Murch

As soon as he stepped out of the comforting shadow and into the street, he was immediately caught up in the mass of people. He could not stop, else he would be trampled onto the ground; there was no space to turn. All he could do was try to minimize the damage dealt by the jostling elbows. They were like persistent, sharp sticks, jabbing his ribs and nudging his arms. A fleck of spit landed near the corner of his mouth. He could hear a deep, female voice bellowing. Dust, sweat, and the stink of unwashed bodies was compressed by the merciless sun and shoved upon him like a sledgehammer. And Murch knew exactly how being hit by a sledgehammer felt.

In other words, he was not happy. Not happy at all. Alas, he could do nothing about it. It had been made very clear to him what would happen if Murch returned to his country. And since Murch valued his intestines, he would stay well away. The Council Guard's spears were long and their blade sharp; alone, he could not hope to force his way back.

Nor did he want to. Though the life of a noble did indeed have its comforts, Murch had employed his exile constructively: he had visited the Ocean of Stone, feasted with the great Vaurgh, eaten the exploder fish as the Pearl Nymphs danced below him, won discreet fortunes and lost them gambling. All in, what, four months? He would have never thought it possible.

Lost in thought, Murch was not paying attention to where, exactly, he was going. His nose brought him back to the present world when it smelled the rank odor of fish that had been in the sun for too long. It almost made him gag. The oily odor left an acrid aftertaste on his pallet, wafting through the air, and it told him he had reached the docks.

Murch stopped when he realized the flow of people wasn't quite so irresistible now. It was not yet noon, the docks were not a favored place at this time, there being few places to seek respite from the heat. Shadows fled behind smashed crates and into the deepest cracks between the warehouses, empty stalls and ghostly homes. Murch turned a corner and there it was; a vast, glittering, endless expanse: the sea.

The city was built like a hill, for indeed it was built on an irregular series of hills. The highest point, occupied by the City Hall and Keep, could be seen from all places in the city, for the 'rings' occupied progressively lower and lower levels, like a cone, in some ways. Here, the south-west, it faced onto the city. To the north and east, it faced the great plains, to the west one could go straight till the Barren Wastelands.

It was because of this peculiar construction that Murch could not yet fully see the 'end' of the city -- though in reality Kresa's influence stretched far more than its geographical borders -- as they were obscured by the last few hovels and stretches of artificial canopy. Thus, Murch's panorama was not a full one; perhaps it was preferable. Now, he could see the majestic white sails of the merchant ships unfurled, and even, if he narrowed his eyes, the tiny strips of land that were the Caeyan Islands.

Now, moved forward by his feet, he could also see the smaller, far less impressive, fishermen's crafts, bobbing along in the waves. Even there, trade was alive. He could hear the shouting, the laughter. Murch was not used to such life, such color.

He heard a particularly loud voice, and turned to see where it was coming from. A man, standing behind a wooden stall, was selling what appeared to be... tarts. With the cunning sixth sense all stall-owners seemed to possess, the man turned towards Murch and waved him over.

"Come righ' this way!" he said, loudly. "You loo' hungry, well, you' in lu'. These here a' the fines' jumperfish tar' you'll find!"

Murch winced at the atrocious accent, but moved closer nonetheless. The tarts certainly weren't like the fine foods he knew of, but he had heard something similar in his stay in the city. Unfortunately, fish was the major export of the place, and there were oh-so-many ways the inhabitants knew how to cook them. Good, juicy meat was scarce. Murch supposed that, at one point or another, he would have to try it. Now might be a good time.

"Alright then," Murch said, hesitantly, drawing closer. The tarts didn't look that bad, he had to admit. "How much is it?"

"Three khrese," the man replied. He took a tart from the slanting tray in front of the stall. It glistened with fat. He could see a whiteish grey meat-like substance peeking through a dent in the pie. Murch hoped it was fish. He really hoped it was fish. Despite his mind's insistent warnings, his mouth started to water.

Taking the tart gingerly, he was surprised at how deceptively heavy it was. He almost dropped it, but tightened his grip around the container. With the other hand, Murch sought out the required money in the satchel at his belt. His fingers closed around three coins, and he dropped them onto the man's tray. Turning, Murch walked away briskly, headed up the city. He bit into his tart absent-mindedly. It wasn't all that bad, actually. The rather sour taste of the fish was cut by the fat and oil, and he could detect subtle hints of what could have been vegetables. No, not bad at all.

Perhaps he would take a stroll through the richer quarters of the area. It was always nice to watch the water gurgle out of the saltwater fountains, and follow its path down the artificial channels.

Lost in his thoughts, again, he didn't hear the man's insistent voice calling him back. The unpleasant accent managed to break through his bubble, and Murch stopped.

That was his first mistake.

He turned again, wondering if perhaps the man owed him some change, but apparently, it was not so. The man's angry expression told him he had done something wrong.

"This isn' the righ' money, you lantern eye!" the man yelled. His face was turning purple-red. "Wha' kin' o' money is this, anyway? D'you thin' you can swindle me like tha'?!"

Murch's eyes darted to the money the fisherman was thrusting back at him. Those were sickles, not khrese. Oops. The fisherman probably didn't appreciate being handed the currency of a country many months away. He probably had never heard of it.

"My apologies, sir," he said, calmly. "I appear not to have khrese about my possession. Regardless, these should suffice. Perhaps they are even worth more, I am not up to speed with the current exchange rate."

The fisherman's eyes narrowed. Murch could practically see his brain processing what he had said. Finally, he opened his mouth again.

"THIS ISN'T THE RIGH' MONEY!"

Murch winced and tried to raise a hand in a placating manner. He tried to add something else, but was drowned out by the ruckus the man was making. A few more people were drawn to the commotion, street theater as this always being welcome.

Unfortunately, curious bystanders were not the only ones drawn to the noise.

Murch half-turned, and out of the corner of his eyes he saw the silver-and-blue uniform of the Kresa City Guard. He groaned. Great. Just great. This was not good, not good at all.

The guard too, had, apparently, recognized Murch. The stout man that headed the platoon of five waved a hand to his comrades, shouting. They turned, straightening their armor, hand dropping to their weapons in confused panic. Then they too saw Murch.

"Thief! Stop!"

Murch darted away, heedless of the fisherman's distressed calls. Shit, shit shit shit. As he stepped sideways, not sure precisely where he was going but knowing he was going somewhere, Murch analyzed the situation. There were five guards and only one of him. He did not know the dock area very well, and couldn't see any immediate escape routes. Unlike the heart of Kresa, this area had no handy alleys one could simply melt into. There were, however, many a hanging rope, washlines, and overhanging rooftops. Determined, murch followed his instinct. He kept heading forward, parallel to the blockade of stalls, towards what would have been the sea. He heard the shouts of the guards and a few screams, as it seemed people would seize any opportunity to scream.

Breath coming out heavily, Murch kept on running. His boot-clad feet pounded the uneven cobblestones heavily. He feared he would dislocate an ankle, but had more pressing issues to deal with at the moment. His sprint, however, was soon cut short, for Murch faced a split in his path. The road continued straight, yet one alley lead to the side. He thought he could discern a third, even narrower, passage, formed by several haphazardly stacked poles and crates. Perhaps he could squeeze through that, then head up. Surely there was a climbable roof somewhere.

Murch was about to head through the passage, when he heard the clink of armor. Sure enough, a guard turned the alley and saw the cloak-clad 'thief'. There was a split second where the two men stared at each other. Murch's eyes widened, and the guard opened his mouth.

Time seemed to slow as the guard let out a yell. Acting in that split second, Murch threw himself upon the guard, drawing his short, double-edged blade. The unfortunate man barely had the time to parry the first blow, but Murch's sudden fury was too much. A quick feint to the leg, and Murch stabbed upwards, blade striking the chink in the guard's mail. The sword went up the groin, and the guard screamed, eyes wide. Grabbing his shoulder, Murch pulled his blade out and stabbed again, into his throat, burying the steel almost up to the hilt.Hot blood poured out of the wound, the hungry blade drinking up its prize, soaking through Murch's skin. Roaring triumphantly, Murch slashed the sword outwards, sending another spray of blood flying. Kicking the body away, Murch continued straight.

Heart beating, blood pumping, Murch did not think. He did not hesitate, he did not falter. This was when he truly lived. The thrill of the hunt, the bile in his mouth, the energy flowing through his veins. Truly a man only lived as he fought.

Unfortunately, the guards knew the docks better. Murch, out of the corner of his eye, saw one guard keeping pace with him on the rooftops, and heard jangling behind him. There was a sort of labyrinthine sense to the area, then, but it was one he had not figured out.

Murch slowed slightly, still dripping blood. The guard above saw this as a sign of weakness, or perhaps confusion, and grinned. They could fight, but the City Guard always knew their turf better. Motioning with a hand to his fellow, the guard fell down from above, shield raised protectively at mid guard, sword raised.

Murch noticed, and put on an appropriate and sudden burst of speed, willing his battle-lust to augment his movements. He felt the familiar, pleasant kick, and was able to outrun the guard, who crashed onto the floor with a sickening crunch of steel and flesh. Apparently used to such impromptu lands, however, the guard managed to turn the fall into a roll at the very last second, waving the sword in the air.

Unheeding, Murch continued on his way, readying his blade at high-guard as he saw a shadow lurking behind the entrance to another road. Sure enough, there was a flash of light, and a sword lunged at him. Murch put weight into his left foot and jumped sideways, towards the alarmed guard. Their blades locked with a crash, and there was a sudden struggle for balance. Murch put an end to it by raising his fist, and with a savage scream, incandescent lightning burst into life at his palm. By the sudden flickering non-light, Murch saw the guard's terrified expression. Glorious fire pouring through him, Murch released his pent-up emotions, still yelling. The lightning flared into one painfully bright, powerful point, and Murch punched the guard squarely in the face. The guard barely managed one blood-curdling howl of excruciating agony before the smell of charred flesh filled the air. Blood and grey matter were splattered forcefully onto the wall, and flaps of skin hung from what remained of the guard's body. An exhilarated laugh escaped Murch. For that one instant, he felt all-powerful.

It was gone as soon as it had come. Chest wracked by spasms, Murch staggered away, limping, head down. If he could just... reach that alley, or something. Perhaps he would find shelter... perhaps the reinforcements would not arrive in time. Perhaps he was not being a foolish, hopeful idiot. Murch doubted it, but staggered into an alley nonetheless.

There was the schink of a blade being drawn, and suddenly, the sharp cold of a point being pressed to his neck. Murch tensed, but he was slammed into a wall, and what he assumed to be a knee held him firm. His arm that wasn't currently smashed was bent back until Murch cried out in pain as his limb burned.

"You have no idea how much trouble you're in," a haggard voice breathed.