Spring, Day 29, 514AV
Had the solitary cook any notion of life outside of the slums, he might have relished Syna's daily return. Looked forward to waking to the song of birds, the smells of baking bread, and the sound of the city folk beginning their days with wares to hawk and carts to drive and children to holler out of bed. Maybe he would even have wares or carts of his own. Or children. Five of them. And a plump, rose cheeked wife to boot. All together in a cottage that wasn't so threadbare and rickety that he half wondered if he might make a wrong step one of these days and become instantly acquainted with his first floor neighbors.
Alas, even if he did possess a glimmer of such a notion, it was lost in that foggy, inky darkness of a past he could not touch. Not that it ultimately mattered. Or used to, anyway, before he narrowly avoided being axed to death by the Myrian. As far as Noven had been concerned, he'd spent every day of his life waking to the sight of several spiders decorating the corners of his ceiling and sounds of coughing beggars and impatient locals. It was always the same. It never changed.
But now, he found himself doing the unthinkable. He found himself wondering.
What did a jungle look like? Smell like? What did they eat? Did they have jobs? How different would he be if he had been raised to collect people's scalps and walk around in a loincloth?
Nov acknowledged these questions were stupid, but they were all he had. He knew next to nothing about Myri and her children, other than the tales often told to little children to warn against what might happen if they misbehaved. And, with that considered, he might be better off knowing nothing at all.
When the pair had shuffled back into Sunset, one covered in gore, the other in a shirt much too small for him, and both exhausted beyond reason, Jillene merely raised a single, well-defined eyebrow as she let them pass in silence. Not that she could see them anyway in all their glorious filth, but her nose worked just fine. Nov had a bad feeling about her feigned complacency but waved it off as something to deal with on the morrow. Or not deal with, depending on how he played his cards.
The Myrian uttered less than a handful of syllables before leaving his muddled acquaintance and disappearing around a corner. All Noven knew was to find the man sometime next morning. That was it.
"Figures," the cook had muttered before dragging his feet up the stairs and through his apartment door. He collapsed onto his squeaky bed and knocked out without a second thought, waking once in the night only to throw off the ridiculously ill fitting shirt before sinking back into deep but troubled sleep.
From his dreams, he could remember nothing specific. Neither faces nor words nor locations. Only the feeling of panic and confusion. Of dread, and heat. And pain. A fleeting pain, flaring for only a moment as fire blazed against flesh, but vivid and excruciating all the same. When he awoke in the morning, he simply lay there in his bed instead of sitting bolt right, as he normally did after a nightmare, and felt...confused. Disoriented. But then the curiosity wore away, replaced only with weariness and a desire to not think anymore.
Nov moved his legs over the bed and propped himself up to sit on its edge. His forehead rested in one hand as he struggled to sort through his thoughts. Alright, first thing's first. He needed to find the Myrian and collect his promised answers. And, in order to do that, he would need both a room number and a heaping plate of breakfast.
Padding over to a basin of tepid water, Nov doused his head and face. As he dried himself with a semi clean shirt that had been hanging off of some chair or other, the cook re-located his boots, a spare shirt, and pants. Thirty ticks later he was out the door and headed for the kitchens, eager to snag some food before Jillene inevitably caught up to him. It was already half past noon; he'd slept long, though that was no surprise.
As soon as Nov made it within twenty feet of the pantry, he was waylaid by a crew of midgets wielding sharp tongues and their usual assortment of cunning schemes. "Tell us what happened yesterday, Nov," Mira demanded, small, dark arms crossed very adult-like over her ten year old frame.
"I ain't tellin' you shyke," he countered."Get out of my way."
The orphans leered up at him. Gods above, they had something planned.
"No need ta be nasty, old pal," Thomas quipped. "We're curious, is all. Ye tell us, 'n we won't give Loy the signal ta go fetch the Mistress. Wudya say?"
Nasty little buggers. I feed them too well. "You say it like you're the one who came up with it, Tommy Boy. Fine then. You little wretches asked for it." Nov leaned in, arms crossed and expression deadpan. "Yesterday, some crazy petcher killed twenty three Cobras in one go and took Cedric's scalp as a trophy. Saw him do it, peeled it right off like an orange. There. Happy now?"
Some of the children visibly cringed, though more from morbid fascination than fear. Mira scowled, not buying it for a tick. "That's not what we meant," she insisted. "We meant, what happened to you."
"I met him," he growled, face inches from the orphan's. "And he almost lopped my head off with an axe."
The children gulped. Then Thomas asked, "Why did'n he?"
It was Nov's turn to leer. "Because I promised him four fresh, beating hearts of well fed, annoying little orphans."
The distinct click of boots against wood, however, sent every one of them into a flurry of panic and ended their hallway jam prematurely. Nov made a mad dash for the pantry door, right before Mira whispered a room number and scampered off after the others. Heart thumping against his ribs, the cook remained pressed against the pantry door until he was sure Jillene had passed. Then he stuck out his head, an inch at a time, and scoped out his surroundings.
Coast clear. Better make this fast. He opened his pack and stuffed whatever he could find within a five foot radius. Bread, onions, potatoes, carrots--anything that could be thrown together without a fuss. Spring had been much kinder to the city than Winter and there was enough food to spare, but not enough time to be too selective.
As a finishing touch, Noven fished out four eggs and placed them at the very top of his pack, where they wouldn't get smashed. Then he hefted his "borrowed" collection and made for the room Mira had divulged. If he was lucky, she would be right. And he wouldn't have to cross paths with Jillene sooner than later.
Once Nov got to what he assumed to be the right apartment, he give three, solid knocks on the wood. "It's me," he spoke close to the door, incriminating peace offerings in tow and one eye peeled for any sign of the Isur.
