Ulric just gave a grunt, shoved past them to the heavy timbers of the door. “Wine is always better, you fools,” he grated, and promptly departed, leaving the rusty hinge to squeal in sulky cacophony. They didn’t use any grease, he frowned, wondering how much longer he’d he plagued by the wretched piece of iron. He kept it open, just in case they decided to stop warbling.
Heaving a sigh, he gazed over the winding lanes, the vapidly yawning chimeras of purple tongues of flames, flowers whose stems were vipers, and a clutch of spiny, mauve locusts whose unceasing chatter made his head hurt. He heard the rumble of a cart over uneven, dirty rocks, watched a harlot in tawdry garb scamper away from the ruddy gash of the dawn, back to her seedy tenement.
“Want some eggs?”
“What?” Lazily, he regarded the chubby boy, with his broad honest face, piggy cheeks, and insipid gray eyes, the lank mop of pale curls making him appear just as much an egg as those dredged from his wicker basket. Egg-boy wasn’t very perturbed, which was strange, considering the dangers of large, scruffy men bearing axes. Probably knows me, he frowned. They’re all the petching same, y’know.”
“Eggs, five coppers a basket.” Egg-boy held it out, trying to wrench his face into a mask that was presumably intended to evoke pity, but instead drew comparisons to a wizened graybeard trying to take a shyke.
Ulric gave a snort.
“Here,” he grumbled, distractedly fumbled in his purse and flung a few coppers at the boy, who caught them deftly. Except for the ones he missed, and was forced to scuttle after before they vanished in the narrow, reeking gutter. Egg-boy hefted the basket, jostling it at his legs, but Ulric just forced him away. “Keep them,” he grumbled, plucking out a large, magenta egg, tinged by jade. “That’s enough.”
Idly, he scratched at his beard, went back through the door. “Have an egg,” he grunted, handing it to the spider.
…search for treasure…
“You should’ve said that before,” he growled, laying the axe down so he could fasten the rest of his armor. “Yes, we’ll go.” He just ignored them, mostly. He enjoyed doing that.
Ravokians didn’t talk your ear off, they flung their chips down right away and kept their daggers near. Even if everything they spoke was just deceit in the end, sharply melding with betrayal.
Deftly, he flung on his jerkin and then the dense, musty cuirass of leather scales, not wanting to be overly burdened if they met with any water. “Y’know, my dear, sweet slut of a mother used to fry me eggs. And every so often, she’d give me a smear of honey. That was nice of her. The thing is, by now she’s probably got huge chests of silver, and hundreds of spears at her back, so it’s tricky trying to cut out her heart and burn the entire, shyking city in an inky, roaring inferno until it sinks with a myriad elegy of shrieks.”
Ulric jammed on his gauntlets, thrusting the hafts of his throwing axes through loops in his rig, and hefted his shield, firmly clashing the edge of his axe against the rim with a clang. “Were you saying something?”
