Gray Fog And Slippery Rope

[Kit Rowan]

Day 20, Season of Summer, 513 AV

"You!" Kit heard a voice call to her. She turned her head and saw a slave marching toward her. He had an air of dignity and poise about him, his back straight as an arrow. As he stepped within three paces she felt her hand dart toward her dagger, her lips try to curl back in a snarl. No! She scolded herself. No . . . Kit shut her eyes and counted, one, two, three . . .

"Wake up, girl." The slave said, impatience clear in his voice. She opened her eyes, tried to hold back the urge to step away, to either lash out or get away. "My master demands a delivery." He said. Kit gave him a good once-over, hrmed. His face was not familiar to her. Perhaps that was why his 'master' sent a slave instead of handing the envelope to her personally. Or perhaps her anonymous client considered himself too important. The slave handed Kit an envelope. "You will deliver this."

Was Kit's knee-jerk fear getting better? Was the backwash of her overgiving finally beginning to fade, finally? Maybe. But it certainly hadn't gone away yet. Kit held the envelope between her fingers, frowned at it. It was easier to subdue the panic if she wasn't looking directly AT someone, and the envelope gave her an excuse. "I work for Valerius, you understand." She said. "I am not obligated to deliver anything not sent through him." She let that drop. Waited.

"Consider this a dealing entirely between my master and yourself." The slave said, and Kit wondered whether he had the authority to make that sort of decision on his own or if his 'master' had sent him with instructions on how to handle it. "You will be compensated."

"Well that's not vague at all."

"It depends entirely on your expedience in making this delivery."

"And why should I believe they'll care to pay me, after the delivery is done?"

She heard a tsk, looked up and saw that the slave had a . . . Testy expression. A slave insulted by slights against their master. Oh, what terrible chains Ravok had, to bind and seal a person's very thoughts to serve them, with no tools but time and hopelessness. She was no longer surprised. "In case you do not remember, we are in the Nitrozian Estate." He hissed, and the threat made her hand long for her dagger. "It would be poor business to spurn a resource proven useful. Do you take my master for a poor merchant?"

No, stop, she thought, but he did not notice. Took a step forward And Kit felt her hands tighten on the handle of her dagger. "Shut up." Kit hissed. "SHUT UP!"

The slave's eyes went wide, and he stepped back. Kit stared, breathing hard, tense, waiting for the red to fade from the edges of her vision. "Petch you." She spat. "If he leaves me hanging all he needs to do to try again is send a different slave with the next message, and I'll be none of the wiser. You think I'm stupid?"

His face looked like he'd swallowed his tongue. He reached into his pockets, plucked mizas from them. "My master will hear about this," he said.

"Yeah? Good." Kit said. "Tell him I'm no sucker."

[Kit Rowan]

Kit beat herself up for bearing down so hard on the slave as she went out the door, slipped off her shoes and hung them on her belt. Whoever his master was . . . She wasn't likely to get more work from them any time soon.

The morning fog hung over the city. As her eyes scanned over the gray shapes that haunted the canals, clung jealously to rooftops and slipped in and around the people as they walked, Kit imagined the mist as Rhysol's invisible finger made obvious, insidious and ever-present over the city. She tried to shrug off the haunting sensation and started off at a dash down the road, her bare feet slapping on the pavement, feeling moisture ride up between her toes.

The fog made things complicated. Ravok's pristine weather often allowed Kit to work when everything was dry. Perhaps if her value as a courier had been simply through running, she would be fine, but Kit earned her time by making paths in unorthodox ways, climbing up the sides of things, leaping over canals. If the city was slippery . . . She was more likely to tumble away and break herself than get where she needed going.

Could she maybe overpay a Ravosala for quickness, today? No. Even if she paid to keep them quiet and keep moving, that was no promise of quickness. Her average speed would still doubtless be down. Well . . . Either way, she would be slower.

But Kit had so few chances to stretch her muscles, to thrive in the air . . . She wanted to get there under her own power. Fewer risks today, Kit thought. That would be her compromise.

Moving about the Noble District rooftops was the hardest to do, so instead Kit elected to go on foot until the roofs got lower and closer together. Maybe she wasn't a runner, but time had made her into a better one. She pumped her feet one after the other in a steady rhythm, just past what might make a jog, dodging around the rare pedestrian that did not choose to perch on a Ravosala like a headpiece and look down on everyone around them. Kit managed to avoid using them, except once to cross a canal to the nearest bridge, for which she offered the Ravosalaman a generous handful of coppers.

Right, left, right, left. Her legs began to numb under the repetition, and Kit seized and stopped, leaned over with hands on her knees and breathed hard for a few moments until she started up again until at last she crossed a bridge, slipping over the invisible boundary between the noble district and the rest of the city.

[Kit Rowan]

The Nitrozian family was a business in its heart of hearts. That there was a family in its center was almost circumstantial; when someone in the estate who knew she worked on Valerius' behalf approached her with a small job it was almost always something to do with a business. She rarely actually read the contents of her messages, but even then it was not hard to see why the Nitrozians were said to own practically every business in the city.

She would deliver her messages to little stores at the in the merchant's ring and bring others back, offer lists of items to be made and other things under tight seals that tempted her to look see what lay underneath it all. Kit was not convinced that she would be able to remove and replace the seal without disturbing it in some obvious way, and even if she did it would take too much time. But she had a hunch that what she was carrying was instructions, deliberations . . . Ultimatums . . .

Kit took the moment to pat the envelope pressed against her waist. What a heavy responsibility to dedicate to such a light paper. Her heart ached to know what lay written there, but she could not indulge it. Especially not today.

Padding about, Kit found the nearest low rooftop and took off toward the wall at a run. She put her foot up against the wall, fully expecting it to stay, provide the traction for a few inches more height, but it slipped, scrapped against the side of the wall and hit the ground, too moist in even the misty air to do petch. Kit hissed a word and kicked the wall. Then bounced backward on one foot, holding the other a moment, wishing she hadn't.

Kit gave up, took off down the street at her best approximation of a run, felling the hands of strain reach up into her lungs and squeeze the air out of them. The air was moist, and the sweat left her drenched rather quick. In the end, the only saving grace was the weather was its coolness. Heat was not was slowed her down. Exhaustion did.

She slid the envelope under the door of a forgettable shop, feeling defeated by the city. Her chest burned, burned with every step; why couldn't she leap like she did? Why couldn't she move through the air? She ran along back, saw a thick rope connecting over a wide canal, just high enough for Ravosalas to pass beneath. She could use that, and be back more quickly.

Kit took a step onto the rope, both her hands held out for balance. Even breathing, good posture. She took one step and was fine, two steps and was five, five . . . Kit was nearly across when her feet remembered they were wet. Kit felt herself slipping over the ropes, her arms pinwheeled and her eyes went big. Kit shouted a word into the air as she tumbled sideways off the rope and fell into the canals below with a splash.

[Kit Rowan]

There was a long, desperate moment as her body realized it was in the water. Lakewater rushed into her open mouth, Kit's legs kept moving as though still walking, she reached out a hand toward the surface of the water and watched as as distorted light flashed and flowed in front of her. Kit panicked, kicked her legs and waved her arms desperately, propelling herself up with desperate slowness.

She broke the surface of the water and spat out water, her head dipping up, falling below for another moment before she could even breathe. But this time she held her breath, and though the world began to blacken at the edges when she broke the surface Kit drew in air a desperate, desperate gasp. She flailed in the water, eyes rolling with panic. She saw a Ravosala with two passengers flow by, began to swim to it and took a pole to the cheek for trouble. Kit fell below the surface for another instant.

But when she broke the surface again and felt water seeping through her leathers, her underclothes, drenching her to the skin, she managed to tread water, moving her legs around in quick, exhausting circles. She kicked, splashing up water as she edged closer to the canal edge, but here it was too high to climb up, and she had to go further down, falling into a doggy paddle, her legs moving like scissors as her hands waved feebly in front of her.

Would she ever reach the edge? Would she ever climb up? Or would she die like a drowning kitten in a city she hated?

Not today. She found an edge low enough for her to grab on, seized and pulled herself out of the lake. Water fell from her chest and legs and hair and everything, her clothes clung to her leaving the whole of her body wet and uncomfortable. Wrapping her hands around herself, Kit grinned a wicked grin. Still alive, she thought. Still alive! She started laughing, and earned a few uncomfortable glances from passersby.

"No. You may not come in."

Kit stood in front of the Nitrozian Estate, confronted by a door slave. She looked down at herself, saw a girl soaked, a wet rat. "I had an accident on the way here," Kit said, holding up her hands. "I fell—"

"I don't care." The slave said, crossing its arms and staring down its nose at Kit.

Closing her eyes, Kit took a moment to wrestle the sudden want for violence to the ground. "Look," she said. "Valerius will be expecting me. I work for him."

"Not like that, I'd imagine." Kit narrowed her eyes. The slave was haughty as a king. So many of the Nitrozian slaves seemed to think themselves superior, as though their master's authority bled down to them. Perhaps it did. But only because they were considered an extension of them, with no wills of their own. Did not that not bother them? "We'll not be letting you back in until you're dry. Whatever business you have can wait until then."

Kit seethed, but in her heart of hearts . . . Valerius would be less pleased with her for coming in drenched than not coming back at all. She uttered a word, turned and marched away, hands balled into little fists, and did not look back.

[Abstract]

Grade Awarded!

Kit

Skills

~ Intimidation - 1
~ Running - 2
~ Acrobatics - 1
~ Swimming - 1

Lores

~ Running on a Wet Day
~ Falling into a Canal

Other

N/A

Notes

Heh... pretty funny! Enjoy the grade, and another wonderfully written solo.

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