#catch me on ao3 guys gals and nb pals

[post-nuclear-sweetheart]

A Scoundrel’s Folly

Patches makes good, or at least tries to, on an old favour.

(2384 words)

-

“Why-“ Patches took a moment to pant out a few breaths, and rub away the blood leaking from his split cheek. “Why’d you do that? You could’ve been killed, you sorry fool.”

“I know,” the hunched over pale man with a peculiar hat covering his face said. “but you looked to have been in a tight spot. The name is Greirat.” He offered his hand to the bald man laid out against a box in the small fort ruins. His hat obscured every facial feature - even the eye holes sloppily cut out of the hat seemed to be blacked out.

Patches reached to shake his hand, but noticed Greirat held out a knitted handkerchief instead. “You can call me Patches.” He held the handkerchief over his cut. “I owe ya.”

That small memory flashed through Patches’ mind when the Ashen One approached him, asking if their little scavenger Greirat had returned.

“Not curled up in the dankest part of the sanctuary, is he?” Patches offered his suggestion on where he could be instead. The Ashen One shook their head, and said that Greirat had gone to Irithyll.

Patches kept a neutral air about him and told the Ashen One to wait another day longer. Internally, Patches had been struck with the stomach-churning flash of extreme worry.

Patches was not one to promise the day to anyone, nor did he promise little acts of kindness, nor did he ever offer anything in return for nothing. Just the same, no one had ever gone out of their way to perform an act of kindness for him, and no one had offered something in return for nothing. All except Greirat. The selfless scavenger had risked his life without a second thought, all to save the arrogant troll who spent his days punishing people he saw fit to receive his wrath. He had chosen the wrong person to invoke his wrath upon, but by some miraculous force, Greirat saw Patches deserving of safety.

Not one to be tied to earthly debts, Patches offered to repay his by way of equal exchange. “You saved my hide, I’ll save yours.” he told him.

But there was one glaring issue with the rescue plan. He was fresh out of armour. “God’s blood,” he muttered in disbelief to himself as he searched through his inventory of goods for any shred of sturdy enough armour. “I must have sold it off.”

The leather armour he currently wore wouldn’t be enough to withstand any blow dealt by the tyrannical Sulyvhan’s guard. It was, however, light enough to outrun Sulyvhan’s pup, as he affectionately referred to it, that guarded the bridge into Irithyll.

“Well,” he continued to speak to himself as he rubbed his chin. “maybe I’ll come across some dead fool’s armour…” He shook his head. No, no that was a terrible idea - relying on luck like that. The memory flashed through his head again, and the realization that Greirat wore nothing more but tattered cloth made Patches grind his teeth with indecision. If the skinny man can wear just scraps and throw his life on the line like that, so can the better built man.

“Alright, you don’t do it now and he dies, then-“ Patches groaned to himself. “-you’ll be stuck taking that debt to your grave.”

He paced back and forth before the mountain of items he had accumulated. “Fuck.” He swore. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, mother- fuck!” His voice raised with each word, until it echoed loud enough to startle the Firekeeper and Hawkwood out of his usual melancholic haze.

It was settled. He would attempt a rescue mission. With the souls he scrounged up, he paid a visit to the Shrine Maiden who had more than a few witty remarks. He ignored her abrasiveness for now and bought a few items he thought would make up for the lack of protection; green blossoms, a birch branch, and other such items.

He said not a single word to anyone. He brushed past the Firekeeper who, although without vision, watched on as the secretive man finally left the shrine.

-

The journey to Irithyll was one he took several times. He knew the ins and outs of the roads and where most hollowed undead hung about. Each time he was faced with the conundrum of taking the bridge and facing the beast, or scaling the perilous, slippery rocks down to the river and freezing.

From his vantage point among the pine trees that sprouted out from the top of the cliffs, Patches crouched low and watched as the alligator maw of the patrolling beast would spark up every now and again with lightning. He couldn’t help but shiver at the thought of going toe-to-toe with that ghastly beast. He had seen the way lightning burns before. It leaves jagged and black flesh in its wake, with skin still hot to the touch. Nothing like the burning of flames.

As arrogant as he was, Patches wasn’t an idiot. He settled for the slippery cliff, instead.

The slick, ice coated steps that lead into the water on the other side of the river would bring him up through the underworld of Irithyll. No doubt Greirat was looting the houses that contained no end of priceless pieces belonging to nobility.

Patches managed to scale down the cliff side without slipping, and slowly entered the water. Despite being undead, he could still feel the cold biting at his flesh and the numb sensation settle in his toes. He clenched his teeth as tight as he possibly could, and began to wade through the thigh deep water along the bank toward the steps across the way.

The sound of splashing water caught Patches’ attention. It was much more erratic and louder than the water he pushed around with his steps.

“What-“

The ground began to rumble, vibrating the water that stretched all across the river. The ear-piercing sound of what sounded like harsh wind blowing through a small slit resounded just behind Patches. He spun as quickly as he could in the semi-frozen water, and behind him the canine-like beast, twice the size of a human with a long snout filled with sharp teeth, stood on its hind legs. It inhaled, and at the back of its throat sparks of blinding light crackled.

Patches dove under the water, the lightning narrowly missing his head and instead hit the water, scattering all along the surface. Sparing no time, Patches kicked and thrashed his arms wildly in an attempt to swim out from the beast’s legs submerged in the water. He broke the surface with a gasp.

His movements weren’t quick enough, and a tooth of the beast caught Patches’ arm, flinging him through the air. A bloody gash was left behind. Patches landed on a chunk of solid ice floating in the water, close to the archway of the city’s undercroft.

The undercroft. That’s it!

The forceful landing knocked the air out of him, but he knew he didn’t have much time to recover. He rolled off the ice and into the water again, his arm stinging terribly. He ran through the water, skipping awkwardly to get above the thigh high sloshing. Just as he entered, the hot breath of the beast blew at the back of his neck. Patches dove for cover in the water as another bolt of lightning shot just above his head. He crawled through the water, digging his fingers into the earth beneath to gain enough traction and quickly get out of harm’s way. He crawled for cover to the right of the archway tunnel, and out of the beast’s sights.

He held the cut on his arm firm and heaved as quietly as he could. He peeked out from the stone archway, just enough to spot the beast sticking its long maw into the tunnel, sniffing around. It stopped suddenly. It couldn’t fit.

Patches nearly fell over into the now knee deep water of the undercroft, and sighed in relief. He remained as still as he could until the beast finally got bored and left. He looked around the undercroft he escaped into. Pillars of stone arched over him, holding up the city above. Bent metal spikes that served as little barricades sat tipped over and some discarded in the water. Who knew what they were for, but near them plants grew. Lastly, he noticed long, thin white skeletal bodies of strange insect-like creatures with long black hair. They laid face down in the water, dead. Someone had been here before.

Patches pushed himself up along the stone wall he sat against and made his way toward what he saw was a set of stairs that lead up to an alcove that hosted a faint, warm light. He limped himself up the stairs, and saw that it wasn’t an alcove at all. It was a kitchen, with a massive fireplace that roared with flames, and sat cross-legged before the flames were two distinct silhouettes; a rotund body with what looked like a mug in hand across from a small, thin body with a strange long hat who also held a mug.

Greirat was the first to hear his footsteps, and turned in surprise. “Oh,” he certainly sounded startled. “hello there.” He saw Patches’ arm and shook his head. “What brings you out here? You’re injured.”

“What what? Someone’s hurt?” Siegward turned his head the best he could in his armour towards the steps to the undercroft. “Well come on in, then!” Siegward rocked his body back and forth a few times before gaining the momentum to roll forward onto his feet. Patches watched on as the round knight plucked a pewter mug off the counter across the room and filled it with a thick, glowing liquid that sat steaming in the cauldron beside it.

“Here you are, old boy. My famous estus soup!” Siegward didn’t allow Patches to refute and shoved the mug, filled to the brim with the hot glowing liquid, into his free hand. “Drink up! That will set you right as rain.”

Patches gave it an experimental sniff. It smelled delectable enough, then gave it a taste. It was the best thing he had ever tasted. Patches greedily downed the mug, and as he drank the pain faded into nothing.

“Say,” Siegward started. Patches hadn’t noticed he stood examining his figure. “don’t I know you from somewhere?”

“You’ve met the terrible Patches before, have you, Siegward?” Greirat teased from his place by the fire.

Siegward mulled Patches’ name over by repeating it, but Patches hurriedly intervened. “Can’t say I’ve come across you, old boy.” He mocked Siegward’s affectionate nickname. He pushed past Siegward, who remained lost in his memory. “Greirat!” Patches called loudly with his arms spread wide as he approached the warm fire. He was finally beginning to dry. “How’ve you been?”

“Better now.” He answered, but tilted his head. “Did that beast rough you up a bit?”

Patches scoffed at the notion. “What, you think Sulyvhan’s dog can get the better of ol’ Patches? Think again, friend.” Meanwhile, Siegward was audibly humming in thought now.

“That gash on your arm proved otherwise.” Greirat pointed out playfully. He held no ounce of malice in his voice.

Patches squatted low before the flames. “‘Tis but a scratch. All healed up now.” He took this moment to divert the conversation. “That Ashen Tart told me you’d been here a while.”

It was made clear to Greirat why Patches had come all this way. Greirat chuckled gleefully beneath the hat he wore over his face. “Oh, oh ho ho, I see.”

Patches furrowed his brow. “What you laughing at?”

“I’m tickled you would come all this way for the life of a lowly thief.”

“I- I did not!” Patches huffed and took a sip from his mug - only to remember he had drank it all. “Lots of goods out here in rich people’s homes.”

“You can lie better than that - I know it.”

Patches growled out, “What of it?”

“Ah!” Siegward snapped his fingers the best he could through his gloves, catching the other two men’s attention. “I remember where I met you, old boy.”

As Siegward approached, the urge to bolt grew in Patches. Instead, he feigned an uneasy grin. “Oh? Where’s that, then?”

“I had been made a fool of by someone with that same bald dome of yours-“

“Now wait just a minute-“

“-and they stole this very armour.” Siegward gestured to his body. “Dear Ashen One found it and tossed it in the well that dastardly con-artist pushed me down.”

Siegward stopped before his old spot by the fire, and took his seat. “Now if my memory serves correct, I believe that scoundrel took the same name. He even had that big nose of yours.”

Silence settled among the three. Patches eyed up the Zewihander strapped to Siegward’s back. He tried to look him in the eye, but the slit in his helmet was too tiny to properly tell what expression the usually jolly man possessed.

“But you came here for your friend, didn’t you?” Siegward finally inquired after several moments of silent tension. “No one can truly be bad if they journey far for their friend’s safety. All is forgiven, so long as you don’t do that again.”

Patches released the breath he didn’t know he held. “This bloke saved you, did he?”

Greirat nodded. “And what a tight spot I was in.” He said. “I was running from that ghastly beast and fled into that low space you came from. I was cornered by those monsters.”

“And I was in here, trying to take a well needed nap.” Siegward declared. “But then I heard all the commotion, and knew those spidered women had someone in their trap.”

“So I was too late. Ah well,” Patches sighed, but put on a playful smile. “suppose I still need to hold up my end of the bargain.” He said to Greirat.

“I think coming here for me is plenty payback. You and your conscious are off the hook - not that you have much of one to begin with.”

Silence settled among them once more as they stared into the fire. This time the air wasn’t hostile, but instead, peaceful.

“So,” Siegward interrupted the peaceful moment. “who wants more soup?”