The Runners - Chapter One

Hullo, friends! <3 This is a (very) revised and (very) edited and now un-nameless version of

ID: 1575047   (Rated: 13+) Title: Currently Nameless - Chapter 1  Description: Currently nameless, sadly first drafty, and probably destined for the dump. <3 By: Alyx - Camping (again) 20-25!

Much thanks to everyone who rated and reviewed the first version!

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The hut was small – no more then six paces in any direction – and had obviously been abandoned for a while. The craggy stone walls were crumbling, holes between the stones letting in the already frigid Northern air. Weeds sprouted from the dirt floor, and only the roof's framework remained. Faint burn marks scarred the walls.

“Home sweet home!” cried Flute, throwing himself down onto the dirt floor, making a big show of kissing the stone. We all ignored him. Flute was like this every time we moved to a new place – it was his way of covering up his anxiety. We all felt it, whenever someone came after us and we had to leave, and we all had our ways of dealing with it. This was his.

We all crowded into the hut. Even Dust, our youngest at nine, had to duck to get through the splintered doorway, but we fit comfortably enough inside.

“This isn't too bad,” I admitted. “Better then Socotrine, anyway.”

“T'place with t'cages?” Thorn asked, to clarify.

“Mighty small cages,” I complained.

“Was I there for that?” asked Dust. He settled down next to Crow. Crow was like a father to Dust – to all of us, really. He wasn't the oldest, but was kind and serious. He'd taught me how to carve and during the bad times, I'd seen him give nearly all of his food to Dust. He was also the most exotic of us, with his dark, dark skin and black hair tied off into hundreds of tiny braids.

“Nah, it was a year or so before we found you,” Crow told Dust in his distinctive lilting voice.

Dust frowned thoughtfully. “Primrose must've been worse, though,” he decided. “I didn't even know how to swim then.”

We were all silent for a moment, trying to decide which was worse. “I think Socotrine was worse,” Flute said finally. “At least once they think you're drowned they don't throw stuff at you.”

I shuddered. “It's like they collect their dung.”

Thorn dug through his pack and asked, “How much d'y'all got?” Thorn was born and raised on the shore and had the accent to prove it. He pulled out his nearly empty purse and shook it – two or three coins jangled inside. “'Cos we're out o'food.”

I touched my belt purse. It was lighter then usual; I'd spent most of my money on a new knife a couple weeks before. I hadn't expected to be running again so soon. “Not much,” I admitted.

“I've one, two, three coppers,” counted Dust.

“Two silver Island coins,” Thorn said. “Fat lot o'good they'll d'us here, though.”

Arum tossed his purse at me. It was fatter then any of ours, by quite a bit. None of us knew how he did it, but as long as it brought in food, none of us really cared. “Wing-” me “-and Thorn, go into the city. Get food, scout out the place, but don't be seen.” We both nodded and stood, pulling our cloaks from our bags. Arum was our leader, the one who had found us all, the one who kept us together. Who kept us safe. When he said to do something, we did it.

The two of us ducked out of the hut. I handed Arum's purse to Thorn so I could tie on my cloak. That was another thing Arum did for us – every time he found another of us, he would give us a cloak. They were obviously well-made and expensive, floor length, with huge hoods that could completely hide your face. Mine was a shimmery cream, and must've been spelled against stains, because it always seemed clean.

Pulling the hood on, I ran my fingers lightly down my body, making sure all my knives were where they were supposed to be. Then, taking the purse back from Thorn, we started down the mountain to the city.

~

Alosian cities were different then the cities in the Islands or Galla, the other places we'd been. For one thing, there was a mix of people – Kyaans and Piians and Quanis and Folk and tribesmen and humans from everyplace and all walks of life mingled in the streets, so we didn't stand out nearly as bad. For another, Alosia's royalty were different then most places. They actually seemed to care about their people, and everyone respected them, from the stuffiest noblemen to the poorest peasant. It was a nice place.

Which, of course, only meant we couldn't stay long.

This particular mountain city, hardly more then a town but busy enough we wouldn't be noticed or remembered, was named Eglantine. Another thing that set Alosian cities apart from everyplace else – they were all named after flowers.

Thorn and I ducked in between two carts pulled by shaggy mountain ponies and were able to enter the city without any trouble. Once inside the city, we split up, Thorn taking the upper half of the city and the legit Marketplace, and I taking the lower city, with its beggars and thieves and rouges and Black Market. It was the way we always did it. Thorn was a pretty boy, and human all the way back, so folks tended to trust him. Besides, he had morals – more then the rest of us, anyway, though I suppose they wouldn't measure up well against normal people. In any case, I had no such qualms.

The sky was already pink by the time I reached the lower city. As in any place, the border was indistinct at first – a couple beggar children here and there, a few knives glinting. But, again as in any place, it was obvious to anyone who'd lived on the streets where the real lower city began – the faint rune scratched onto a store front.

Street people have all kinds of signs – runes and special letters and hand signs. They vary from place to place, but even across countries, anyone familiar with them can recognize the signs. The lower city rune was always a freedom sign; in this case, three chain links, the two ends broken off.

A young man was sprawled lazily against the store front, absentmindedly cleaning out his fingernails with a wickedly curving knife. My fingers itched just looking at it. I'd always had an eye for a good knife.

He glanced at me, seemingly bored, but his eyes flickered expertly over me, taking in everything. I raised one hand and traced the Rouge's Mark in the air, the sign that would allow anyone to pass among rogues. The movement also moved the edge of my cloak aside, effectively showing off the array of knives I displayed on my belt.

The youth raised his chin challengingly, then jerked his head almost imperceptibly to the left, granting me access to the lower city. I lowered my arm, the cloak sweeping across the toes of my boots, and swept past.

I walked a bit, until I was deep inside the lower city. It was a completely different world then the upper city. There were only one or two humans, with their pale skin and hair. Even the icily cold and white-scaled Piians were far and few in between. No one dared walk unarmed; I'd yet to see anyone either foolish enough or confident enough to walk unarmed down the streets. The lower city was louder then the upper, with dogs barking and children shrieking and women bickering and men shouting, already drunk even though the sky was barely pink. The smells were stronger too – waste and slop ran in rivers down the street, and rotten bits of food and cloth were everywhere.

Remembering Arum's instructions, I pulled my hood down a little farther and stuck to the edges of the streets, where the shadowy youths hid and the painted women came out. Finally, I reached what I was looking for – a large, busy tavern.

I stepped inside, adrenaline already rushing through me. Most of the bigger fights I'd been in had started in taverns, though generally they were smaller, darker ones then this. But still, I was tense and suspicious.

But I was still in control enough to see clearly, to think rationally. I concentrated on the soft pulsing of my Fire inside of me and walked up to a man sitting alone at the counter. Leaning against the counter, I beckoned the bartender over and asked for some water. I never drink – it gives me an awful headache and takes away my control. On both of the occasions I'd been truly drunk, unpleasant things had happened. The bartender scowled at my request but filled a mug and slid it across the counter to me. I caught it easily and took a deep drink.

With my other hand, I began to idly trace the Rune of Dragons; a little trick I'd picked up in the Thief's City in Galla. Dragons were elite, those who'd managed to stay alive long enough to get attention from one of the older Dragons. Even those who weren't allowed to use the rune themselves could recognize it.

The man laid his hand next to mine, palm up, showing off the nearly clear skin. It was another thing of thieves – on the streets, if you lost a fight and weren't killed, the victor would cut a mark into your palm. The fewer scars, the better a fighter and the more respect you got. He then lifted my hand by the wrist and turned it over, examining the long, skin-tight black gloves I always more to hide my own palms.

“Pretty gloves would made it awful hard to follow a thieves fight should you lost,” the man said, his Common poor and heavily accented.

“I don't lose,” I said bluntly.

He looked me over, eyes appraising. Then, standing, his motions quick and fluid, he introduced himself. “Ahhura of the Quirimi Tribe,” he said, bowing low.

“Chida,” I said, using a name from his own language – we'd spent nearly a year with a caravan of Quirimi tribesmen – meaning “she-dragon.”

Ahhura's lips twitched up into a smile. “Welcomed to Eglantine, Chida,” he said.