A weapon is a weapon.
Which means I could opt for another, since Sable’s shadowood has no special effects against the noctis. But I wouldn’t. I tell myself it has nothing to do with her having once belonged to my mother and therefore being some kind of symbolic source of comfort, and instead assure myself it’s simply because I know where my strengths lay. I’m no good with short-ranged weapons. Knives and swords are awkward in my grasp, and my fists never pack as big of a punch as I mean for them to. But put me on a rooftop with a crossbow in my hands? I’ll be damned if I don’t hit every target I take aim at.
With Sable securely in my grasp, I go about gathering the rest of the supplies I’ll need for my run today. I fasten a leather belt around my waist and pluck one of the small vials it carries free from its chamber. I hold the glass up to my line of sight. Empty. I examine the others one by one, giving each vial a shake just to be sure none of the contents that should be there are hiding, but it’s to no avail.
“Fuck,” I mutter and glance to Sable where I have her wedged in the crook of my free arm. “How did we let this happen?”
Almost obligingly, the previous day plays out in my mind. How I’d used the last of my blood supply to bait a ghoul away from the brook on the outskirts of town long enough so I could finish washing my latest catch of fish. The plan had been to check my various traps and snares around town afterward, and therefore replenish my blood supply, but nightfall came faster than I’d anticipated, and Sable and I had to hurry back to our hovel before it became too dangerous out and about. For whatever reason, the ghouls are most active at night.
I cram the empty vial back into its slot.
“We need to check those traps today.” I try taking a deep breath to calm myself, but it doesn’t help. “Fuck! I was really hoping to focus on one of those jobs today.”
There’s a job board atFort Barretwith postings from the civilians who dwell there of special requests. Some of them you’d have to have a death wish to attempt, like breaking into a noctis stronghold to search for and free someone’s loved one whom they haven’t seen in months. I don’t bother with requests like those. They’re just a waste of everyone’s time, and needlessly put my life on the line on a fool’s errand. But there are others, people in need of a bushel of arrowroot, protection for newcomers traveling into town, or finding lost family heirlooms that have just been sitting in dust-covered houses in neighboring villages. It’s one of the ways I trade for goods, plus it helps the long, quiet days go by.
Closing my eyes, I massage the sharp twinge pinching between my eyebrows. “Blood first. Everything else can wait.”
Or more importantly, everyoneelse. Soon the people will turn to other mercenaries to finish their jobs for them, and I’ll have to find someone else to barter with. These raggedy boots aren’t going to re-sole themselves…
It’s a tough decision, one that could cost me, but it’s the only option I have. Wandering around the streets of Gravenburg without any vials of blood falls smack dab into the category of rookie mistakes that I no longer permit myself to make. In my years of survival, I’ve learned a few hard lessons. I’ve lost track of the number of ghouls I’ve slain with this crossbow, but I distinctly remember each and every one of the noctis, for every time I’ve faced one of them it could’ve been avoided.
Six. In a whole decade, I’ve had to kill six noctis because I was careless.
They don’t make it easy. So rarely do they travel alone anymore that it’s usually safer just to hide when I see any. Even when I do find the odd noctis on a solo hunt, I can never be certain there isn’t another nearby, somewhere just out of view, waiting for someone like me to make the wrong choice and reveal myself. It’s usually not worth the risk to shoot one unless my life depends on it. And, as a general rule, I don’t like getting myself into those kinds of situations.
It has happened, though. Six times, to be exact.
Once when I forgot to walk quietly on a road in shambles with far too much gravel and debris to be wandering about. Another time when I was careless in my assessment of my surroundings and hadn’t seen the bloodred eyes blinking from the shadows. Then there was the evening I stayed out later than I should’ve, and the time I became too bold and greedy on a supply run. Once when I ran when I should’ve remained hidden.
And, then of course, the day I stopped caring whether I lived or died. We all have one of those days. A story about our darkest moment and how we overcame it. It’s not a day I care to remember often, but it is one that taught me the most. The noctis who came and was more than willing to finish the job made me realize that I was done being a victim who could be robbed of my life at any given moment. It taught me that I was done making avoidable mistakes. No more lapses in judgment. That was the promise I made myself. This life? It might not be much of an existence, but it’s still better than not having one at all.
That’s what I keep telling myself anyway. Thingshaveto change. Some day. Someone will eventually find a cure or an immunity, or maybe we’ll get lucky and someone will find a way to obliterate every single monster.
Whoever it is to make the discovery, I want to be around when it happens. I want to be alive long enough to see what Arcathain had been like in its glory before it became the lie of theUnitedRealm. Before the noctis. Before the demons.
I want to know what this world was like before it was cast in the shadows of monsters.
And so, I shove all thoughts from my mind and focus on the present. On the near-silent thud of my door closing behind me as I exit the false safety of my hovel. On the narrow, grey corridors I slink through, looking for any signs of life—or lack thereof. On the dank stench in the air, and the pockets that reek of gore, decaying skin, and rot.
I move through the streets of Gravenburg like a cat prowls through the night. I know the safest paths, the spots that require precise footing, and the best places to hide in case a predator comes lurking. And I leave all thoughts of job boards, my dead mother, and the notion of a cure back in my hovel.
No distractions. Not while I’m outside.
There are jobs to complete. Traps to check. Food to find. Ghouls to slaughter. And hopefully, if I play my cards right, I’ll make it back home without spotting a single noctis.
I’m already deep into the city when something as cold as a dead man’s finger taps my nose. The wet pitter-patter of rain plays a macabre melody that draws me to a complete stop.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” My glare falls from the grey clouds clogging the sky down to the menacing, almost taunting, gleam of Sable’s shadowood. “You couldn’t have warned me?”
Sable knows better than anyone just how much I loathe the rain, even if she is just a crossbow. But only she was there the day I hid beneath the floorboards of my home as Hulbeck fell. Only she witnessed the showers of blood that splattered everything in a grotesque hue of red. Only she saw me days later when I dragged myself out from underneath the floor, my hair and face crusted with the blood of a dozen pour souls.
I don’t just merely hate the rain. It makes me want to dive into the nearest lake and scrub my skin raw until I can no longer feel their blood.
It takes me less time than the last rainfall to gather myself, to remember that I’m standing in the middle of a Gravenburg street and recall the work I have left to do.
“Stupid!”
I curse myself, ducking into a small cave of rubble nearby. I should’ve noticed the signs, should’ve paid closer attention to the darkening clouds when I left. Not only does the rain repulse me, but it’s not exactly a friend to stealth either. It dulls my ability to hear. Rain leaves puddles that, in turn, create tracks that the noctis—and maybe even the ghouls—are capable of following.
