A Record of Ash & Ruin: The Grieving Lands

Book 3: Chapter 36: Jealousy

The thorn in one’s foot is of greater concern than the knife in another’s guts.

- A Quassian Aphorism.

You have gained 1 Luck.

Such simple words, bound with so much meaning. It was a hint, as strong as any, that I was on the right path. The universe itself was bending over backwards for me.

Or a sign that I had avoided a most unfortunate outcome. Regardless, my outlook remained optimistic. I've always been the type to see the glass as half full.

Bounding up the stairs, sometimes two or three at a time, I was on the verge of whistling, my spirits high. Despite the unsettling and bewildering moment experienced upon touching the stone, I was, on the whole, quite pleased with myself. The game seemed to have presented me with what appeared to be a chain quest. Should I manage to see it through, the rewards promised to be significant. Already quite monetarily rewarding, I realized, thinking on the few valuable notes I received..

In a rather tangential, yet valuable, learning experience, the Necromancer's impromptu experiment with various holy books had shed some light on the lore of this world. In particular, I had learned something about the various gods and divine beings who vied against one another.

It proved to be quite enlightening, albeit a touch perilous at the outset. The whips of bone had been intimidating, though, I believe they served more of a distraction while the Necromancer prepared a more damaging spell. I would have to learn more tact in dealing with him in the future.

Climbing back to the ground floor, I scanned the area for a familiar face. A sudden tap on my shoulder caused me to whirl around in surprise. It was Zariyah, her expression a blend of mild concern and playfulness.

I saw a veritable armory descending the stairs and feared you might have kicked over another hornet's nest, she chided, her brows knitting together in an endearingly worrisome way.

“Worry not, all is well,” I assured her with a grin, only causing her to look even more concerned.

In truth, I wanted to lift her up and spin her around in joy. Only my reserve and society’s expectations stopped me. It could, however, not stop the stupid smile that was spreading wider across my face.

“Hey, lady… who’s that?” interrupted a voice followed by some raucous cheers.

The smile froze on my face, and my few moments of joy shattered like brittle glass.

A group of typical adventurers, looking as if they had stepped off the pages of a poorly written fantasy novel, sat drinking around a table. Raising cups, mugs, and tankards in raucous joy, they were singing some awful-sounding ditty. A grimace stole over me, as a red-haired female of their group drunk from a helm, with a spastic grin on her face. I would have found the scene amusing were it not for weapons at their belts, or the ones leaning against the table.

They would not take no for an answer, she shot at me guiltily. Was there a hint of a smile on her lips? Of course, there was.

Seconds later, she had rejoined this rag-tag group, all bright-eyed and in good cheer.

I had come from a struggle, my life hanging in the balance, as I defied the gods. Now I returned, only to find the person who was supposed to be waiting for me was instead partying with a bunch of lugger louts.

“Come over and finish your drink! But you don’t have to bring your friend!” a handsome blonde man with chiseled clean-cut features shouted out in our direction. “Just joking and yanking your chain! You can drink with us, but buy your own! You got to be a troublemaker like to have old Ezlas after you so soon! An’ let me tell you all of that time when I fought a Watcher, single-handed and the like,” he exclaimed, slapping on the table with good cheer, ignoring the chorus of forced groans from his friends.

“Lay orf with that worn tale, Guy!” a dwarf grumbled good-naturedly with no real malice.

Jealousy danced with my natural aversion for the likes of Guy. People were drawn naturally to types like those. Like butterflies to beautiful flowers. The perfect ones. The lucky ones. Put on a pedestal by those who sought to worship them and, high on their own popularity, they soon learn to get exactly what they want. Every now and again they would dole out a kind word or a small deed, and, like Mana from heaven, people licked it up. Men, and women, like Guy, reveled in the natural order of society that bent itself to serve their whims. Insufferable.

Was I overthinking things?

Guy reached for Zariyah, grabbing her. She put up only a token of resistance as he laughed and deposited her on his lap. Hate, that irrational and constant friend, flared hot and high.

“We were just leaving,” I delivered flatly through gritted teeth.

“Come now… you are in the company of friends! We could all meet our end tomorrow. Best to live it now!” wheedled Guy, catching my eye in challenge as he bounced Zariyah on his lap. The girl coyly covered her mouth, stifling a silent giggle. The man knew exactly what he was doing.

If it was not one thing, it was another.

“You know better than be a causing trouble again. Your silliness has been costing us our proper place up the ranks… stuck on Bronze for far too long because of the likes of you. Leave things be an’ let her go, you moon-kissed loon,” warned the dwarf grumbling.

Thank you master dwarf, I whispered to myself. Thank you.

I took the time to look over the group, trying to ingrain their features upon my memory. The temptation to use Identify was there, but I was still leery of it since my encounter with the Necromancer. It would do me well also to keep in mind that not all conflict should be solved with the simplest of methods, though tempting it was.

I weighed my options.

A group of five, the first was the current object of my ire, the blonde man, Guy, in a heavy coat of chain. The redhead was wearing civilian clothing, a tight yellow-stained blouse, and a pair of garish loose blue trousers. Her clothes were stained, recently doused in fresh drink, and I could see the wet cloth clinging to a rather muscular frame. If I was in a generous mood I could have admitted she was vaguely attractive.

The dwarf was black of hair, a long braided beard trailing down past his portly waist. His demeanor, typical of his race, added a certain gravity to his presence. Even garbed in thick gray robes, I still noticed the telltale hints of armor underneath.

The remaining three were enigmatic, their features so common it was challenging to remember them. Perhaps siblings, they shared the same dull brown hair, dull brown eyes, and average nondescript features. I found it hard to commit them to memory. Like the sotted redhead, they were in civilian attire, garbed in dull reds with the loose clothes of the local cut.

“Perhaps the lady wants to stay a bit longer?” ventured Guy, as he downed some more of his drink with his free hand.

“And perhaps you would like to make an enemy of a Magister of the Guild,” I tried to say, coolly, of course.

Before he could splutter a response, the trio decided to add their opinions on the matter.

“We saw…” one of them started.

“…him go down,” continued another.

“Ezlas not soon after…” said the last one.

“A stormcloud of anger is Ezlas. Scary man,” the first again commented.

“Old man Ezlas was thunder,” added the second one.

“This one is not afraid. We think he is a friend of the dark one. Do not press. Do not,” they begged together, at last, their voices in disturbing harmony.

Though their speech was annoying and disjointed, I still couldn’t help but sneer as they made my case for me.

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“Oh Aye, let it be, Guy. I’ll treat ya lad later for a tumble and turn at the best house in the Flower Quarter. S’not worth it mate,” rumbled the companion dwarf in warning.

“That is rather an insult to the lady, comparing her lovely company to a common whore. We have just met, but I certainly must say I feel a certain something for this one. The eyes are of an enchanting shade,” he drawled, tracing a line down her inner thigh. As his fingers sought their destination, she met my gaze with a challenging look that was most irksome.

A provocative, coy smile then played across her lips, acting like a matador's flag taunting a bull. It was clear. She was goading me, daring me to react. The woman was enjoying this.

Making eye contact with me, he pantomimed a whisper loud enough for all to hear, “Like the taste of something forbidden. This one doesn’t make a sound. Sets the imagination on fire.”

Faux shock played with girlish shyness on Zariyah’s features.

“Bit of a challenge to make this one scream. I can see why some develop a taste for the crimson sluts,” Guy guffawed, showing some of his true colors. The girl visibly stiffened in real shock. She had not expected this. Zariyah overplayed her hand, I noted to myself with a small sense of satisfaction.

My face colored with held-back rage. Despite the clear childishness on her part, he had said too much. Too much. Provocation or not, it had been a long time since I felt anger for someone other than myself.

My vision narrowed to just encompass Guy, and Zariyah was feebly struggling to escape his grasp. I could feel myself preparing for a fight. Anger rose in a flood. It was too late, the dam would burst. But I was saved.

“Stop messing around like children in the yard,” commanded someone from behind me. A voice that cut through the hubbub. A voice I knew.

I turned around slowly, taking in the presence of my savior. It was the intimidating Ezlas, with a jovial smile on his face that was at odds with the fearsome garb of his profession.

In the presence of greater power, Guy visibly shrank, pushing away Zariyah as if she were made of hot coals.

“Just a bit of fun Ezlas, no need for any…” he started in explanation, the waver in his voice betraying his cowardice.

Zariyah’s desultory glare at Guy was confirmation enough for Ezlas. How many victims, I wondered, had fallen prey to Guy’s ‘little bit of fun.’ That was the problem with coming to a world, place, or time, as socially and culturally backward as this one.

I offered Ezlas a quick spoken thanks, focusing more on my formal bow, palms pressed to the back of my head. He accepted it with a small professional nod, before walking off to whatever it was that he needed to do.

Despite all of this, a part of me could not help but feel that I had been betrayed in some manner or another. A sneaking shard of negativity that wormed its way through the emotional cracks as I thought about it more.

Guy was muttering in his cup, his attention now focused on the Ezlas’ retreating form.

I took Zariyah by the hand, escorting her out of the Guild and into the still-bright afternoon sun. The heat was almost palpable, the shimmering air above the hot stones of the courtyard evidence of the fact.

The red-eyed girl shot me a dirty glance, realizing our hands were still clasped. Without thinking, I offered an apology.

I thought I asked you not to touch me like that in public, I've tolerated unwanted advances for too long, she stated clearly with her hands before crossing her arms.

I sighed inwardly, seeing where this was headed as I studied her stance and expression. Even at my young age, I understood enough about women to recognize the signs. The girl was gearing up for a verbal skirmish. Preparing myself, I decided that a preemptive approach was the best strategy for handling the situation.

Still, pathetic as it was, I was hurt. Her words, silent though they were, rung loud enough to cut through to the truth of the matter. I remembered her initial hidden smile with Guy, the way she had looked at him. The spark of simple attraction. I had been blind until I had been presented with a comparison. It was a rejection of me, just another thing I had to cope with. Another raw deal.

More than that, she had thought to use me for whatever fickle reason she had. For fun, if anything else, was my best guess.

“Thank you for today. I can make my own way back,” I said frostily. It did me no good to be led around the nose by a woman. One needed detachment.

Is that so? You would have an unmarried woman walk home unescorted, she told me, her hands indignant in their motion.

“It is a new age for personal liberty and the accountability that comes with it,” I snorted. The words felt hollow even as they left my mouth, nothing more than broken wind.

You are trying to punish me, then. So be it, her hands stated as she sniffed at me. Turning her back to me, she unfurled her new parasol and crossed the courtyard. A part of me almost expected her to throw the gift in my face.

But, she was thicker-skinned than I gave her credit for, I realized as I watched her make her escape from me.

*****

I wandered aimlessly, my feet moving with the flow of the street traffic as I delved into memories of the past. Unlike positive ones, negative memories had a way of resurfacing and consuming us. It was as if humans had a masochistic tendency to dwell on their own pain, like picking at a scab, unable to resist revisiting moments of turmoil and sorrow, again and again. And, I was no different, it seemed. Still human, the emotional core of me, at least.

It was late afternoon and the sun was losing its battle against the creeping encroachment of the evening. The usual bustle of the city had quieted down, leaving the air feeling stale and listless. The scents of incense and spice, once almost omnipresent, had vanished, leaving behind only the pervasive stench of densely packed humanity.

The architecture here bore the marks of neglect, a stark contrast to the more affluent areas. Buildings, dilapidated and worn, showed the scars of time and misuse. I saw a once grand structure, now defaced with graffiti scrawled across its grimy walls. An industrious vandal had even climbed up to deface the friezes' carved faces. To make matters worse, an old beggar had chosen the building's side to relieve himself. This quarter of Al-Lazar lay steeped in poverty, a sharp departure from the city's general opulence.

Despite being far from where I believed I should be, a curious, almost voyeuristic impulse drove me to explore deeper. For reasons I could not quite articulate, there was a sense of safety here, as if, in a twisted way, this place felt more genuine to me than anything else in this fantastical realm. Witnessing humanity at its lowest somehow lent this place an air of authenticity.

As I ventured further, the scene grew more dismal. The people here were destitute, devoid of hope, resembling walking corpses with lifeless eyes, lacking even the will to beg. From descriptions I had heard, they were, for the most part, Dust addicts. Their eyes were hollow and lost to an old dream.

I had expected violence in this rougher part of town, but two desperate-looking thugs saw the dried blood on my clothes, the blade at my waist, and thought better of it.

Two feral dogs snarled and tussled over what I initially mistook for rotten meat, only to discover it was a human limb.

Grim realization hit me hard. This quarter must serve as the city's dumping ground for human refuse. The invisible and unwanted of society.

Then why did I continue to stay? Why did I choose to explore further of my own volition? Was it because I wanted to believe? Surely this place, no matter how authentic in its depiction, was ultimately a facade. Reality lay elsewhere.

"Please, sir," a high-pitched voice interrupted from behind, breaking me away from these depressive thoughts.

I started to turn, pausing for a moment as an inexplicable hesitation seized me. It was as though I stood at destiny's crossroads, with the sense that my impending decision would significantly shape the unfolding narrative. The moment carried the unmistakable aura of a pivotal, perhaps scripted, event.

The owner of the voice was a small grubby child, dangerously thin. Her hair cascaded in loose tangles of dull gold without luster, framing a visage marked by the rigors of want. Clad in the merest of rags, her form seemed more a wraith than that of a child's, a specter of deprivation.

"Good mister ser, a trifle for my mother, ill and in dire need," implored the waif, her voice a whisper, but sounding as if a cacophony.

Ignore her, a voice, one of many within, warned. At worst, this is a lie, a trap, if nothing else. At best her mother is a Dust addict who deserves her fate. A harsh sentence, indeed, yet within her counsel lay a kernel of wisdom, bitter though it was.

I looked once again at the child. Truly seeing her. Her eyes, deep pools of liquid brown, held the weight of a life unkind. In the depth of their hollow gaze, I saw an honest entreaty.

“This day has been long and you entreat powers beyond your comprehension, little girl. What led you to me? I am the end of oblivion itself,” I answered in a hollow voice that was not quite mine.

'You alright? You sure talk funny, mister ser. So, you can help, right?' she persisted, extending her hand towards me.

Here, in the heart of urban misery, I found no compelling reason to aid her. Absolutely none. Despite having grown in power, the motivations that spurred me on seemed shallow, the kind that only a naive youth might harbor. Was it to impress someone? To overpower obstacles? To prove a point?

Saving her mother might seem inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. Yet, considering life's inherent meaninglessness, succumbing to nihilism was not the solution. Could not be the solution.

True power was not just the ability to vanquish foes but also the grace to save. To spare and shelter those whom I chose. Ultimately, it represented the freedom to make choices. Even in a world that might be nothing more than an intricate digital illusion, the decisions I made still shaped me.

My thoughts shaded everything. What I chose to do colored my path.

With this conclusion, I felt something change, like the click of a lock falling into place or the first turning of the hand of a once broken clock.

“You have my attention. Take me to this mother of yours. My hand shall save,” I declared with bold confidence.

The beggar girl could only look at me with total surprise, her eyes widening to a ridiculous degree with newfound hope.

“First though, what is your name child? And be quick about it. I do not have all day,” I requested, lowering myself to one knee to her level.

“Theo,” she responded nervously. Uncertainty laced in her voice and her eyes grew big as teacups.

“Very well, Theo,” I said in all seriousness as I took her small, grubby hand in mine. Her eyes managed to widen even further, her mouth shaping into a perfect 'O' of surprise.

Notes;

Theophania Miller - Beggar (Human lvl.6)

Health: 22/33

Stamina: 12/16

Mana: 10/10