Private Tales All Things Rancid and Delicate

[Larka]

The sun was setting, blue and purple shadows growing longer and darker. Small brown boots swung back and forth on a abandoned stone well, dancing over a dark abyss with no end in sight. Even smaller hands fiddled with a tin container, trying to force too-short nails underneath the lid to lift it up. A large dog whined beside her but Larka ignored Kitty for now, focusing more on the tin. He whined again and nudged her back with his snout.

“I’m trying to get it out, give me a second.” Larka huffed, fingernails chipping at the dented box to no avail.

“Girl!” Larka turned her head, looking over her shoulder at the barmaid that her mentor had been eyeing before he decided to go to a woman of the night. Larka figured the barmaid, having worked in a inn in Alliria, didn’t enjoy sleeping with drunks. Or maybe she didn’t enjoy sleeping with sloppy drunks that lacked princely charm. Maybe she dreamed of a knight in white-shining armor without scars and clean, short hair like Larka did? “You ought to get off of that before you fall in!”

“Why?” Larka tried not to sound petulant, especially when the barmaid had been kind to her earlier when Larka had bumped into her while she carried eight mugs of ale to a table of big, big men. “It’s just a well. I can climb out.” Or Kitty would get Gannis to drop in some rope but the foster didn’t say that.

“It was a well, girlie.” The barmaid was carrying too large pails, a foul order coming from them. Larka’s nose wrinkled up so she looked down at the well. “We dump the shit and piss in there. Whatever comes from the bath goes in there, too. Not to mention the bad ale— not that we serve it, just lots of extra left in mugs.” She held up a pail and gave Larka a look. “That well is connected to the sewers now.”

“Sewers?”

“Ya never heard of sewers? Get off or else it’ll splatter on you.” Larka obeyed, shifting to the side and lifting a leg over the wall. When her feet were on the ground the barmaid moved forward and set the pails down. “Think of it like another city under this one. But small and dark and dirty.” She lifted up one pail and dumped the soured ale into it. The barmaid was careful not to get any of it on her and even more careful not to get a whiff of it. Larka saw what looked like a skinny dead rat fall with the honey-colored ale.

“What lives down there?”

“Nothing does. Well. Maybe the rats do. Although there’s been stories about a girl that came from there.” The barmaid set the empty wooden pail down and picked up the other.

“What kind of stories?”

“Just stuff like she can die and be reborn in one night. When Pneria is a full moon like tonight.” Larka looked up at the sky. Yes, Pneria was going to be a full moon. She watched more of the bad ale get poured into the abyss that would be darker than the night sky.

“So there’s people there that reincarnate?” That’s what it sounded like to the Venari. The barmaid shook her head, picking up the other pail. She looked down at Larka, her thin lips in a even thinner line.

“No, it’s like… well, I’ve never seen it, okay? It’s just one girl and she does this weird thing.”

“Oh.” The barmaid turned from her and began walking back to the back door of the inn.

“Come back inside. I’ll give you a honey cake when they’re ready. We’re baking them right now. You likes sweet, don’t you?” Larka nodded her head, she liked everything. But the barmaid didn’t see her nod and just continued back to the inn. Larka brought her gold gaze to Kitty. He whined and nudged his wet nose into her head still holding the tin.

“Okay, okay, I’ll try again.” She leaned back against the well, deciding to take the barmaid’s advice after seeing what was being poured into there. Larka was fiddling with the lid once more, even bringing it up to her mouth to try and use a tooth or the sharp point of her canine. She felt something brush against her dark red hair, like a caress of a breeze but heavier. It almost reminded her of—

Suddenly she was pulled back, tin in her mouth, falling over the wall. The last thing to be seen of her was Kitty barking at her flailing legs, brown boots disappearing of the stone lip. And so Larka fell into the darkness, the light disappearing as the shadows claimed the young venari for themselves.

Itch

 

[Itch]

It was amazing what some people threw away.

Itch had learned over time that there was no away but instead a somewhere. Look in the right place; you could be fed for a day, clothed for a month, or even make a coin or two. All you needed was a good eye and a strong stomach.

Look in the wrong place...

The dead rat landed with a heavy squelch, his final resting place a splatter of human waste and sour pulp that could curl the hair on a man's chest. Itch's watery eyes lingered on the deceased rodent's emaciated form, pondering momentarily how any creature could die hungry in a world of plenty before imagining a better death for the small soul.

Her shoulder squeaked inquisitively.

"Absolutely not, Claude, you wretched little lout!"

A nose popped out of her patchwork tunic, twitching into the rancid stink around them. A second squeak followed, this time on the defensive.

"I don't care! You are not eating them!"

Claude bared his iron-stained teeth, disgruntled that he was forbidden from engaging in carrion cannibalism as was his right as an omnivore. However, his whiskers twitched before the argument could descend into the morality of flesh consumption. A third squeak, this time a tip-off.

"Something big? What do y-"

As Itch turned back to look at the dumping ground, a large mass suddenly tumbled from above, causing the young woman to shriek and hop backwards. It wasn't the first dumped body she had encountered in the labyrinthine systems, but that didn't make it any more pleasant.

"...hello?" Itch asked awkwardly, not entirely sure what to say to a potential corpse that had just landed at her feet, "Are...are you all right?" Tattered boots shuffled ever closer, sloshing through rancid ale as the sewer-dweller approached the fallen lump, "Please don't be dead, please don't be dead..."

Squeak squeak.

"Claude!"

 

[Larka]

It hurt. Landing on her back, even if she had gone limp, it still hurt when she was no longer falling. She was lucky that she hadn’t landed on anything sharp, that nothing poked out in such a way to possibly stab her. Larka didn’t want any ugly scars on her body just yet. Broken bones were preferred, and as she laid there, haphazardly supine, with the wind knocked out of her, she could already feel pieces of her pelvis begin to knit back together.

She heard a voice. Larka turned her head, opening her eyes. She quickly adjusted to the darkness, her night vision a blur, but she could distinguish a shape next to her.

“My name isn’t Claude.” She whispered out, trying to breathe in the stale, dank air. It burned, and not because it smelled so awful with that sweet and sour undertone permeating throughout. Did she also have a broken rib or two? That had to be why. Larka shuddered and more hot pain flashed, every nerve begging her to stop. But the wet was seeping through her clothes and Larka didn’t want this particular wetness to spread further.

Larka was going to count to three, and on three, she would sit up. One… two… three… Larka didn’t sit up. It was for practice. Now for real thing, one… two… three… right, no more practicing. One. Two.

“Three!” Larka screamed as she sat up. Her stomach flipped over and over but Larka held the sick in, even if some bile came up to only be swallowed back. Kress, it was overpowering. This smell that made her dizzy and yet she had to keep breathing it in. To distract herself, she looked at the girl beside her, this time fully looking at her.

Was this the girl the barmaid had mentioned? Was the story true?

“And I’m not dead.” As if that weren’t blatant at this point.

Itch

 

[Itch]

Oh! The lump was alive!

Relief took the weight off of hunched shoulders as the figure, a girl, confirmed that she was not Claude. The rodent on her shoulder tucked back into her clothes, whiskers twitching with disappointment as he witnessed a hearty meal disappear before his greedy, beady eyes.

Was she hurt? How far had she fallen? Itch craned her neck upwards, trying to discern the overworld from the underworld by traces of filtering light, but the encroaching dusk only offered mystery.

A preliminary panic set in as the sewer-dweller realised that she was about as much use as a chocolate teapot when it came to the matter of first aid. What if there were broken bones, what if she couldn't wal-

The girl shot up with a shout, causing Itch to shriek at a pitch that could have woken the hounds of hell and stumbled backwards onto her bottom. It was a terribly undignified affair for all involved, except Claude, who chattered his teeth in mockery beneath tattered cloth.

"Well, yes, I can see that now," she remarked with an exhale, trying to emotionally claw some of her soul back into her body, "I don't think you...I mean, should you be moving? Maybe you should lie back down?"

As she played the part of the flustered but well-meaning idiot, Itch could feel the encroaching dampness of rancid liquid soak into her garments—an occupational hazard of sitting on your arse in the sewers. She regrouped, offering a polite smile from her grime-encrusted pockmarked face.

"What I mean to say is, are you hurt, Not-Claude?"

 

[Larka]

Larka considered the questions foisted upon her. Should she be moving? No. Should lie back down into the filth beneath? Heck no. Her lips were pressed into a gentle line of contemplation, the suspicion in her eyes receding as this girl seemed worried about her being. She couldn’t have been bad, then. If she wanted Larka dead, she’d attack with a stone or a loose brick.

“I am but I’ll be fine in a few minutes.” It always took time to heal, but Larka was faster than most because of her strain. Some could take days, which was still fast considering broken bones could sometimes take months, but for Larka, it was never more than ten minutes. It was going to make her a ravenous brat but luckily she had some snacks.

Speaking of snacks, Larka looked at her left hand, happy to see she still had the tin container. The lid still needed to be popped off but maybe after that fall it had loosened up? She began to fiddle with it, once more trying to dig in her nails at just the perfect angle to pop it off.

“My name is Larka. Who are you? And how do you get out of here?”

Itch

 

[Itch]

A few minutes?

Itch tilted her head and stared at the girl, relieved that she seemed largely unharmed but bewildered by the notion that it would only take a few minutes to recover from what must have been quite a terrible fall. Perhaps she had hit her head? What was the procedure for those again? Tuck your head between your knees? No, that was for carriage crashes.

"Well, Larka," she replied brightly, returning to her feet and buffing her palm on her thigh before offering said hand to the tin-wielding guest for a shake, "you can call me Itch."

A lump rolled down her sleeve, like living growth that threatened to burst at any moment. An emerging set of whispers and tangerine teeth revealed that the lump was just an obese grey rat, now awkwardly perched atop Itch's offered handshake, ruining the gesture.

"And that's Claude," the girl added dryly, narrowing her eyes at the rat's back, "You can-"

Before she could finish answering Larka's question, a thick, chesty coughing fit ripped out of her small frame like a cloud of angry wasps. Mercifully, the blonde managed to raise the crook of her elbow to her mouth rather than rain down globs of phlegm onto the girl, not that it would have made a difference given what she had laid in.

"-ah oh, my apologies! There are plenty of ways out, don't worry! Where would you like to go? Inner city? Outer? You can go to the slums or the Shallows. Even straight into the Strait if it takes your fancy."

Itch caught herself in the ramble, that was making it perfectly clear that she hadn't talked with a real person in a good, long while. It was quite mortifying, really.

"...but I suppose you'd want the closest exit."

 

[Larka]

Itch and Claude. Claude was a normal name, Itch was not. Larka wasn’t sure how she would feel about her name being anything other than Larka. Larka also wasn’t sure how she would feel about her name being a action one took against lumpy, pink mosquito bites in the summers. Although she supposed there was a strange pleasurable satisfaction one got when scratching at their mosquito bites, akin to the solipsistic feeling of peeling off one’s toenails twice to then throw them off to the side.

Larka quickly raised her hands up, protecting her face as Itch coughed into her arm. Yes, she was immune to many different diseases, not even the common cold affected her after the change. It didn’t mean she wanted germs on her. Or more germs on her seeing as she was sitting in things she didn’t even want to think about. She could feel the dank liquid that congregated at the base of this well beginning to settle into her socks and seep towards her toes.

Her boots were useless now. Oh well. She had a change of clothes with her mentor. Kitty was probably already going to Dog and then together they could get Gannis and by the time she saw him he would be greeting her with clean clothes.

Larka tried getting up but her body wouldn’t let her. A little more time and then she would try again.

“Are you sick?” Larka said, her voice gentle. She glanced at the gray blob that had comfortably settled against Itch. Some people didn’t like rats. Some people also didn’t like dogs. All Larka knew that in a pinch she’d eat a rat over a dog. She went back to opening up the lid and finally, it popped off. The savory smelled of salted dried meat wafted up, a pleasant reprieve of the stench that lingered around them.

“And yes, the closest exit, please.” She looked to Itch and held out the tin. “Do you want one?” Larka had already pulled one out for herself and was quickly chewing it into a tight, stringy yet juicy ball into her left cheek.

Itch

 

[Itch]

"Just a cold," she lied brightly, lowering her arm and inspecting the crook of her elbow for any escapee globs of unruly mucus, "I would say it's past the point of catching if that worries you."

The moment the tin was pried open, Claude came to life, hopping off of Itch like a portly flying squirrel, his nose delighted by the strong scent of cured meat. All Itch could do was watch the rat's stomach override his brain function, much like a mother would watch their disappointing child fail their dance exam for lack of proper decorum.

It seemed to happen in slow motion; the offer was made, and the trajectory was set. Claude, soaring through the putrid air like a ravenous meat-seeking missile, landed in Larka's tin with a soft whump.

"Claude!" Itch exclaimed, stepping forth to swipe the ill-mannered rodent out of the fallen girl's snacks, but ever the artful dodger, he evaded his arrest and hopped away onto the ground, his prize of meat within his grubby, grabby little hands. He was so emboldened that he didn't even scamper away to eat; sitting there next to them sat upon his lardy arse like the smuggest of toads.

"I am so sorry," she said, turning watery eyes back to Larka, mortified but not entirely surprised by her companion's behaviour, "he can... he can have my one."

 

[Larka]

No wonder why people didn’t like rats if they could move this fast while being so fat. Was Larka’s reflexes faster? Yes, she knew she could have stopped Claude if she wanted to. She just didn’t want to touch the fat rat, who knew what sort of dirty things were crawling over it? Larka sniffed dismissively and continued to hold the tin out towards Itch.

“It’s okay, he can have his own.” Larka said without admitting that watching the rat eating the vole jerky was cute in a ugly way. Like some of the ugly dogs she saw around Alliria with long bodies and too short legs and a small head. “Here, take one.” She continued to offer, still waiting for her bones to be set back into place.

And then because silence in the sewers was unnerving, Larka opened her mouth again to ask, “Is it just you and Claude here?” Because strangely enough, she had felt like something had pulled her down her.

Itch

 

[Itch]

She stared at her gluttonous companion, a terse judgment meeting Claude's barefaced defiance as he nibbled away on the snatched prize of dried meat.

It was a small mercy, then, that their unexpected guest was charitable.

"Oh!" Itch exclaimed softly when Larka continued to hold out the tin, her face brightening through the accumulation of grime and neglect, "You're very kind; thank you so much!"

Such charity was not often found in vagrant pursuits, and while scraps otherwise destined to rot could be gifted with a wide eye and a quavering voice, actual shared food was another matter entirely. Claude's questionable morality regarding the misappropriation of a meal was ultimately the only way to get by, although she had directed him towards those who wouldn't miss it.

"In the sewers?" The girl asked before taking a bite of the jerky, the meat stretching and snapping off with a sharp pull, "I... ah, excuse me..." talking with one's mouth full, while acceptable in the company of rats, was a terrible habit, "...manners."

Whether it was delusional to insist on one's own proper conduct in such squalor was an entirely different question.

"There are a few others down here if that is what you mean," Itch finally spoke after the first marathon of chewing, her tongue savouring salted goodness, "it's a good place to lay low if you can stomach the smell, that is." Her brow furrowed thoughtfully, considering the vast repugnant playground she called home.

"But it's a big place, labyrinthine, even," she was glad her vocabulary hadn't dimmed in the company of rats, "there are plenty of tunnels that I haven't explored, so who knows, really."

 

[Larka]

A hint of a smile appeared on Larka’s lips at the gratitude expressed. The pain was gone with a searing flash that caused her smile to falter into a grimace. With little decorum, she helped herself up, holding the tin of meat high above her head hopefully, not wanting a single dingy drop of sewer on her food. Although being unable to taste, she wouldn’t have cared if she didn’t know of it.

Her stomach growled. Larka could feel herself salivate and when she looked at Claude nibbling away, a thought that didn’t belong to her spread across her mind: in that moment, Claude looked utterly delicious. She took another piece of jerky and shoved it into her mouth, chewing quickly.

She wondered if there were any spiders here. They were less crunchy than cockroaches, but sometimes beggars couldn’t be choosers…. Larka shook her head, trying to forget the hunger that was eating away at her.

“So I guess it’s safe to assume you didn’t see anyone else here? Someone who could have pulled me down here?” Larka pressed, her mouth full. Gannis had been a good mentor when it came to tracking and killing. He was not a good mentor in keeping up with manners and appearances. At least Larka still appreciated bathing more than he did. Suddenly it occurred to her.

“Are you that girl that reincarnates every month?”

Itch

 

[Itch]

Claude stared back with greedy, bulging eyes, his rusty, stalwart teeth tearing through the jerky with ease. The obese rodent shuffled backwards a few paces from Larka, attuned prey senses dictating a little more space between them.

Itch, oblivious to this, continued to rip through the meat like an undignified urchin, attempting to chew through her food before tackling who or what would have dragged the woman down into her domain. In her head, she held a peculiar image of somebody with the physical attributes required for such a feat. A man with very long arms, impossibly long that could stretch as far as the eye can see.

There was a certain whimsy in it.

She opened her mouth to share such strange delights but was stopped in her tracks by Larka's follow-up question, which left her slack-jawed momentarily, staring at the other girl like she had grown a feathered tail and started clucking demented nursery rhymes at her.

"Am I the..." Itch began, voice trailing off as she tried to comprehend the girl who reincarnates, never mind being her, "No...I don't...I don't think I..."

She tilted her head at Larka, clearly absolutely baffled.

"...the girl that does what now?"

 

[Larka]

“The girl who… oh, never mind.” Larka said, canning the tin and shoving it back into place amongst one of the pouches in her many utility belts. She looked up at the well, straining her hears to see if she could hear Kitty but was unable to confirm anything for certain. “I can tell you aren’t her. You don’t look like a baby.” Larka was too confident in her assessment of the situation.

She was rather disappointed though that Itch didn’t seem to know anything about the girl able to reincarnate. Wait, maybe Itch was supposed to look old instead of a baby? Larka stepped toward Itch, her gold eyes staring hard to see if she could discern any wrinkles or crows feet around her eyes. Well she didn’t look old either.

“You said there were others down here? Are any of them girls?” Just like that, thoughts of going back to Gannis, now supplied with the knowledge that she could leave whenever she wanted as long as she could get Itch to lead the way to an exit, the little foster had hyper-fixated on the rumor of the reincarnating girl. She wanted to see her for herself— or at least any like her.

Itch

 

[Itch]

Itch was still trying to wrap her head around the concept of a reincarnating girl. Every month? The very notion seemed exhausting and, to boot implied a monthly death. Larka's comment about a baby gave cause for her brow to knot with concern; did that mean that this girl lived an entire life in the space of one paltry month in an eternal cycle?

What a terrible fate.

When Larka took a step closer Itch's own head coiled back, that concerned expression turning unsettled as a filthy hand instinctively moved to her own chest, covering that which was already concealed by feculent rags.

"I mean...yes, but n-not reincarnating ones," she answered nervously, staring back at the overly curious well-faller's peculiar eyes, "are you...are you quite sure it's not simply a tall tale?"

Much to Itch's horror, she found herself sounding suspicious in her own reply, much in the same way that one feels guilty when the city guards wander past, even with empty pockets, and those proverbial pockets were empty in that regard; she was definitely not the mythic ouroboros of the sewers.

"Perhaps you've bashed your head; maybe you should sit down again?"

 

[Larka]

At first she bristled when Itch asked if it was a tall tale. All at once she felt like the girl had insulted her, called her childish and a liar. Larka had felt the need to defend herself, declaring how she had seen stranger things than a girl able to age and be reborn every month. She thought that she could frighten Itch, going beyond just the monsters she had seen but some of the peculiar horrors like the town growing human body parts to survive a famine.

She liked the pity much less.

“I’m fine. See?” Larka patted herself hard on her ribs, as if that were to prove anything. “Some people aren’t normal. I’m not.” Her scleras were black, clearly tainted in some way, with her irises being like two Kaliti suns that were ablaze during a night sky. “But maybe that lady was lying.” Larka admitted, realizing that her initial chagrin was from not considering what Itch had implied.

What if it was a tall tale? Wasn’t that more possible? Sometimes the truth was the simple solution, not the one that involved mind-bending gymnastics. Should she give up on it? She should, shouldn’t she? Gannis wasn’t even around and there wasn’t a contract made, no coin to be received from this. There was no reason to investigate this.

“Well, I guess it’s about time you lead me to the exit.” The young venari shivered, a frigid wind had wrapped around her face. No, it couldn’t be windy down here. It had to be her imagination.

Itch

 

[Itch]

At first, it felt as if she had taken a sharp tack of truth and burst the bubble of fantasy that had excited Larka. Who was Itch to say that such a girl did not exist? Was she the foremost expert on all that lurked within the sprawling stench? Perhaps there really was a creature of reincarnation lurking amongst them down here in places where the rats did not even go.

She swiftly popped the remainder of the jerky into her mouth so that she did not mention that such places existed in fear that Larka would wish to explore them.

Mercifully, the girl seemed to bounce back from disappointment just as well as a tumble from a great height, and it would not be necessary to guilt herself internally into believing in the extraordinary. Instead, she offered her brightest smile to Larka's profession of abnormality, hand finally drifting away from her chest and towards the content Claude.

"Oh, that's right! Yes, an exit! That I can find for you," she chirped before beckoning her rodent companion with a single finger. The rat sat uncharacteristically still for a few lingering moments, seemingly transfixed by something unseen, before a pointed stare met his beady eyes, "Oh, would you prefer to walk, greedy guts?"

He did not, in fact, prefer to walk, which was made perfectly evident by the sudden speed at which he clambered up Itch's leg and onto her shoulder. There was an indignant squeak, the notion of having to walk too horrifying for Claude to bear.

Turning on her heel, the sewer-dweller gestured for Larka to follow and began the march upon the dank and fetid stone.

"So, Larka," Itch began brightly, the relative isolation of her home leaving her deprived of conversation, "tell me something about yourself. Where are you from? What's your favourite pastry?"

Why do your eyes look like that?

No, that seemed far too rude.

"What do you do when you're not falling down wells?"

 

[Larka]

She wanted to pat her cheeks warm, but her hands were too filthy to touch her own face. Touching her food was fine, but her actual skin? Larka didn’t want an angry colony of zits on either side of her face. As she followed after Itch, the hairs on the back of her neck remained pricked. She felt like she was being watched, no, it was worse than that.

Larka felt like eyes had been on her for a long time and it was only now that she was noticing it. She was thankful for Itch’s questions. Maybe she had hit her head harder than expected. Perhaps she was still healing.

“Um, let’s see,” Larka said marching up to Itch’s side so she was just half a step behind her. “My hometown wasn’t too far from here, by all the cornfields down south. It’s gone now. A bunch of thralls destroyed it. We had no idea there was a vampire hiding in the town. I mean, at least I didn’t.” Thank goodness for the Conclave, even if they did come too late to save her big sister from being eaten by their father. “I think croissants are nice. They’re soft and fluffy. Makes me want to sleep on a bunch of them, especially if they were all warm.” She smiled. At least she had Kitty who wasn’t soft but was fluffy and warm, almost like a croissant that drooled and whined too much.

“And I didn’t fall down on purpose. Something pulled me down.” Larka stopped suddenly, turning her head over her shoulder. There was nothing where they had just come from. Just sewage and more sewage. “Are there leeches in the water?” She asked Itch, turning back to look at her. Her gold gaze immediately went to Claude, as if asking him for an answer instead. “Or just rats? Can rats swim?” Maybe there was something in the water, as shallow was it was, that was making her question being watched.

Itch

 

[Itch]

There was a simple joy in just listening to another person speak.

Not that she wished to diminish the company of Claude and her troupe of rodent friends, but there were times when a salve of rats couldn't soothe the loneliness of her existence. Itch had learned the unfortunate way that sustained companionship with her fellow sewer denizens was simply out of the question. So, to have new yet fleeting company was a delight, no matter how strange Larka was.

She gasped with widened eyes as they sploshed through the tunnels; the way the girl breezed from her destroyed hometown to croissants was a conversational whiplash that had not been reasonably expected. There was an innocence in it, albeit one that also hinged upon the existence of cornfield-lurking vampire thralls. It also offered her no room to address tragedy and pastry; she chose the latter only to keep the putrid air light.

"Gosh, I haven't had a croissant in an age! Oh, with fresh butter...and jam!"

When Larka paused, Itch followed suit, looked to her new, seemingly paranoid friend, and pondered if something really did pull her down or if she was just trying to save face. After all, falling down a well was the stuff of children's stories made to frighten one another.

"Oh, there might be," she answered, somewhat unsure as insects had a peculiar habit of not bothering her, before Claude interjected with an affirmative squeak, his whiskers twitching as he stared back at the bringer of food, "and there are definitely rats, and they can absolutely swim." The portly shoulder rat stuck his nose in the air as if objecting to the very notion. "Ah, but some choose not to."

She had already led them past several branching passages, knowing where most led in this sewer area. The connecting tunnel she sought was marked by a chipped brick, and she beamed as her eyes, attuned to the dark, caught it.

"We're going dow-"

Her sentence was interrupted by a loud screeching echo bouncing towards them from afar; it was between mournful and manic. Mad Malcolm had evidently been released from the cells once again. The sudden image of Larka interrogating the often drunk and always delirious vagrant and him indulging her filled Itch with a new kind of social terror.

"Nope! Not this one," she corrected swiftly before stomping on ahead, her face still crumpled from that image in her head, "my mistake, wrong tunnel!"

 

[Larka]

Larka stopped Itch from taking another step away, grasping onto her wrist tightly with her small hand. Her grip was firm and spoke of a hidden strength that didn’t match her small size. Her gold eyes were wild and bright from the screams coming down the hall. She had already forgotten their earlier discussion of croissants that were well buttered with a heaping spoonful of jam and of the swimming rats and spiders that surrounded the trio.

“It’s a cry for help.” Larka said gravely, nostrils flaring as she exhaled deeply. “They could be getting attacked by a monster.” Itch hadn’t mentioned there being a monster in the sewers, but Larka knew that monsters were everywhere. She hunted them for a living. Surely, if someone screamed bloody murder like the sort she had just heard then there was a monster nearby.

“I must help. Stay here where you are safe. I think?” Larka had no time to think, beginning to dash down the dark hallway, thankful for her darkvision once more. Lycanthropy was painful but at least it allowed her to see better than she ever could before. Larka drew her sword, although to everyone else it looked more like a needle than a sword.

Whether Itch followed or not, Larka went on ahead towards the screaming until it was inexplicably cut off right as it reached the height of its pitch. Dirty sewage water splashed about her ankles, unknown items squelching beneath her boots, but none of this deterred Larka.

Itch

 

[Itch]

The dread that formed in the pit of her stomach when Larka grabbed her wrist was indescribable, even more so when she turned back to see that look on the girl's face.

Why, Malcolm, why?

"N-no no, it's just..." Itch began to stammer in the face of grim determination, unsure how to fully define Mad Malcolm without further intriguing her. Unfortunately, the time it took for her to think of a diplomatic description was enough for Larka to decide and bomb down the tunnel like a hero possessed.

"...just...Malc...oh, shoot!"

Of course, she couldn't just stay there while the girl, who had drawn a flipping sword, dashed down into the tunnel to meet a man who would indulge her in every single maddening tale of imagined monsters that could escape his addled mind. Claude offered his own suggestion in the form of a few brusque squeaks, but Itch could only release a defeated sigh and shake her head in response.

"No, we can't leave her, you horrible little rodent."

She splashed down the tunnel, trying to catch Larka before she was inevitably dragged into a sewer goose chase by the local maniac, but alas, she was not fast enough.

What the girl found was right enough, Mad Malcolm.

He was an emaciated vagrant who was either in his sixties or very rough forties. His brown, greying beard was a patchy, matted mess that almost perfectly mirrored the wild clumps upon his head. And for whatever reason, he crouched with his ear in the shallow sewage...

...and shirtless.

Great watery eyes, plagued by cataracts, looked to Larka, and approximately three rotten teeth smiled at her knowingly before a single finger was raised to his own lips as if to shush the young woman preemptively.

"Listen, girl. Can you hear the scourge?"