This was bad.
Osric snarled as he stormed his way across the lower decks of Fisherman's Bottom, and the crowd parted before him, for him. He hadn't planned on doffing his robe this early on; he'd been wearing that outfit underneath, trusting the old look to serve as enough of a surprise to give him an edge. Now, as women and children scrambled out of his way, old men left and right muttered under their breaths.Â
"...Dirk..."
"...back in town..."
"...that's Dirk, that is..."
"...he's back...?"
"...Dirk Problemsolver...?"
His cover was blown.Â
Setbacks. Nothing but setbacks. Despite the precautions he'd taken, he'd been made within a bell of landing. The timetable had been accelerated: Erik would have to fend for himself far sooner than Osric had anticipated. Oh, he'd still be keepin' an eye on his captain... when he had an eye to spare. He'd be too busy from here on out, watchin' for the knives and daggers angling for his back, to do much more for the highlander. Sweet talkin' Raz by way of linkpearl? Of course. Conversing with Erik over the company shell? Sure. Peek in from time to time, in person? Mayhap. But direct contact?Â
His cover was blown.Â
Gods damn you, Faller. Why were you even there?
If he hadn't backpedaled as soon as he hit the water, if he hadn't fanned out his arms and legs in old spread-eagle fashion, if he hadn't pushed forward, turned over, and kicked off back towards the docks, Faller would have caught him in the water and torn him to pieces.Â
There came the massive surge of displaced water as the old man broke the surface; Osric pedaled faster, swam up right alongside one of the wooden pillars. He broke for air just long enough to hear a cacophony above him - had a fight broken out? - before submerging again. He braced his feet against the pillar and pushed off towards another, moving underneath the pier... he felt the rush of large, coarse fingers along his ankle and panicked, drew back his leg and kicked out, struck something that might've been a hand. He stroked the rest of the way to the next pillar, rolled over in the water, tucking his legs under him as he went. Feet met wood again, and he pushed off once more.Â
He'd known better than to try his stamina against Faller. Geezer though he was, the toned man was a highlander, and that meant that, in short bursts, the bastard would run him down. Faller was built for such.
Melkire - lithe as he was - was built for endurance and agility.
Gutter games. Osric had spent much of his childhood racing through the crowds, causing chaos, creating distractions left, right, and center. He'd been a terror long before he'd gone to the gangs looking for a patron, long before he'd been taken in and set to task to make way for various small-time heists. What time he hadn't spent above decks, he'd spent in the water. He had loved to swim, had spent every moment he could wrest away from the crew in the water. These days, his greatest regret was that living in Thanalan more often than not denied him the joy that was the ocean.Â
One of his favorite pastimes had been moving underwater from pillar to pillar, in just this fashion.
He couldn't outrace Faller in the open water, but he could do it here, where his smaller, more compact form meant less resistance to abrupt turns, and the sudden bursts in speed from shoving off from fixed points meant he'd easily outpace his competition.Â
It made little difference. He zigzagged down the length of the pier, surfacing every now and again for air, and every backward glance he stole only served to show him that Faller was still hot on his tail. He shook off the dread and focused again on the gamble he'd taken, on the sight he'd seen right off in the distance right before he'd chosen to hit the water. One more push-off brought him to left pillar at the end of the pier. A quick inspection showed him it wouldn't serve. Cursing his luck, he moved over to its opposite. Close, now: Faller was close. He glanced up and down the structure: this would do.Â
He drew two knives and, as quickly as he could, worked them into the wood, shoved them in deep until they bit in. He turned, seized his makeshift handles with both hands, and planted his feet again. He could hear Faller coming up behind him, could hear the water shifting....
He looked up and out towards the trawler that was even now making its way to port. He stared at the fishnets that some poor sod had left hanging off the side. If the heading was any indication of its course... and given the nets... Fisherman's Bottom. Surely.Â
If he could make it there, he could lose Faller. Lose everyone. He'd grown up there, after all.Â
He thought back to the lesson that Endemerrin Rosethorne had given him, to the technique that he'd practiced long and hard over the course of a single night, to the skill that he hadn't had to use after all... until now. It worked with land beneath his feet. Surely, it would work with wood... especially if he braced himself properly. Gods, if only he'd had some knives to serve as handles, and some rotten wood in which to plant them.Â
He fought down the smirk, closed his eyes, pushed aside the panic that was building up inside as that gods-damned man drew closer, left it all behind until there was nothing but his heartbeat. One hearbeat. Singular.Â
He remembered when there'd been two, that first day on the plains of Thanalan beneath the Sultantree. His... and the land's.Â
A burst. It's a burst. From everywhere, all at once.
He opened his eyes, and pushed. Wood cracked, splintered. He surged, shot out.
Setbacks, aye... but he'd lost the ruttin' ass, and wouldn't you know it, here came Sisipu with a bucket full of... she tripped, spilled fish everywhere, started piling it back in, and scrambled off. Osric stooped for a moment, scooped up a single herring that she'd forgotten, and went on his way.Â
A score of fulms later, he ducked into a side alley, drew another knife, and sliced the disgusting thing open. Inside was a soaked parchment... with Thomys' handwriting on it. He threw the fish away.
He'd have to double back for his rucksack, of course; he'd tossed the bloody thing aside into a stall full of its like. Cresting Wave was an old fixture of Cripple's Walk, and his wares hadn't changed much over the cycles. Either the Roe would have it, or Faller's crew would. Either way, he'd need his uniform back. The way he figured, he'd just entrusted the damned thing to someone else's keeping for a while.Â
He unfolded the parchment and started skimming its contents, trying to make something legible out of the smeared and blotted ink. One hand went to his ear, tapped the Red Wings company linkpearl tucked away there as he continued to read.Â
"Boss? Did you find- FUCK."
He dropped his hand to the note and ripped the piece of flimsy to shreds, then tapped the pearl again.Â
"Boss, Xydane's been in town. Watch your ass; my cover's been blown. Yours should still be intact... but it won't be if he gives you away."
He stepped back out of the alley again and hurried along the docks.Â
This was bad.
Osric snarled as he stormed his way across the lower decks of Fisherman's Bottom, and the crowd parted before him, for him. He hadn't planned on doffing his robe this early on; he'd been wearing that outfit underneath, trusting the old look to serve as enough of a surprise to give him an edge. Now, as women and children scrambled out of his way, old men left and right muttered under their breaths.Â
"...Dirk..."
"...back in town..."
"...that's Dirk, that is..."
"...he's back...?"
"...Dirk Problemsolver...?"
His cover was blown.Â
Setbacks. Nothing but setbacks. Despite the precautions he'd taken, he'd been made within a bell of landing. The timetable had been accelerated: Erik would have to fend for himself far sooner than Osric had anticipated. Oh, he'd still be keepin' an eye on his captain... when he had an eye to spare. He'd be too busy from here on out, watchin' for the knives and daggers angling for his back, to do much more for the highlander. Sweet talkin' Raz by way of linkpearl? Of course. Conversing with Erik over the company shell? Sure. Peek in from time to time, in person? Mayhap. But direct contact?Â
His cover was blown.Â
Gods damn you, Faller. Why were you even there?
If he hadn't backpedaled as soon as he hit the water, if he hadn't fanned out his arms and legs in old spread-eagle fashion, if he hadn't pushed forward, turned over, and kicked off back towards the docks, Faller would have caught him in the water and torn him to pieces.Â
There came the massive surge of displaced water as the old man broke the surface; Osric pedaled faster, swam up right alongside one of the wooden pillars. He broke for air just long enough to hear a cacophony above him - had a fight broken out? - before submerging again. He braced his feet against the pillar and pushed off towards another, moving underneath the pier... he felt the rush of large, coarse fingers along his ankle and panicked, drew back his leg and kicked out, struck something that might've been a hand. He stroked the rest of the way to the next pillar, rolled over in the water, tucking his legs under him as he went. Feet met wood again, and he pushed off once more.Â
He'd known better than to try his stamina against Faller. Geezer though he was, the toned man was a highlander, and that meant that, in short bursts, the bastard would run him down. Faller was built for such.
Melkire - lithe as he was - was built for endurance and agility.
Gutter games. Osric had spent much of his childhood racing through the crowds, causing chaos, creating distractions left, right, and center. He'd been a terror long before he'd gone to the gangs looking for a patron, long before he'd been taken in and set to task to make way for various small-time heists. What time he hadn't spent above decks, he'd spent in the water. He had loved to swim, had spent every moment he could wrest away from the crew in the water. These days, his greatest regret was that living in Thanalan more often than not denied him the joy that was the ocean.Â
One of his favorite pastimes had been moving underwater from pillar to pillar, in just this fashion.
He couldn't outrace Faller in the open water, but he could do it here, where his smaller, more compact form meant less resistance to abrupt turns, and the sudden bursts in speed from shoving off from fixed points meant he'd easily outpace his competition.Â
It made little difference. He zigzagged down the length of the pier, surfacing every now and again for air, and every backward glance he stole only served to show him that Faller was still hot on his tail. He shook off the dread and focused again on the gamble he'd taken, on the sight he'd seen right off in the distance right before he'd chosen to hit the water. One more push-off brought him to left pillar at the end of the pier. A quick inspection showed him it wouldn't serve. Cursing his luck, he moved over to its opposite. Close, now: Faller was close. He glanced up and down the structure: this would do.Â
He drew two knives and, as quickly as he could, worked them into the wood, shoved them in deep until they bit in. He turned, seized his makeshift handles with both hands, and planted his feet again. He could hear Faller coming up behind him, could hear the water shifting....
He looked up and out towards the trawler that was even now making its way to port. He stared at the fishnets that some poor sod had left hanging off the side. If the heading was any indication of its course... and given the nets... Fisherman's Bottom. Surely.Â
If he could make it there, he could lose Faller. Lose everyone. He'd grown up there, after all.Â
He thought back to the lesson that Endemerrin Rosethorne had given him, to the technique that he'd practiced long and hard over the course of a single night, to the skill that he hadn't had to use after all... until now. It worked with land beneath his feet. Surely, it would work with wood... especially if he braced himself properly. Gods, if only he'd had some knives to serve as handles, and some rotten wood in which to plant them.Â
He fought down the smirk, closed his eyes, pushed aside the panic that was building up inside as that gods-damned man drew closer, left it all behind until there was nothing but his heartbeat. One hearbeat. Singular.Â
He remembered when there'd been two, that first day on the plains of Thanalan beneath the Sultantree. His... and the land's.Â
A burst. It's a burst. From everywhere, all at once.
He opened his eyes, and pushed. Wood cracked, splintered. He surged, shot out.
Setbacks, aye... but he'd lost the ruttin' ass, and wouldn't you know it, here came Sisipu with a bucket full of... she tripped, spilled fish everywhere, started piling it back in, and scrambled off. Osric stooped for a moment, scooped up a single herring that she'd forgotten, and went on his way.Â
A score of fulms later, he ducked into a side alley, drew another knife, and sliced the disgusting thing open. Inside was a soaked parchment... with Thomys' handwriting on it. He threw the fish away.
He'd have to double back for his rucksack, of course; he'd tossed the bloody thing aside into a stall full of its like. Cresting Wave was an old fixture of Cripple's Walk, and his wares hadn't changed much over the cycles. Either the Roe would have it, or Faller's crew would. Either way, he'd need his uniform back. The way he figured, he'd just entrusted the damned thing to someone else's keeping for a while.Â
He unfolded the parchment and started skimming its contents, trying to make something legible out of the smeared and blotted ink. One hand went to his ear, tapped the Red Wings company linkpearl tucked away there as he continued to read.Â
"Boss? Did you find- FUCK."
He dropped his hand to the note and ripped the piece of flimsy to shreds, then tapped the pearl again.Â
"Boss, Xydane's been in town. Watch your ass; my cover's been blown. Yours should still be intact... but it won't be if he gives you away."
He stepped back out of the alley again and hurried along the docks.Â
This was bad.
![[Image: 1qVSsTp.png]](http://i.imgur.com/1qVSsTp.png)
