Jack Noir stumbled up to the dust-clogged ruins of yet another desecrated hive. At least, he was pretty sure that's what those snot-nosed troll kids called their houses. Her was certain he'd heard the nubby-horned one say it at least once, but he was missing the point. It was getting dark, and if he didn't find some shelter soon, some of the nastier beasties that roamed the desert by night would eat him for breakfast. He also wouldn't mind some food, speaking of which. The former archagent couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten something. Last time he checked, that wasn't good.
The building in question was missing a roof and two of four walls, causing it's innards to be innebrated with rainbow sand. From his vantage point about twenty feet away, Jack could see a long-since abandoned parlor, amd what promisingly appeared to be a kitchen. If he was lucky, some of the more appealing cans of troll food would be untouched; if not, well, maybe there'd be some unfortunate dead thing to gnaw on.
The Dersite approached the nearest entrance cautiously, wary of monsters and fellow exiles alike. With the shiv stored securely in his rags, he was sure he could take just about anyone in a fight, unless the Brute went rogue or something. But he had left the rest of his crew miles behind him. Droll had gotten himself stuck in a deceptive bit of quicksand, and patience had never been one of Jack's virtues. When it was clear that the dimunuitive man wasn't going to be free within the next ten minutes, he'd abandoned the others to catch up later. They weren't really that far behind, assuming they'd actually managed to pry the little guy out— or left him to suffocate.
Noir ducked under a slab of fallen brickwork and found himself in a dining room. The old wood table that gave the room its name even still sat decaying in the middle of the space. Jack worked his way around it and continued on into the kitchen. To his dismay, he found the place largely picked over. Every single one of the cabinets was either doorless or thrown open, with various empty cans strewn about with no real pattern. The man just shook his head and continued. Possibly whoever had been here last had missed something.
Jack kicked gutted food containers out of his way as he trudged across the room. The sort of bone weariness that spawned from hours of walking under the blazing Alternian sun was starting to set in, and he would be happy to just curl up in a corner and sleep for a solid twelve hours. The sort of hollow feeling in his stomach contradicted, causing him to search every nook and cranny of the room, even throwning open the tiny pantry in hope of something, anything at all. It was no use; this kitchen was barren.
The archagent knew he shouldn't be dissapointed, but he was. He'd let himself get his hopes up, and now he was going to spend another night starving. He sat down heavily on a warped pieced of furniture that might have been a couch in a past life, but now resembled little more that boards held together by persistant desert mold. This was just what he needed, yet another restless night tossing and turning as he fought the urge to lop off his own arm and use it as sustenance. He lay back, warranting a groan from the couch, and let out a deep sigh.
This was all her fault. Jack didn't care if he had managed to get his once-queen exiled to this same god-forsaken chunk of rock a good week before he was banished. The Black Queen was responsible. She always was. Some day, he'd get her back, some day, he'd find her and make her pay. Some day, he'd do a lot of things, but getting his hopes up again when they'd be shot down again at any moment would only make a piss-poor evening worse. What he needed was something solid, something that'd give him the strength to go on for another day. And he thought he knew where he might find it.
Jack had been eying the staircase for a number of minutes now, debating upon whetjer or not they'd hold his weight. They looked sturdy enough, but then again, so had the quicksand that Droll was stuck in. What the hell, he decided. Worst case scenario, the stairs broke and he snapped his neck on impact. At this point, he didn't even care. The exile rose with an inner fortitude he didn't know he had and made his way to the steps.
The first one was as stable as anyone could expect, protesting only minimally when Noir mounted it. He gingerly put his weight on the next, and then the next, continuing on in as careful a way as he could. Before he knew it, he was at the top, looking out across the largely floorless expanse of the upper story. At first glance, there was nothing terribly interesting. An old, rusted metal bathtub, a cable draped over the far wall, and a bundle of tarp and rags in the corner to his left.
Taking absolutely nothing for granted, Jack eased his way toward the cloth mound along the wall, suspicious of the minimal surface to stand there. He needn't have worried. He got to his objective without a hitch. Wait a minute, he warned himself, something could be living in that pile of rags. Sticking a foot out, he toed the outermost blanket away— and couldn't believe his eyes.