Author's Note: Well, been a while since my last chapter. Sorry about that! Had multiple dance workshops, dance summer school, and dance auditions... because I'm definitely not dance crazy or anything. :-) So, will be elaborating a bit more on the general timeline of Katja's life and her synesthesia, as well as introducing some more actual PoR characters. One of my favorites and one of the (in my opinion) most interesting. Updates will most probably NOT become more frequent, unfortunately, since school is starting soon and have dance lessons EVERY night after school. Reviews motivate me and give me ideas though, whether you mean to give me ideas or not, so they are quite welcome! Even negative reviews are welcome, because it's your opinion and you have a moral responsibility to tell me when my writing sucks. Seriously. DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES TELL ME I AM GOOD IF I AM NOT! Now, because I am quite certain that the few of you who read these notes are not doing so for my (cue sarcasm) considerable charm and personality (end sarcasm), This author's note is now terminated!
I quickly duck around a corner, cursing my luck. There are six or seven wanted posters up, and at least three of them had sketches of me on them. Sure they're horrible and don't look a lot like me, but all you need is a slight resemblance and suddenly people pay very close attention to anyone fitting even part of the description.
Come on, think!
Street is filled with people, but none of them have black hair- what the hell are the odds of that anyway?- so I can't draw attention by yelling to the guards. If I go out there without anything to disguise myself, I'll be recognized and forced to run, but at the same time, I can't cover my face because that looks conspicuous. What to do, what to do… I estimate, based on the poor resemblance I bear to the sketch, or it to me or whatever, that I have about three minutes of free time to walk about before someone spots me and alerts the guards. If I remember correctly- and I hope that I do- there is an herbalist on the other side of the street… there!
I slide out of the alley, making my way over to the shop. I'm careful to make sure that my hair remains tucked behind my ears, since the sketch shows me with hair covering half of my face. Sure that's useful if you're running away from someone and you need to look different fast, but I don't wear it like that when I'm out and about. I need to be able to see my surroundings. Idiot sketch artist, I love you right now. Don't go getting any skills now, you hear?
Once I'm inside the shop, the herbalist looks up at me. I recognize him, I actually worked for him when I was younger, albeit under the name Matilda. Why Matilda? No idea, other than I was really fond of having boyish nicknames at that point. As a result, the herbalist calls me by the name he used when I worked for him.
"Mattie? Oh, it has been a while, hasn't it! Come in, come in, make yourself comfortable!"
I allow myself a small smile. Kraun is someone else I don't mind having around to help keep me human. He's a contact, so I don't think he counts on the very short list of people I care about, but I do work hard to keep him from getting caught. Mostly because I care if he's caught. After all, who else is going to help me with disguises when I need to run?
"Long time no see, Kraun."
"Well, what do you need his time, Mattie? Go on and spit it out, I haven't all day," the man pushes me behind a beaded curtain- he always did like adhering to clichés about herbalists- to the back room where he keeps his "potions."
The room is filled with smoke from burning green wood and incense, almost choking me before I get used to it, and its walls are nothing but shelf. Seriously, there isn't any actual wall, it's just shelves from floor to ceiling. The shelves are filled with jars and other containers, with some clothes sitting around here and there. I've already started my mental checklist- fake scar, dirt, new clothes, and some jewelry. If I play my cards right, I may even be able to wear a crop top-
Never mind. Stupid wings!
"Right, I'll need a scar beside my lip, cover the ones on my wrist, and new clothes. Gypsy should work well, but I can't have any skin showing."
Kraun frowns.
"Mattie, gypsy only works with some midriff showing. If you want a more conservative one, I have a top with the back covered, but the front cuts off just under the bust line."
I allow a grin to grace my face.
"That's perfect Kraun. Now, find those clothes and I'll get to work scarring my pretty face," I smirk. My pretty face isn't really all that pretty, but whatever. I think it's funny, in any case.
As Kraun shuffles off to find me a new shirt, I look in the mirror. A young woman with short black hair, green eyes, and pale skin stares back at me. I really can't be considered pretty, because my hair is too short for a woman and green is not necessarily a sought-after eye colour. Also, I have absolutely no skills other than stealing things and killing people and lying to cover my ass. Seriously, I can't cook, clean, sew, knit, or anything else that a wife should be able to do. My social skills are horrible and my sense of humour is morbid. All in all, not really somebody you'd want to hang out with unless you don't mind keeping one eye open at all times.
By the time Kraun gets back, I have a scar on my right cheekbone and one beside my lip, a small x. The scars on my wrists are covered by stacks of bracelets for the left and a wrap for the longer cut on the right. I never had much use for make-up- all the coloured paints, the kohl-lined eyes, the reddened lips- until I learned that it could be used to change my appearance more than clothes ever could, disguise me. Now, I carry it around in my knapsack, along with my knuckles and healing supplies.
"Here you are Mattie." Kraun hands me the shirt, a pair of loose pants, and a bandana for my hair. The bandana is multi-coloured, and I feel silly wearing something so bright, but after putting the rest of the outfit on and letting Kraun mess around with some kohl liner, the end result is pretty decent. I definitely pass for a gypsy, though not necessarily an attractive one. Even for gypsies I'm not a good fit, but it doesn't really matter. Most people wouldn't know what "real" gypsies are like anyway, though they like to think that they do. In any case, it doesn't matter whether I look the part; I just need to act the part.
I check in the mirror to make sure my wings are covered, thank Kraun sweetly, and exit the shop. I'll send him some gold later, but I need to get a move on. Jessob is probably waiting for me.
Once out in the street, I walk in amongst the people for a bit before buying a random ring and disappearing down an alleyway. After wandering the backstreets for a bit, mostly trying to throw off anyone who might be following me, I come to an abandoned house. Since Jessob hasn't tried to pick my pocket yet, he'll be waiting for me here. If he isn't here, then he got picked up by some family and he'll check here at some point within a week.
I open the door quietly and am immediately assaulted by a six year old boy.
Jessob throws his arms around my waist and squeezes as hard as he can, as though he isn't ever going to let go of me again. It always amazes me, his innocence; he doesn't care that his arms are under my shirt, touching the Brand on my back, doesn't care that I'm not really his sister, doesn't care that I disappear for weeks, sometimes months on end. It doesn't matter to him that I don't have a job, that I used to be scarred, or that I'm not fit to be called human. He doesn't give a damn that I'm filth, that I'm nothing, that I will never be anything. I am the only person who gave him everything I had when I didn't even have enough for myself and loved him enough to do it over and over again, and in his eyes, that makes me everything.
I hug him back, pressing his head to my stomach, feeling his exhales warming my skin and his inhales cooling it. I hear another set of breaths coming from the doorway to my right, and glance over to see who's there. A familiar face looks back at me, a man with a blond ponytail and blue eyes who has an annoying tendency to slip in and out of iambic pentameter when speaking, especially around nobles or people of importance.
"How wonderful of you to visit us," he smiles.
"Long time no see, Bastian," I reply. He had taken care of me after my rescue from slavery, since my mother was dead and my father was nowhere to be found. Not that I'd want to go with him- he left my mother, abandoned us, and if I ever see him I'll try my damned hardest to kill him. As it is, Bastian made a good substitute father, although we usually didn't see eye to eye. Still, he took care of me and taught- well, attempted to teach- me some manners.
He also introduced me to tea, for which I am eternally grateful.
"Indeed," he answers. As he strides over to where I'm standing with Jessob's arms around me like a belt, I see a shadow flick across the doorway. I'm not entirely sure that I actually saw it, but I've learned to trust my gut in this particular matter, especially if Bastian is around.
"Hello to you too, Volke," I call. I get no answer, of course, but Bastian's eyes flick over his shoulder. For a man who gambles frequently, his tells are pretty obvious.
Jessob finally breaks off our hug and looks up at me. He signs that he missed me and that he has been staying here with Bastian and "the sneaky silent man" while I was away. His fingers move through the signs fluidly, almost hypnotizing me with the rhythm. I wave away his questions, telling him I'll answer them later, and send him to the bedroom. Once he's gone, I lean against the wall sigh; as much as I hate this part of coming home to a Bastian-looked-after Jessob, it needs to be done.
"Why are you here? I swear, if you've been using the place to give Volke his contracts…"
I leave threat unfinished because that's all it is, a threat. I have no intention of doing anything except shaming Bastian into humility and glaring at Volke until I get frustrated with his lack of response. The man gets under my skin in a way that not even Scarface could. Whenever he's around I get the feeling that he's studying me, comparing me to something or someone else. It makes me uncomfortable, like there's a thousand spiders crawling over my skin, and his voice feels like the sharp edge of a dagger being drawn across my skin so lightly that it sends shivers down my spine. That being said, sometimes it feels like a warm hug, like my mother used to do when I had nightmares, but stronger and more protective. It's like that with most people- they're moods change how their voices feel. Bastian's is usually like sitting in the sun on a really hot day, so warm that it almost burns. But when he's gambling, it suddenly becomes cool, like the first few snowflakes on your skin in winter. I've never felt Kraun's voice because all the spices and things that he burns give me a headache and mess with my senses.
But none of this has anything to do with why Bastian is back in Daein.
"I shouldn't need reasons to visit you," he starts, but I don't let him finish.
"Don't give me that bull about me being the daughter of a good friend and about just wanting to see me. Last time we did this dance the world was turned to stone and there was war against the goddess. Then, you were hunting that madman Izuka. So what is it this time?"
Volke walked through the entryway, startling me. He look directly at me and, against all my expectations, gave me a straight answer to my question.
"We're here to talk to Sothe and Micaiah about a Branded uprising in Crimea."