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CHAPTER THREE - FEXT
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Three drinks in and Charles regretted everything he'd ever done.
Not, exactly, because he ended up drunk; it took a lot of alcohol to get Charles drunk and three drinks was not it. No, three drinks in and Charles ended up sitting in a booth facing a fext, boxed in by a draugr, and cornered by a strzyga.
Apparently, three drinks in and it was the Day of the Dead.
And the fext was staring. He had his arms crossed on the table and was hunched over them, looking terribly lazy and self-assured, a half-smile on his face and eyes focused unerringly on Charles' face. He hadn't said anything. The draugr had hauled Charles up from where he was sitting, chatting up Mila, and pushed him into the booth across from the fext, grinning toothily all the while. The strzyga had shown up, fire in her eyes, and taken the seat next to the fext. None of them had spoken. Charles, patient as he was, had settled in to wait and returned the fext's intent stare.
Charles spoke first.
"So." he said, nearly an hour later. He'd watched Mila get up and leave a half hour ago, waving goodbye as she went. The only person still here from when he'd come in was the bartender. "Want to help me?"
The fext grinned, a horrible expression pulling at his scarred face, and spread his hands in front of him, palms up.
"Depends on what it is you want help with." the strzyga answered for him. The fext wasn't a talker, then. Good to know.
"I've learned there are a couple of incoming apocalypses," Charles said plainly, focusing intently on the fext. It really didn't matter who overheard — not-folk were inherently paranoid, and it certainly wouldn't hurt for any of them to know what was happening. He still stiffened slightly when the nearby tables quieted to openly eavesdrop. "I went and dropped by the Rat King, had a couple of questions for him, and he was very clear about the end times approaching. As it happens, I'm not, well, a general. It is in my interests to make sure the not-folk make it through the apocalypses, though. So," he spread his hands in offering, "are you game?"
The fext's lips quirked and shifted into a far more genuine smile. He didn't look surprised. Neither did the strzyga, who only leaned forward to look a little more threatening. "And why do you think he would help you?"
"I don't," Charles said honestly, "I've heard a little about fext, about how well you plan and how strong you are, and I figured it was worth an ask. I don't mean to play pretend and suggest a higher purpose or striving for the better good or whatever's popular these days; however, I'm certain this is going to affect all of us one way or the other. You can't just avoid an apocalypse, after all; but I'm hoping that if nothing else, not-folk'll still be around."
"Idealistic," the fext said through the strzyga. "You're implying not-folk have identity. That we aren't just a thousand different creatures somewhere between living and dead. That we care about one another. Do you? Do you care?"
Charles' brow furrowed, wasn't it— oh. "I thought you knew," Charles said, surprised, "I'm Charles Blakely."
The fext sank back into his seat, head tilted to the side. He —the strzyga, really— was silent, staring. "Well," the strzyga finally said, a strange note to her voice. Charles wondered if it was from her or the fext. "I guess you do care, Director Blakely."
"I'm not sure anyone has ever called me Director Blakely," Charles said honestly, "I run Inbetween Houses, not government agencies. Look, I know well enough 'world-saving' isn't something most people are interested in. I don't think it should be. But… I'd appreciate a little bit of advice."
"You realize, Charles, that we don't advise people on how to run orphanages and houses for not-folk. We don't do charity work," the strzyga pointed out calmly, "We kill people. We plan wars. Is that what you want to bring to your Inbetween Houses?"
"Well, war and murder are what the Inbetween Houses came from. What's a little more?" Charles shrugged.
His three companions grinned unpleasant, vicious grins. Charles couldn't help but join in.
—
Charles woke up with a migraine. Given that he'd ended up drinking the nastiest goddamned mead that had ever been made to seal a deal, it wasn't surprising. It was somewhat more surprising to realize that the strzyga had at some point in the night decided to drape herself across his chest, sharp claws a little too close to Charles' throat for his comfort. Her feathers tickled. At least they were both fully dressed. Charles still shoved her off of him, carefully crawling out from beneath her feathered arms, slipping off the bed he wasn't entirely sure who belonged to and immediately tripping over the draugr sprawled across the floor.
The draugr woke up with a groan and muttered curse, batting an irritated hand at Charles' leg before rolling over and sleeping again. Charles was pretty sure he'd learned his name the day before — it started with a S, of that he was sure. Sam? Sammy? It was a very modern name. The fext's name was maybe Nick and the strzyga was Fenny. He remembered the strzyga's name most clearly — more than possibly because it was short for Fennec, as in fennec fox, and that was just really cute. Charles had always thought the not-folk naming tendencies were simultaneously adorable and, when they wanted to be, horrifying.
Fenny was surprisingly nice, though. The draugr Charles had just woken up not so much.
"Sorry," Charles whispered, stumbling to his feet and looking around the dark room. It took him a minute to recognize it as one of the attic rooms of his nearest Inbetween House. So apparently Charles had been the one to pick where they left to… which he still didn't quite remember. Maybe-Nick wasn't there, so Charles crept out of the room and closed the door quietly behind him.
He took a deep breath through his nose, searching for the soft long-dead-alive fext scent, and wandered quietly down the stairs. Judging by the silent House (and muffled snores) it was likely early morning, which meant the people who were awake would be on the lowest floor. And Maybe-Nick would probably be there too… unless he'd ditched his companions, which Charles doubted given how close they'd been the night before, so he went to check downstairs.
Sure enough, there he was, sitting on the kitchen counter with a glass of water resting between his legs and watching with blank eyes as the few other nocturnal inhabitants of the House played a surprisingly quiet round of Just Dance (quiet if you excluded the swears and loud footfalls as they tripped over each other).
Charles hated Just Dance. Not watching others play (dance?) it, but participating. He'd made the mistake of buying a copy after a really young salamander had asked him to — in his defence, the fire spirit had really convincing puppy-eyes — and the kid had somehow wrangled the entire House into doing regular Just Dance competitions, and Charles couldn't just not participate. He'd broken his ankle.
Sure, it healed fast. Sure, it was far from the worst injury he'd ever received. Sure, the salamander had looked at him with the most endearing expression he'd ever seen and babbled out the most hysterical apology Charles had ever heard, but he'd still broken his ankle playing Just Dance.
At least they never asked him to play again.
And, apparently, they weren't quite brave enough to badger a fext into playing (although the salamander was diurnal and the two probably hadn't met yet). It did make it convenient to boost himself up onto the counter next to the fext, who only acknowledged him with a brief glance.
"Do Fenny and…" Charles searched for the other name, panicking for a moment, "and Sammy regularly invert their sleep schedules? Do you?"
The fext side-eyed him and gave a little half shrug. No, then… or maybe. Or he was dismissing Charles. Charles wasn't bold enough to ask if he could look into the other's mind.
"I only wanted to know when the best time to talk to you would be," Charles continued breezily, "Of course, had I not somehow ended up unconscious I'd sleep through the day, but now my schedule will be doomed for the rest of the day. I do have a lot of paperwork to catch up on, so I guess it's not so bad. Not to mention I should probably take the time to listen to my diurnal… tenants? No, they don't pay rent. A decade of this and I still haven't come up with a name."
"Really, though, when would be the best time to talk about…" Charles trailed off at the fext's amused look. "Did I already give you all the details?"
The fext's grin was wide and too-sharp. Charles looked at him and absolutely didn't panic. "When?" Charles asked warily, only to get a shrug in answer.
"Well, I guess I'll need Fenny here to go over anything important again… preferably where I can take notes, and preferably sometime I'll actually remember the conversation." Charles said as measured as he could manage. "Chrissakes, I'm nearly eight-hundred years old. How did I manage to forget last night?" he said aside, ignoring the fext's pleased hum. It took a single moment for Charles to feel all hope of a conversation with the fext shrivel as he heard a young girl's excited shout from the living (now dance) room.
"Charlie!" Aliza squealed excitedly, materializing in front of Charles and flung herself into the older man's arms, feet inadvertently kicking him in the stomach. "Charlie, when did you find Nikai? He's really nice — he said he'd show me how to inflict terror!"
"Did he—"
"Yeah!" the little kobold immediately interrupted, "And he said he'd help me move Through things since you're never around to do it and Micah's really bad at it and he also said you were sleeping but you never sleep so I think he might have been lying about that—"
"Aliza, slow—"
"—so I told him that and he said that telling old codgers like him that they were lying is very rude and I learned a new word! Did you know that codger means old man and saying old codgers is redundy 'cause codgers already means that they're old and you're basically saying old old man and I asked if you were an old codger and he said that he didn't know how old you were and Micah also doesn't know how old you are and I was gonna ask Kira but she doesn't wake up until morning and usually I'm sleeping at morning and I didn't want to bother her and—"
"Aliza!" Charles interjected sharply, taking a slow breath until she quieted and mimicked him. "Thank you. I only found Nikai yesterday, and I didn't know kobolds could inflict terror, but I wish you the best of luck learning with him. I don't know how much of a help he'll be in teaching you to move Through things as you're a kobold and kobolds can't teleport in any form, although again I hope that lesson goes well. I was in fact sleeping, and yes Nikai is right in saying that calling 'old codgers' liars tends to be rude. I did know codger meant 'old man,' but I hadn't thought about how that would make 'old codger' redundant, so thank you for explaining that to me. I likely do qualify as an old codger, and Micah was lying to you, he does know how old I am. Lastly, thank you for not bothering Kira, she gets fussy when woken too early in the morning."
Aliza gaped. Nikai — since that was the fext's name, apparently — chuckled next to them. It was an awful scratchy noise, but Charles had heard more terrifying laughter from his mother. Figuratively, at least. Charles didn't remember his mother that well.
"Oh." the kobold said dumbly, "Well. Thanks."
Charles grinned as she turned and walked back to her dance group, looking somewhat stunned. He took the time to watch her babble something to Micah before awkwardly standing behind the group and rejoining on the next round.
He breathed deeply, and turned back to the fext — to Nikai.
"So, war. Apocalypses. Don't suppose you have any ideas for a plan?" Charles asked tentatively. The fext gave a half-shrug, but his eyes gleamed with a surety and confidence Charles hoped was affirmation. If it wasn't… Well, Charles didn't want to think about the alternatives.