It had to... what madness was this? Merrin thought, listening passively to the booming violence of the overhead skies. Black like the deepest blackness, tiding like little waves over a cloudless expanse. In it, lightning ruled. He saw it. Standing atop the rooftop of the tavern, Merrin grasped the waterhusk mildly; a woman from the tavern had managed that for him.
Free, she had said. Not that he could pay. No money and all that. But she had given it to him, courtesy of Madam Buns, likely. Not that he cared either way. There was only one singular desire at that moment: escape from the drunken fool. Whoever that was, Merrin desired no connection to whatever nonsense he was related to.
It was better that way. He nodded, uncorking the top of the husk and downing a mouthful of slightly salty water. He enjoyed it. Enjoyed the lack of moss within it—a good thing given that most of the things within the camps existed with that added punch.
But that was the end of it. Merrin sighed, eyes locked hard on the looming mountains in the distance. The camps, as he could see, were a spread of tents, wooden structures, and very few stone things—all in that consistent glossy squareness. He had come to enjoy the sight of it: the long wall that acted as a bastion between Nightfell and the Black Seas, the peaks that towered high, mostly enshrouded in that layer of rising steam. It was an optical treat.
The mist did, however, warm the eyes. Enjoyable. But that, unfortunately, was the end of the gentility. For him, here, dressed in nothing but the camp-given wrapped black clothes, endured a certain hunger. With him it had been—From the days within the depths of the undermines till now, Merrin had maintained that reality.
A tiresome thing.
Even Casters required some measure of sustenance from time to time. But as he came to learn, food was not a given in this place. Money, marks, and cells were earned from work. And according to that bumbling tippler, certain tasks could be done for it.
"Bounty," he called it. Supposedly, the lord of the Camp, Tyrion Driftpoint, would provide some task in exchange for cells. They differed and contained some relevance to the camp's existence.
This time, there was a killer.
Suddenly, piercing the darkness above, lightning surged with a bright radiance across the murky world. Abrupt. And following suit came the wind, and the sound aftermath of the fulguration. With it, he maintained a moment of silence.
Am I really going to do this? A bordering question.
The hunger desired it so. What was he to do?
Something cold dripped down his cheeks. Fluid, not tears. His fingers felt the side of his face. Then came more. A drop of water into his hair, his legs, arms, back.
He looked up.
The rain had come. It drenched him, drowning the world in that downpour of pitter-patter. Chuckles ruled the world below; men and women wandering in the waters that came now. Some did run for their tents, for their homes. And then there were those who didn't. Ones that lay flat on the ground, staring up at the endless above.
There was nothing in their eyes. Empty.
Merrin raised the husk into the air, catching whatever droplets of water that cared for entry. Very few did, and as fast as it had come, the rain had quelled, vanishing into a damp silence over the world.
This time, a chuckle came from the roof of the tavern. Merrin. "I don't know what to do." He said, "I have no idea what to do now... Should I eat? Should I just die here? Should I run away?"
He could if he so desired.
"By the Lords, what should I even do?" He tossed the husk, the leathery bottle skidding to a halt atop the wooden roof. Next was that annoying silence. He hated it now. Hated it all. The irritation was like bugs crawling over one's skin. Here he was without witnesses (as was best for them), without a path forward or backward... and worse, without the bravery to end it all.
Merrin sighed. "I'm so hungry." And much more apparent was the churning of data within his awareness. That man was there—that inebriate of a fellow and his words. Hateful things... yet, Merrin sank into them.
Call it the distraction, it was.
Chula was her name, Merrin thought. Shae would likely come for the drunk. He suspected that. Although the conversation between him and that woman was brief and odd, he could speculate her nature as one with vengeance. If not vengeance, some measure of retribution for sure.
I wonder what she would d—
His words were caught off.
Again came that pang of hunger... he dipped deeper into mentation, even though there were very few things to truly ponder. In a week or so, the run would once again require him. And once again, he would stand face to face with that hollowing storm, that sea of monsters, and the winds that blared their way through men.
All of that waited.
But for now... There was none of that, only the inanition. Perhaps he could endure this if a desire existed against it. But there was none. Merrin lowered his head, staring calmly at the line-patterned surface of the roof.
"I need to do something," he told himself. "Something that wouldn't cause much trouble and wouldn't bring any eye to me... Yes." A wave of the wrist, and the waterhusk flung back into his arms. "That man said he was going to find someone who was killing people. For the bounty. And if someone like him could do it, it likely existed with little relevance to others."
Yes.
Of course, undoubtedly, Merrin did sense the stupidity that ruled his present trail of thought. But what did that matter? He wasn't doing much, was he? Not like in the mines, never like the mines. And he was so very hungry.
Play the tunes and sing to the gods, that's the role of men—collected from the mantra of the Church of the Song.
Jumping from roof to roof, Merrin, sunBringer and Ashman felt the wind across his face. Perhaps it was the similarity of it all. The reminder of the Ashmountains. His feet jumped, sliding through the world above. Of course, there were very few truly stable buildings in the camps; most of the time, a brief gliding through the air played an important role.
At least, this played the distractive role. From roof to roof, feet padding softly atop the wooden, stone ceilings. On most, he stopped, observing the passersby as they mumbled and muttered words beyond count. A few times, words in relation to something called the 'Red Thing' were uttered.
What that was was beyond Merrin's grasp. Not that he cared for it—there was no reason to, just the constant motion and hope. Hope that by some means, he would find the so-called killer for the bounty.
"This seems like a bad idea..." he mumbled, rolling over the cover of a structure. It seemed a tower, but as quickly as he came, he leaped into the air, weaving in the threads of the wind. Marshaled, they heeded his call. The world below pushing down as he soared into the heavens. Not too high, of course.
Soon, down he came, falling, landing feet-first atop the roofing of a structure. Square, rather deep into the camps, he noticed as barely any passersby existed in these corners. Odd, given the provided time for the curfew had not yet been reached. What did that mean? Where was he?
He leaned, lying flat atop the roofs, watching.
There was no particular cognitive reason for this action—at least he believed it so. Perhaps this was merely the simple curiosity invoked by the sudden unfamiliarity. Whatever it was, Merrin felt lorded by it, eyes staring downward at a field near the building.
Something was there.
Voices came from it. Slow, and muffled, often irritated. Men. Many of them. He saw them—figures, dressed in tattered black robes, carrying out boxes, barrels. Plenty of husks out of a four-sided thing. A square of sorts; black, glossy, with a width in the 7 feets.
He paused. By the Lords, the thing was floating. A full meter off the ground, steam often hissing out from the sides of its sleek surface. A marvel, the thing was. From its side, men rambled out, each weighed down by some carried box or container.
One was barking orders from the side. Black-haired but just barely of that color. "Let's get this done, now, eh?" He chuckled. "I can't have you people being the thing that stops me now. Done paid my dues in the inn. And I'm for sure by Origain, bedding Sibel tonight." His laughter boomed louder. Oddly so. Was he perhaps marshaling the wind for that needed effect?
Perhaps it was. After all, they too existed with that awesome power of the Caster.
Next..
One spilled out from the black depths of the thing—a man, back bent under the weight of a barrel. He trudged on, pacing the slick floor that led out from the 'ship.' Mist was out from his breath, froststone glowing softly from the folds of his clothes.
An observable obviosity existed in his actions—that and the next outcome that was to come; A crack snapped into the air, the man, sudden, slapping hard and rolling down the 'ship's' floor. He groaned, the barrel smashing onto the ground. It fractured, dark orange liquid splashing over the earth, steaming.
That gave its scent.
Honey?