still years away. However, several weeks after the news broke, the stories began.

Runners reported strange thrashing sounds in the woods late at night. Cyclists would swear that they saw someone pulling branches out of the way for them as they passed. And several women spoke in hushed tones to their friends, swearing that they saw someone following them, only to look back and see the figure hurry the other way.

Reports of assaults in that one-mile stretch dwindled to zero in the next year. Over time, police managed to catch several men who were reported for stalking or other assaults on the path. It seemed that in their haste to escape, several had turned their ankle in a hole, or been scratched along the face with a branch, the scars of which always seemed larger than they should.

The safety measures were eventually installed. Lights at ankle height every few meters, glow-in-the-dark stones to mark the waterfront, anything that could be thought of to improve safety while maintaining the quiet and isolated nature of the path.

A curious reporter, following up on the project, noted an oddity in the expenses listed for maintenance. They were zero. Lightbulbs didn't die, and the paint on the rocks didn't wear away. Figuring a contractor did a better job than they advertised, the report was filed away, too small to hit print.

The measures made the path safer, but some people still swore that the lights were blue when they passed, and paid homage to the Spirit of the Lakeshore Path.

Decades later, the reputation had changed.

The path along the lake wasn't safe. Not for men who preyed on women, and not at night. Sally would keep it that way.

Writing prompt #733

Local folklore.

[phonotactical]

Dialogue Scrap #2

"I'm only a dick to you when it's funny, all the other times I'm nice."

"You've said a total of 3 kind things to me in the last calendar year."

OPT: "Not my fault that it happens to be funny a lot!"

[phonotactical]

Dialogue Scrap #1

"Okay, so we don't necessarily have to view this as a negative thing..."

"In what other way could we view this? What kinda glasses are you wearing that let you see this differently?!"

Opt: "Well if you squint your eyes and tilt your head a little..."

[phonotactical]

Assassin Assimilation Pt. 1

Writing Prompt (paraphrased): You're a hitman who was told to "take care of the child, too". 10 years later, you begin to think that you may have misinterpreted the instructions. Having your work get deleted greatly eases the second draft process! The first was super wooden and boring, so I added in the conversation to make it more gripping. I'm playing around with removing the time jumps entirely and just having the protagonist tell the story all in "". Then again, I like the jumps from seeing how the main character acts vs how they think, so we'll see. TW: assassination, child abuse, foster care Word count: 1,954

-------------------------------- Dec 10th, 2012

With a sigh, I eased myself back into the easy chair, nursing my cup of hot chocolate. Across from me sat Auntie Maggy. In her late thirties, she was a strong decade older than me, and the smile lines that marked her eyes reinforced that look.

She took an appreciate sip of her tea, flinching in shock as she scalded her mouth slightly. Blowing into my cup, I smirked at her.

"Careful, I think it might be a touch warm."

With a mock glare, she too began blowing over her cup, steam fogging up her glasses. She may have several degrees in various psychological fields, and two of them may be doctorate-level, but sometimes she does still prove that she's as normal as I am.

"Thank you, I'd gathered," she shot back airily. "So, just a standard debrief for today?"

With a sigh, I set my cup down. "To start with, probably." With a ritual cadence, I intoned, as I had once a month for the better part of the last decade, "Seven days ago, I killed someone. But this time," I added, leaning forward.

"I took pride in it."

--------------------------------

Dec 3rd, 2012

The parking garage was strangely full. In a vacuum, that would have been odd. Luckily, I'd had the foresight to consider that the looming Christmas deadline would lead to more people staying late, making the surrounding office buildings look lively yet lonely.

I'd parked my four-door sedan parallel to the horizontal wire railing overlooking the main entrance to the theater. Soft snow had been falling for some hours, leaving the ground outside coated in a thin and crunchy layer.

"That's a double-edged sword," I muttered to myself, "it'll be harder to find the direction of any sound, but it'll be like shooting through rain."

I leaned back, resting my shoulder blades against the rear door on the driver's side. My left leg was bent up and I was balancing a notebook on my knee, scribbling vectors and windspeeds on it as I studied the flakes drifting slowly past the opposite window.

"Talking to yourself is a surefire sign of something, no doubt about that." Sighing, I boxed my answer and dropped my left hand into the footwell. Keeping my eyes fixed on the red carpet several hundred meters away, I twisted my hand deftly. Turning the knob minutely, I felt the crisp clicks more than I heard them.

Satisfied, I raised the binoculars in my right hand and settled in to the scene some more.

--------------------------------

Dec 10th, 2012

"As jobs go, it was pretty cut and dry. They'd already planned most of it out, they just needed a triggerman with a little creativity."

As I took a sip of the now warm chocolate, Maggy asked the same question she always did. "Who was the target?"

I recited the details precisely as if reading off a teleprompter. "The target was a five foot ten, one hundred and seventy-five pound Caucasian male with slightly tan skin. Short cropped black hair with brown eyes. Notable features include a scar on the right side of his lip."

In reply, she simply raised her eyebrow and took a sip of her own drink.

Undeterred, I continued. "The target was a businessman of regional fame, noted for his openness regarding his inability to father children. This had resulted in a larger than usual volume of press coverage, exacerbated by the recent adoption of an orphaned girl, Alya."

I'd memorized the file in the 45 minutes I was given, before the electronic copy encrypted itself, destroyed itself, and then encrypted the remains.

"And what was he like?"

Leaning back, I let the tension out of my shoulders as I'd unconsciously come to attention. Huffing out a breath, I looked past her as I considered the question.

"Nothing provided, but from my own research, it seems like people won't be sad to see him go. The majority of the public saw the whole infertile thing as a ploy to get press time. That's the same crowd that accused him of adopting Alya as a trophy daughter."

Sniffing haughtily, I set my cup down, saying, "I guess they're right about some things."

--------------------------------

Dec 3rd, 2012

From my position, I was looking right down the red carpet, with the paparazzi off to my left. The carpet extended down the steps and carried on for about fifteen meters before reaching the driveway. Large stadium lights had been erected in strategic locations to adequately illuminate the area.

The first guests stepped out and flashes immediately started flickering. Taking my queue, I rolled the far window down and grabbed my rifle. I slid my feet backward and forward until my knees were pressed together, forming two legs of a triangle. I rested my rifle in the gap and aimed down the scope.

Situated like this, the muzzle of the rifle was safely inside the cab of the car, so the flash and crack from firing would be contained. I turned the scope on, switching it to thermals. This illuminated all the hot bodies a bright white, and the snow a deep purple.

The flakes continued to drift past, making the image blur slightly. After a couple of minutes, the doors to the theater were thrown open and a general hubbub spread outward from them. Flashes were clicking non-stop, eager to catch any glimpse they could of the target and Alya, who'd been kept away from the public eye for the last three years.

The pair descended the steps, hand in hand, before turning to face the cameras. They held still for a few moments before turning again to continue down the carpet. As they finished their turn, every stadium light turned off, turning the almost day-like bright into pitch darkness.

For a moment, nobody moved as shouts rang out. The moment the light had fully vanished, I pressed the trigger. I was aiming for just to my left of the target's pocket square, but between the slight wind that had picked up and the falling snow, I put the bullet through the top button of his suit jacket.

The medical examiner later confirmed that the target had felt no pain, as the bullet tore through his heart, killing him before his brain could process it.

Alya's shot was far easier. She still hadn't begun to move, and I had to be far less precise. The round took her in the stomach, stinging like a bee sting. I know that because I'd tested it on myself. An associate of mine had modified veterinary tranquilizer darts to fit into my rifle. They hurt, but were fast acting and would leave a scar no bigger than she would have gotten falling off a swing set.

As the lights went off, so did one of the press's cameras. He swung the strap off his head and dropped the unit into his messenger bag. When he pulled his hand out, he was holding a black helmet with a night vision monocular mounted on the front.

Strapping it on, he stepped over the press barrier and scooped up Alya before fading back into the crowd. As he punched through the line, every light came back on at full brightness. In fact, they came on so quickly that they exploded in a shower of sparks, leaving the open area echoing with bangs.

I saw none of this, of course. Alya had barely slumped to the ground before my rifle was stowed and I was behind the wheel, driving sedately away. I'd continue to drive until I was several hours away, leaving me and my sedan nowhere near the scene of the crime.

--------------------------------

Dec 10th, 2012

"And how did you feel throughout this process?"

"Cold. Seattle in the winter bites." I paused to consider, knowing my response wasn't what she wanted. "I felt okay. His employees were either indifferent or hostile, and his company hadn't done a good thing in living memory. Nature abhors a vacuum, but I'm pretty sure whoever fills his spot will be better, at least for a time."

"Of course, this job was different than any other, wasn't it?"

--------------------------------

Dec 3rd, 2012

I've killed children before. My already substantial fee triples to do it, and I always reserve the right to capture and relocate, but I've had to do it. Normally, the client would express regret, "I wish I didn't have to ask you to do this, but...". They're a loose end, they've seen too much, and the reasons go on. Clients are normally preoccupied with the target and devote little time or energy to their dependents, so I normally only receive information about them in the form of a footnote in the target's profile.

This was the first job where I felt like the real target was the dependent. The size of the file gave it away. Alya's life story was mapped out across numerous pages, each of which was a photocopy of some official document or another. Psychologists, pediatricians, teachers, if an adult who'd cared for her had written their thoughts down, it was in there. The target was given one page, and even that was sparse, the margins generous.

I don't know why I even took the job. Killing people for money is a pretty dead-end job if you pardon my pun. I don't know why the client picked me for this, rather than numerous child protection agencies. But, despite my misgivings, pick me they did.

The Sparknotes version of her life story is rather sad and considerably longer than it should be, given that she was ten on the night of the job. Born to Eastern European immigrants who were killed by a drunk driver when she was five, she was bounced around foster homes and orphanages for three years. Her official reports showed a remarkable lack of empathy, noting her "standoffishness," and "inability to socialize".

Of course, the target got wind of this shortly after making headlines and saw a way to keep his name in the spotlight, so he adopted her. The next three years were a special kind of hell, as attested to by the report cards. Failing multiple classes every year through fourth grade was one thing. Being "combative, inattentive, and disrespectful to authority," was another.

The light in her life was one psychologist. The moment she got adopted, she started regularly seeing one "Mary Leanine", a privately practicing, postdoc with a welcoming face and kind eyes.

--------------------------------

Dec 10th, 2012

"A face that was very familiar to me," I said dryly, "maybe because I'd been confessing murder to her for a little under ten years."

Continuing, I said, "Who thought my high school trauma counselor would one day land across my desk."

--------------------------------

Dec 3rd, 2012

It seems like Alya adored Mary and felt a certain kindred spirit in her. The inattentiveness and all other issues lessened as Alya felt understood and loved for the first time. Unfortunately, if you read the reports carefully, your keen eye would spot a pattern.

Trouble in paradise is what led to me being hired. It seems like someone got ahold of Dr. Leanine's reports and saw the same thing I did. A pattern of abuse, largely stemming from Alya's fear of publicity and the press, marked her life.

Little bits and pieces throughout hundreds of reports began to slowly add together. Bruises, offhand comments, and a certain air of fear surrounding her new father evidently led my client to take matters into their own hands.

Why he chose me to kill him was obvious. Why he didn't take her back to Eastern Europe afterward is beyond me.

After all, what kind of uncle would want a hitman to raise his niece?

[phonotactical]

The Coward's Way Out

Prompt: You've been branded a "coward". It's a respected military role. When your team's mission fails, you must survive and escape at all costs to inform the headquarters of what happened.

Okay, so I kinda ran away with this one, although I have a more modern take that I might work with that's significantly grittier. Mercy killing levels of grittier. But for now, enjoy a Greatcoats/Ranger's Apprentice/Tales of The Kin esque story!

I ran down the castle hallway, nocking an arrow to my bow as I went. A few steps from the intersection, I spun and loosed my arrow, as graceful as a ballroom dancer. Just a touch pointier. I was around the corner before it had taken the guard in the meat of his thigh, causing him to stumble. His momentum carried him one step more before he crumpled to his knees, causing those behind him to trip.

It really is a shame he didn't notice the packet of chemicals right behind the head of the arrow. I let out a small chuckle of satisfaction as I heard the series of loud pops and flashes of light, accompanied by the shouts of surprise from the now slightly deaf and blind castle guards.

Catching up to the other five members of my team, I shout out orders, a string of words in a series of languages. After Windfall, we'd learned that telling the whole establishment where we were going tended to have distinct negative consequences.

Despite our dedication to cardio, we couldn't find a way out. Between the defendable nature of the castle and the sheer volume of guards, we ended up slipping through a door made out of solid and gleaming wood.

Stepping inside, we immediately heaved a bookshelf in front of the door, hoping that the weighty nature of Laopite's The Intricacies of Modern Agronimy would buy us some time.

My chest heaving, I turned to study the room. The first thing of note was the large window on the far wall. Really, it was several huge panes of glass that formed an upside down T, showing a grand vista of the setting sun over the forest.

The left and right walls were covered in equally large bookshelves, meticulously organized and cared for. In the corner to our right, there was a low fire burning with several easy chairs spread in a circle around it.

The Lieutenant, having completed his own survey of the room, turned to address me.

"I take it there's a good reason we're holed up in the Baron's study?"

I nodded and said, "It seemed like a good time to take the Coward's Way."

"And what's that involve in this castle?" He asked, studying the walls closer, expecting to see a hidden doorway or a secret passage.

"A third-story window and a moat," I replied promptly.

He blinked several times before shaking his head and looking pointedly at me. "I thought Coward's Ways were supposed to be subtle--carefully guarded secrets. You can see that window from the front gate!"

"It's not the window that's the key part of the Way. It's the moat. When you get in the water, you'll sink. Take a deep breath and stay under the surface." I replied, moving to the desk. A firm believer in the fact that actions mean more than words, I grabbed a paperweight off the Baron's desk and hurled it through the window.

The glass shattered outward, leaving a few jagged pieces in the frame behind. Using the hilt of my dagger, I cleared them away and stuck my head out the window, studying the drop. Gilman joined me before shaking his head and backing away.

"Looks like a godsdamned death trap, not a Way!"

"Oh potato tomato," I huffed out, "jump out the damn window!"

The Lieutenant appeared to hold a similar belief about actions and backed a few paces away from the desk, saying "We trust Coward. Standard order, 8-second intervals," before running at the desk, kipping off it, and diving out the window.

35 seconds later I heard the door start to shift and saw the bookcase tilt as people through their weight against it from the other side.

37 seconds later I felt the floor shake as the bookcase slammed down.

40 seconds later I felt the hard surface of the desk leave my feet and found myself hurtling towards the moat boots first.

Being a Coward is supposed to be simple. When the going gets tough, the tough get going, et cetera and so forth. The more superstitious folk tell stories that we're sorcerers who can open portals and walk through other worlds. It's been said that we know Ways out of our own graves. We're called the Guides Out of Hell for a reason.

The truth is that when you combine a network of spies with several generations of paranoid kings and devious robbers, you end up with a kingdom reminiscent of a rabbit warren. All it takes is someone with a bit of dedication and resources and you end up with a group of people who can virtually ensure the safe exit of a small force out of any building built in the last 300 years.

As my feet hit the water and, a few moments later, the brick bottom of the moat, I opened my eyes. I cast my eyes around, looking for the soft green light of glowmoss. Spotting it a few meters away, I frogkick towards it. I gesture the others over, motioning for each of them to grab my belt. Feeling their hands take hold, I push my hand against the moss twist it in a specific pattern of sharp, jerky motions, and feel the mechanism move smoothly.

Clanking and grinding noises permeated the water, shortly before the bricks underneath us opened and we fell a little over 6 feet onto a fine metal grate. The water rushed past us through the floor as we all did our best to not break our ankles.

The trick to falling and not getting hurt is to roll, it distributes the force. The trick to falling and not getting hurt while standing elbow to elbow with 5 other people is a lot of practice doing said rolls.

They all rolled forwards and outwards, away from me, and I rolled backward after Gilman, the tallest. This left us in a star formation, dripping wet and panting, but safe. I reached into a pouch on my belt and pulled out a glowtorch.

Inside the knurled handle was a small clump of glowmoss. Small metal reflectors directed and focused the glow, leaving a weak but usable beam that I cast around the small, brick-walled room. Above us, there was one last groan as the mechanism fell silent.

I pointed the beam through an archway on the far wall and said, "In about a kilometer there's a ladder going up. We'll come out about a hundred meters from the edge of the forest."

Chuffing out a breath, Gilman glanced at me and said, "Guess you pray to different gods than I do. How's the package, Loo?"

The Lieutenant reached into his coat and withdrew the waterproof oilskin sack he'd hung under his arm. Opening it, we could see the gleaming metal of the Baron's signet ring as well as some miscellaneous jewelry.

"Huh, looks a lot less impressive like that," Gilman remarked, "but worth it," he added.

"Worth it for sure. And besides," I drawled, "these might sweeten the pot."

So saying, I pulled out 6 necklaces from my own oilskin sack, each studded with a different precious stone, and dumped them into the bag.

Everyone exclaimed all at once, but all their noises were trumped by Gilman's, "You stole the six necklaces of Andahar?"

"Yes, I did. And I have a fence set up already. They're offering ten thousand royals. Each."

The shocked faces of my comrades gave me all the satisfaction I needed as I turned on my heel and set off down the tunnel, glowtorch beam bobbing.

What can I say, Cowards are valuable people to have.

[phonotactical]

About me

Largely putting this here to prove I'm real.

This a personal page for storing my writing (which will be TWed for NSFW when applicable). If you like what I write, great! If not, great! I likely don't either, so feel free to join the club.

I've a variety of hobbies that result in me leaving the house about as frequently as you'd imagine. I'm a university student studying computers and a few other things somewhere in the northern Midwest.

I'm not a sociopath, I got tested <3.

If you want to comment, reblog, like, critique, etc, go for it! My abilities to self-edit are reliant on motivation, and having strangers judge you is essentially an infinite well of that.