Easy. Easy. ( The man looming small, pale and the withered definition of handsome, crouched above you, brings the good tidings of a purse — fat, full and dripping fresh water down your dried mouth, your parched throat.
The cart rattles; wheels rumbling, the bones of the cage sway. Possessed of more knowledge than bedside manner, Hector remembers to pillow your nape with a firm palm, avoiding risks to the spine, but no discomfort to the head.
Then, nonchalantly: )
If they know how much water this has left, they’ll jump you for it. ( This, with a carefree nod behind him, where a flock of unsettled, but vaguely predatory farmers seem intent on the spoils of the waterskin. Oh dear. ) Think you can shake them off?
ii. the proscription lists ▶ taverns
Not that one. Spoiling for a fight. He does it for sport.
( And they, presumably, hunt the men who kill for coin. It’s slim, shrivelled and fast-skeletal pickings in the fine establishment of Lucius Decimus, where Hector haunts a corner-side table under the guise of morose drunkenness.
...or perhaps the truth of it. Pass him more of the anonymous, gut-pickling ale whose stench has successfully bleached away any short-term memories that aren’t trying to identify who has these bloody lists. Now, philosophising to his teammate, pointing out strangers with tiny tips of his cup, between whispers: )
That one’s illiterate. If there’s a list, he’s not your man to have it. ( How does he know? The serving wench has been cheating him about prices for the better part of an hour. Another mark: ) That one is a pickpocket, that one's a whore, that one a pickpocket who strikes while you politely tell the whore she's got the itching sickness —
( Said damsel of the night, sensing ridicule, purses her lips, turns and aims the cutting part of a glare at him, while Hector sensibly gazes away. She can, most likely, stab him. All the same, (failing) business as it were: )
We’re sure there are bounty men here?
iii. the proscription lists ▶ the box
...yes, watchman. ( A proud voice, certain. Facing a guardsman beneath the pale of dawns that splinters a tired, slate sky. The marketplace has yet to break into bustle: only Hector, his companion, the newscaster’s chained box and this man-shaped inconvenience of a patrolman are here to scratch silence.
He accepts, early on, that holding watch was the easiest of burdens and that, both he and his companion failing to crack open the box and recover their missive, it is his mission to intervene and. Lubricate. Their exit with strategically sprinkled make-believe.
At least he has stepped before the watchman with blithe arrogance. And what are they doing here? )
This is my... ( A blink, then equally indifferent: ) Child. My... ignorant child, who suffers from a weakness of the mind.
( And… presumably one of the body, given Hector’s youth disqualifies him from fathering most party members. Ah. Never mind that. Speak plainly, imperviously, with conviction. Asserting the dominance of your fiction is half confidence.
Vampires have taught him that. )
My child... believe in speaking to the box. This is why we are here. So that my stupid child who should have made haste can... bid good morning... to the box.
( Some might say he is bitter. )
iv. the rattling
( The ground groans and breaks beneath them, and from Hector’s stall, the arena’s gates seem a distant, nebulous proposition. We won’t make it down in time, before the pillars rupture. Before what’s left of the infrastructure’s backbone succumbs, now brittle, to the weight on its broad shoulders.
He feels — some part of him, hollowed. Relieved. Resigned and accepting in the way of every Forgemaster who understands the final and consummate utility of a body is its potential for reuse. Ravens will feast of him, vermin will make their empire. A hypocrisy of flowers will burst from his innards, whole.
And so, his death is worthwhile —
But not yet. As it came, the tumult ends, the last gasps of the earthquake leaving the stairs that deliver spectators to upper seats, through some miracle, immaculate. He rushes down, crosses — bodies, many trampled. Some gutted by beasts that savage the lower grounds.
He sees the pin first, flashing, blinding. Then, the face of a member of his new — family. He asks no questions, only collects them by the arm, or pulls them by their shoulders — to move. Stop staring, stop waiting for the rifts below to reveal anything but hell and madness. )
Come. Don’t — don’t look. There’s nothing left to see there. Run.
( The first rule of survival is understanding: you live to avenge. )
v. network
Speaking from experience, blind alliances with mysterious saviours who claim to share all of your interests don’t tend to end well.
hector | castlevania | test driver
The cart rattles; wheels rumbling, the bones of the cage sway. Possessed of more knowledge than bedside manner, Hector remembers to pillow your nape with a firm palm, avoiding risks to the spine, but no discomfort to the head.
Then, nonchalantly: )
If they know how much water this has left, they’ll jump you for it. ( This, with a carefree nod behind him, where a flock of unsettled, but vaguely predatory farmers seem intent on the spoils of the waterskin. Oh dear. ) Think you can shake them off?
ii. the proscription lists ▶ taverns
( And they, presumably, hunt the men who kill for coin. It’s slim, shrivelled and fast-skeletal pickings in the fine establishment of Lucius Decimus, where Hector haunts a corner-side table under the guise of morose drunkenness.
...or perhaps the truth of it. Pass him more of the anonymous, gut-pickling ale whose stench has successfully bleached away any short-term memories that aren’t trying to identify who has these bloody lists. Now, philosophising to his teammate, pointing out strangers with tiny tips of his cup, between whispers: )
That one’s illiterate. If there’s a list, he’s not your man to have it. ( How does he know? The serving wench has been cheating him about prices for the better part of an hour. Another mark: ) That one is a pickpocket, that one's a whore, that one a pickpocket who strikes while you politely tell the whore she's got the itching sickness —
( Said damsel of the night, sensing ridicule, purses her lips, turns and aims the cutting part of a glare at him, while Hector sensibly gazes away. She can, most likely, stab him. All the same, (failing) business as it were: )
We’re sure there are bounty men here?
iii. the proscription lists ▶ the box
He accepts, early on, that holding watch was the easiest of burdens and that, both he and his companion failing to crack open the box and recover their missive, it is his mission to intervene and. Lubricate. Their exit with strategically sprinkled make-believe.
At least he has stepped before the watchman with blithe arrogance. And what are they doing here? )
This is my... ( A blink, then equally indifferent: ) Child. My... ignorant child, who suffers from a weakness of the mind.
( And… presumably one of the body, given Hector’s youth disqualifies him from fathering most party members. Ah. Never mind that. Speak plainly, imperviously, with conviction. Asserting the dominance of your fiction is half confidence.
Vampires have taught him that. )
My child... believe in speaking to the box. This is why we are here. So that my stupid child who should have made haste can... bid good morning... to the box.
( Some might say he is bitter. )
iv. the rattling
He feels — some part of him, hollowed. Relieved. Resigned and accepting in the way of every Forgemaster who understands the final and consummate utility of a body is its potential for reuse. Ravens will feast of him, vermin will make their empire. A hypocrisy of flowers will burst from his innards, whole.
And so, his death is worthwhile —
But not yet. As it came, the tumult ends, the last gasps of the earthquake leaving the stairs that deliver spectators to upper seats, through some miracle, immaculate. He rushes down, crosses — bodies, many trampled. Some gutted by beasts that savage the lower grounds.
He sees the pin first, flashing, blinding. Then, the face of a member of his new — family. He asks no questions, only collects them by the arm, or pulls them by their shoulders — to move. Stop staring, stop waiting for the rifts below to reveal anything but hell and madness. )
Come. Don’t — don’t look. There’s nothing left to see there. Run.
( The first rule of survival is understanding: you live to avenge. )
v. network