- 55 Summer 511
Caspian knocks once-twice on the door, considers a third time, but doesn’t in the course of his noting, with dismay, that the present drizzle is becoming outright rain, and has also begun to creep in through the cracks of the well-worn soles of his shoes.
Tucked beneath his arm is a bundle of hide, wrapped tightly with cord. Despite its somewhat cumbersome size it’s deceptively light, and he suspects not for the first time since leaving the house that there is, in fact, nothing inside it, and his stepfather Taaldros had sent him out with an armful of air for the sake of a laugh.
No one has yet to come to the door. He knocks again, and a long tick later, a panel in the door slides open, revealing a pair of suspicious and glaring eyes.
“Who’s there?” the voice on the other end gruffs out. The eyes spot the package under his arm and narrow. “What’s that?”
“Delivery,” Caspian says bluntly. “I’m looking for -“ He draws a slip of paper from his pocket and holds the name printed upon it up for inspection.
The eyes crinkle further.
Caspian wonders what the rest of his face looks like.
“Come on,” he says, shifting from foot to foot, grimacing at the audible squelches. “It’s pouring and I’m pretty sure both you and I have other things we’d rather be doing.”
The panel shuts.
Swearing, Caspian bangs on the door with his fist. Just as he’s about to let out a string of colorful curses he overheard last night outside a sailors’ bar, the panel slides open again.
“Go ‘round the back,” the mysterious man snaps.
Caspian gives the door a farewell kick for good measure.
To the left of the house is an alley. He peers down into the dark, squinting past the falling rain, and casts a look over his shoulder. It would be a sorry way to die, getting cornered between rows of bricks. But no one’s lurking, as far as he can tell, and taking one last breath of fresh(er) air, he heads in.
At the end of the alley is a broken lamppost; fortunately it’s not yet so dark that he’s roaming blind, and now at the end of the alley he can make out two nondescript doors.
He stares between them. Both lead to the building with the man of dubious origin and intent. For no particular reason, he knocks on the door on the right.
No response.
He sighs impatiently, and just as he’s about to knock again, the door on the left that he hadn’t tried suddenly swings open.
A somewhat hunched women with her bedraggled hair carelessly gathered beneath a frayed bonnet appears, fixing him with a look he can’t quite parse.
“Sorry -“ he begins stiltedly, “I’m looking for -“
As he fishes for the slip of parchment, her hand darts out, snagging him by the wrist and dragging him inside.
Shouting amounts to very little, and with surprising force she shoves him further into the room and slams the door behind her.
Caspian stumbles to the floor, knees and elbows cracking painfully against cold concrete. To his credit - not that Taaldros would bother giving him any - he doesn’t drop the bundle, even as he fumbles and springs to his feet. He scrabbles at his waist for his dagger, raising it to the level of his eye, and nearly drops it at the bewildering sight before him.
There are at least two dozen people in the room, maybe three, lining the walls and shouting incoherently. A torch is staked in each corner, illuminating their wild, enraptured faces.
Someone shoves him forward into the ring.
“Aaaand... entering from the southwestern corner! Contender! Number! Five!”
WC: 626
Tucked beneath his arm is a bundle of hide, wrapped tightly with cord. Despite its somewhat cumbersome size it’s deceptively light, and he suspects not for the first time since leaving the house that there is, in fact, nothing inside it, and his stepfather Taaldros had sent him out with an armful of air for the sake of a laugh.
No one has yet to come to the door. He knocks again, and a long tick later, a panel in the door slides open, revealing a pair of suspicious and glaring eyes.
“Who’s there?” the voice on the other end gruffs out. The eyes spot the package under his arm and narrow. “What’s that?”
“Delivery,” Caspian says bluntly. “I’m looking for -“ He draws a slip of paper from his pocket and holds the name printed upon it up for inspection.
The eyes crinkle further.
Caspian wonders what the rest of his face looks like.
“Come on,” he says, shifting from foot to foot, grimacing at the audible squelches. “It’s pouring and I’m pretty sure both you and I have other things we’d rather be doing.”
The panel shuts.
Swearing, Caspian bangs on the door with his fist. Just as he’s about to let out a string of colorful curses he overheard last night outside a sailors’ bar, the panel slides open again.
“Go ‘round the back,” the mysterious man snaps.
Caspian gives the door a farewell kick for good measure.
To the left of the house is an alley. He peers down into the dark, squinting past the falling rain, and casts a look over his shoulder. It would be a sorry way to die, getting cornered between rows of bricks. But no one’s lurking, as far as he can tell, and taking one last breath of fresh(er) air, he heads in.
At the end of the alley is a broken lamppost; fortunately it’s not yet so dark that he’s roaming blind, and now at the end of the alley he can make out two nondescript doors.
He stares between them. Both lead to the building with the man of dubious origin and intent. For no particular reason, he knocks on the door on the right.
No response.
He sighs impatiently, and just as he’s about to knock again, the door on the left that he hadn’t tried suddenly swings open.
A somewhat hunched women with her bedraggled hair carelessly gathered beneath a frayed bonnet appears, fixing him with a look he can’t quite parse.
“Sorry -“ he begins stiltedly, “I’m looking for -“
As he fishes for the slip of parchment, her hand darts out, snagging him by the wrist and dragging him inside.
Shouting amounts to very little, and with surprising force she shoves him further into the room and slams the door behind her.
Caspian stumbles to the floor, knees and elbows cracking painfully against cold concrete. To his credit - not that Taaldros would bother giving him any - he doesn’t drop the bundle, even as he fumbles and springs to his feet. He scrabbles at his waist for his dagger, raising it to the level of his eye, and nearly drops it at the bewildering sight before him.
There are at least two dozen people in the room, maybe three, lining the walls and shouting incoherently. A torch is staked in each corner, illuminating their wild, enraptured faces.
Someone shoves him forward into the ring.
“Aaaand... entering from the southwestern corner! Contender! Number! Five!”
WC: 626
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