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voidwalkwithme · 6 years

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Wasted Youth

Even the lightest of footfalls echoed in the ruins of what was once a lighthouse, dampened only by the roar of the waves outside and the steady dripping of water from somewhere above her onto the cracked floor below. As if triggered by her footsteps, gritty bits of stone rained down from the eroding edges of the spiral staircase. The woman briefly pondered its integrity, faintly glowing blue eyes surveying the ground floor.

It had been plundered many times over the years, the evidence plain in overturned, tattered furnishings and the waterlogged remains of smashed wooden shipping crates. There was no movement, save for the sprinkle of water droplets and crumbling stone. She would have to venture up. With the toe of a stylish but weathered leather boot, she tested the stairs beneath her weight, assessing what she could see of them from her vantage point. The crumbling edges aside, there were gaps to mind, but the path to the next level appeared navigable. A strong southerly wind joined the rhythmic crashing of waves against the exterior wall, both enhancing her cover and making it harder to discern whether or not she was alone.

Salty, kelp-laden air and stale earth filled her nostrils, her heart rate rising with each treacherous step up the winding stone. Drawing slow, tremulous breaths through painted lips, she edged her way up, pressing her back against the wall as she ascended and the next landing began to come into view. The decay and disarray of the second level matched that of the ground floor. Her eyes roamed hastily for potential caches, and found none, but a shimmer of metal caught her eye: a candlestick, oxidizing but not yet fully corroded - salvageable. She cautiously stalked through the rubble, one hand opening the flap of the leather satchel secured to her person by a crossbody strap, and the other reaching to grasp her find.

No sooner had her fingers wrapped around the scrap than she was thrown against the stone wall with a reverberating slam, pinned by cold, sharp steel at her throat. When her eyes refocused, her field of vision was consumed by a Wretched man, unfathomably ashen for something still alive, and reeking of stale bloodthistle. Eyes blue with fading arcane energy burned into her own, and must have found something familiar in that void, because he spoke her name: “Jaeness, you greedy whore” he cursed, thready and gasping.

Every muscle in her body tensed in preparation. She did not recognize the Wretched, corrupted by unclean magic and withered by withdrawals. Was he a client? A man whose advances she’d rejected? Or one of the ones who’d muttered curses at her in the street, looking at her like she was dinner all the while? “Oh, come on,” she murmured, “it's just a bit of silver. I'll trade you” she swallowed, “for mana.” Bony fingers threaded themselves through thick, sapphire tresses, and a pale nose buried itself there, sniffing like a dog. “Put your blade away, and we'll trade: trash for treasure” she insisted, voice scarcely above a whisper.

There came an indignant snort that echoed through the tower, and the creature withdrew just enough. Swiftly, she launched the sole of her boot into his pelvis, causing him to stumble backwards. Committing before he could recover, she cocked her elbow back and drove it into his head in a rapid two-step, sending him over the edge. Fuelled by adrenaline, she hadn’t felt her booted calf ensnared by his gnarled hand. The swoon of vertigo overtook her as they plummeted to the ground floor, landing with a resounding impact that knocked the wind out of her. His body - now truly a husk - had broken her fall, and a frosty blue shimmer coated her skin for a fleeting moment. Her own hand still held fast to the candlestick. Feeling it in her grasp, she bludgeoned the corpse in the head with it before struggling to her feet.

After dusting herself off, she gingerly brought her pendant to her lips and kissed the dark blue stone that no longer shimmered with her magic. Her eyes turned upwards once more. Jaeness didn’t doubt that there was more scrap metal to be found within the lighthouse, but opted to leave it behind - she had another place she still needed to visit.

A mile down the shore, the scuffed soles of her boots scraped along dust and rubble coated wood floors that groaned beneath her weight. Glistening strands of spider silk were draped between the legs of overturned tables and barstools, reflecting the anemic sunlight that streamed through shattered windows. Outside, the wind yawned and the waves lapped lazily at the shore, a peaceful accompaniment to the soft crumbling and creaking and cracking she created with each reverent footfall.

So this is all that's left. Shards of broken glassware and so much dust beneath a crumbling ceiling - all exposed metal corroded or stripped, no steel eating utensils or copper mugs to be found. Jaeness breathed in the smells of kelp and decay, catching an unexpected whiff of ozone.

Thirteen years ago, she had stood in this very spot as the last of the patrons filtered out, smiling and serving up good night wishes. Something about standing there, in the remains, brought it all back. When the heavy wooden door closed behind the last straggler, quiet had descended on the dining room, and the small sounds became everything: the metallic scrape of coins shuffling in the palm of the guitar player as he counted out his tips in a gravelly whisper, the distant clacking of plates and slosh of water coming from the kitchen sink. Closing her eyes, she could hear it as if it were happening now.

She had hurriedly scooped up plates from abandoned tables and stepped into the kitchen with her haul. She checked her reflection in the blade of a chef’s knife, freshly cleaned and sharpened and laid out for tomorrow. Dewy skin and vibrant sapphire eyes looked even more comely with a hint of a rosy flush at the end of a busy night. She smoothed a wild strand of platinum silk that had begun to curl over her brow, then carried her tray to the wash basin, where her mother was finishing up her own work.

Madam Brightwater called herself a simple woman, but carried herself with the same poise and spent as much time with her wardrobe and vanity as any noble lady, never faltering even with the passing of centuries. Her hair, once silky and white like her daughter's, was more slate than platinum now, rolled up into a low chignon. Her skin had not aged at the same rate, but the phantom of crow’s feet and smile lines loomed. Jaeness would count herself lucky to age so gracefully.

She’d had no idea that tomorrow it’d all be gone.

A FORTNIGHT LATER...

Brisk, briny air carried the invigorating scent of mountain pine with it. At the docks, the odors of fresh fish and kelp overwhelmed, but there was much to smell throughout the port town: grilled and baked fish dishes, fruit tarts and tiramisu, coal, newly cut lumber… Jaeness sighed in satisfaction as she walked, led by a portly local merchant who spoke with an accent she had never heard elsewhere. As they slipped through a crowd, his broad hand slid carelessly from the small of her back to curl around the soft, pale blue flesh of her hip. When she carried on as if he had done nothing, he gave it a testing squeeze and an idle stroke with chubby fingers.

He was a swarthy and hairy, middle-aged human who smelled of whiskey and tobacco, not unlike the harbormaster from Sunsail Anchorage half a century ago. Boralus dwarfed her hometown, and had a much different kind of beauty and texture, but nevertheless reminded her of the home to which she could never return.

“Thank you so kindly for showing me the way, Mr. Ames” she purred, twirling on her toes to lean on his soft chest and belly and plant a kiss on his ruddy cheek, the length of her sapphire waves swishing around her like a curtain. “I do believe I can manage from here.” She tapped on his chest with a squared off, lacquered nail before slipping away without waiting for a response.

The Tradewinds Market was a gorgeous, bustling district. Packed end to end with little shops, restaurants, bakeries, taverns and inns, the street lined with market stalls and carts, it was barely navigable during busy hours. She chose the smallest, least conspicuous building to rent a room in: a cozy tavern with only a few bedrooms on the second floor. The proprietor looked down his nose at her disapprovingly and quipped “no guests,” which she answered only with honeyed laughter.

The room was quaint: small, and basically clean, but a bit dusty, which she felt contributed to its charm. A single lantern cast an orange glow over the space. It had a bed, with a trunk at the foot of it that she wouldn’t use, a small wooden table with two matching chairs, and a little bookshelf garnished with small trifles: a ship in a bottle, a shallow bowl filled with sea glass, and a miniature ship helm carved from wood. It held few actual books, which all pertained to local history and customs.

After acquainting herself with the room, she went out, leaving nothing behind. It was a space in which to work, and to sleep, evidence of her legitimacy should she be questioned by the authorities. It was not a home, although it smelled a bit like one. Later, she would have dinner at the tavern, by all appearances absorbed in her fish and chips and pint of ale, all the while listening in on the other patrons, hoping to pick up an intriguing rumor. Then, she’d get started on a new piece before bed - but none of that would come before she found some excitement: a card game, a trinket worth pilfering, perhaps even a pretty boy.

As luck would have it, she found all three, but only partook of one. Instead of working on a new piece by lamplight, she sat at the table with her elbows braced upon it, letting a brilliant red gem on a platinum chain dangle from her hand. As it slowly spun, it flashed between expertly faceted crimson gleaming with enchantment and its precious metal setting.

“What am I gonna do with you?”

#my writing

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