I recognise that this work was produced on the traditional lands of the Kaurna and Ngadjuri peoples.
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There was a blinding, disorientating, explosion of noise, light, and smell.
Wetness and thick brine; permeating depths and popping into sinuses: drowning sound.
Victoria was blinking, taking in the sudden dark and damp from her new position- folded almost clean in half.
What?- the only thought one ought to have in such a situation, truly.
WHAT!? Something's small, round, and strangely elastic bumped against her face; bumped again and again over her arms and legs and torso. She moved her limbs, pushing out scarcely half a foot before encountering a barrier, which, upon the brushing of her palm and of the pads of her fingers, she realised was wooden. The slightly springy, almost soggy, inlays and groves giving the material away. She tried to raise her head, to stretch herself out and to stand, only to be meet the same impediment an inch latter.
Fu- what?
She opened her eyes managing a squint; her mouth opened dumbly and promptly closed as she tried not to gag, grimacing at the taste of the devilish liquid which rushed to fill it. Vinegar and some other repulsive agent.One of those small elastic things bumped against her lip again. Intent on realising the fullness of her current predicament she reached for it in the clandestine submerged cramped space and brought it to her lips for a bite- trying desperately not to let any of the liquid in- sucking the flexing shape into her mouth.
Egg- Her face screwed up in the blackness. That most putrid rotten and forsaken thing; egg! Ugh, and of the pickled variety at that.
She was in a container then? She checked again the parameter of her confinement; it had to be less than a meter squared. And it was round and stout, so, a container for sure.
Was… was she in a barrel?
But- how?
Deep reverberations bounced through the barrel cutting her from her panic. They moved through the loathsome liquid creating a lazily dull hum that alternated between the high and low frequencies and non-too gently permeated throughout her skull. Tapping on the exterior, she supposed. Well then; She tapped back, nails scraping along the seeped wood.
This situation is utter butters.
And as sudden as her arrival, her lightless world shifted- right- and she was falling, even in the stasis of this thick obnoxious fluid.
Victoria flinched as her centre of gravity lurched downwards before coming to a sudden stop, the pressure forcing the top of the supposed barrel to fly off, the force of the liquid spilling out flinging her out with it, into flickering light.
She pulled herself out the rest of the way, sliding and crawling out onto worn smooth planks of wood, rendering the eggs beneath her to mush.
She lay there, drenched, half on her hands and knees, half folded into herself breathing hard. Taking a moment. Staring.
Between the gaps in the planks of wood she could see water churning to its tide.
The stench clung to her clothes. She gaged.
She sat up and crossed her legs, throwing off her coat, trying to ignore how her once loose cotton clothes now clinging and soggy felt on her skin.
There was someone behind her, only a few meters away she could tell; could feel it along the back of her neck in the hairs prickling.
She crawled a few feet down the planks, away from the mess, from the stranger, before shaking her head side to side and breathing the salt and brine in the air. Victoria looked up, unseeing, then down with a shuddering intake of lungful of air. Fuck, OK.
She could now smell recognise the salt and brine as being from the ocean, hear the movement of water beneath her, and read by the stars and blackness woven into the water's reflections, that it was night…
Where the hell am I? She looked up, taking in her surroundings. What the fuck happened? Nothing she could see made any sense.
But this place… She was on a dock, that much was clear to tell. A dock lit by grimed oil lanterns oozing the tang of burning whale fat as well as coal braziers, both small and mounted and large and squat on the ground. Their odour was distinct. And the ships; row boats, barges, ferries, and actual sailing ships- all made of wood, not a single material hinting to fiberglass, steel or plastic just wood woven and hammered into shape.
It didn't make sense – and there were no motors either, just powerful looking oars and large multicoloured robust sails. They- all of them- swam along the wide length of water her dock was squat above. Rather 'docks', placed all along this stretch of water, along both banks. The ships where crawling with people, even at this hour, all working to maintain their vessel, their drunkenness, and their heading.
The person behind her shifted. But they would be made to wait, she needed to try to understand this.
She could see more clearly to her left that the dock sat above a channel which snaked deep into a surrounding settlement – and what a settlement it was!
It seemed to rise from all around her lowest point on the planks over the water; ramshackle homes crawling over top each other in a meandering stumbling assent, before suddenly meeting a cliff- the border- clearly hued into and quarried, lights flicking within. Her eyes followed its curve coming around smoothly in its titanic size so that she had to twist her back to follow. There were more homes there, on her side of the dock, though slightly less haphazard, they still went clambering up to the cliff, becoming more and more sturdy, deliberate, and expensive as they moved.
Those at the top where more than homes; each were large and ostentatious manors. Where that which now stood behind her had climbed, these glamorous things simply glided up. One even seemed a keep, buttresses and all. There was a massive stair commanding a path all the way through this elevated and manicured section of city, through a brief levelled second tier, down to, possibly, only several tens of blocks away from where she sat.
It was beautiful in the juxtaposition it cut ragged into this rising place. The cliff circling it all ended in a narrow crack thirty or so kilometres away from her dock. Suppose that's where the waters coming from? Unless they mined into a natural bore? No, too salty. In the truest sense the settlement sat in a bowl, half their city and half the seas.
But the structures… The technology… It was as if she had been stuffed through in time, not a barrel. But then maybe she had? She couldn't remember how she came to be in such a container, after all.
She held back a scoff. Hardly compelling evidence.
Yet she was unable to withhold a wistful sighed at the sight, before forcing herself to consider the other person. She relaxed herself and calmly tuned her neck to observe them.
There, a strongly built man was standing only two meters away, looming tall even stooped over as he was.
His was rough looks; rugged and dark, practical and cheap. Something lurking in his eyes, in the man's clear lack of self-care, in the stubble and oily hair. His eyes were bloodshot, bruised with bags- his brow married with worry lines.
Suddenly, it occurred to her, he was young despite the clear scares of age, twenty years old at most. Strange- what had happened to him to weary him so? What had he done to himself? Harsh living? Substance abuse? Physical abuse? Maybe a genetic condition?
He stumbled forward a foot and into the torchlight, grey eyes blown wide and pupils dilated. It hit her then- he smelt off- some crass aftershave, then coppery liquorish followed by some artificial flavour that made her think of blue – and the alcohol, he smelt very strongly of alcohol. So, substance abuse now, if not in the past.
"Oi" he… garbled?
Ugh.
She rose to her feet in a single smooth action, and he stumbled back that foot. He wore simple linens, died bright blue and stained to hell, simple stretched leggings and worn boots- she could see a hole in the right's heel. Poor too, then. From what she could see of his arms, his hands, they were decorated in calluses and scars- and a rather curious burn on his bicep, almost to his elbow… localised and deep and telling of some deliberateness… that or he was trapped by something heavy and burning. The marks of copious physical labour?
His hands twitched. I'm miss- ah- those are neat enough scares as to be from a sharp bladed 'thing'. So, a fighter maybe…
There's so many-Onetwothreefourfivesixandtheforearmseveneightninetenandtheotherarmeleventwelve-
She forced him from her mind, turning to him her back so she could examine the barrel and stain of pickled eggs, her clothes barely shifting their wet grip against her.
Victoria supressed a wince, even as her brow twitched; if it weren't for the overwhelming scent of the ocean she would have gaged again.
"What the hell wha- were you doing in that?" The man continued.
She bent over and gripped the rim of the barrel, pulling it up right before looking inside, no markings, she checked the outside before tilting the container onto its axis, and spinning it slowly- nothing.
"You deaf woman?"
She pushed it over again, nothing on the bottom.
The stranger made a second attempt at stepping closer, so she turned to confront him.
"Excuse me, but where am I?"
Predictably, he stopped then squinted.
"Th' docks, clearly." He muttered, stuttering over the '-cks', drunkenly overemphasising the sound. He'd had corrected his posture while she had been turned away, standing now at his full hight, somewhere around 6'3. Were this man sober, a woman might be afraid to come into his company so late into the night.
Victoria smiled in a bid to disarm him before replying, soft and shy. "Of course; the docks, but the dock of which settlement, yes?"
Something shifted in his eyes. "Kirkwall, miss." His voice was somewhat deep, although strangely, it was also rather nasally as if his nose had been perpetually blocked for some time. Something obstructing the nasal cavities perhaps? Polyps?
She smiled a little more brightly before more loudly continuing "thank you" and looking away from his face- down casting her eyes, and lightly bunching her brow.
A practiced act.
"Do you mind if, well, that is, might I have your name?"
He shifted to cross his arms, lightly soothing along his biceps with is scared fingers, brushing over the old burn.
"Sampson miss. Might I ask for yours?" He parroted.
Interesting. His accent held notes of an English inflection, the way his vows came out and his tongue curled around the 'i' in 'Might-'
She smiled a little wider again, almost grinning, letting her voice rise. "Victoria Chen, Sampson. And a pleasure to meet you!"
She stooped to pick up her sodden coat and fold it over the crook in her arm, then moved to walk up the dock towards the warn stone of the wharf and streets beyond. Yet he coughed before she could pass him.
And she felt a strong urge to face him again.
When he realised he had her attention again he moved his arms down loosely to his side and smiled, revelling partially rotten teeth, continuing their conversation.
"And yous as well, Lady Chen… You know, I've not heard that before; 'Chen'. 'S that Rivaini?" That glint had returned to his eyes.
Rivaini?
She could not stop her eyebrow from twitching – he wasn't going to let her oddity go, it would seem… did he have a knife in reach? Is that why he lowered his hands, and- smiling to disarm her in turn?
"Rivaini, Sampson? No. No it isn't." I don't think, at least. She wanted to take a looser stance but didn't for fear of tipping him off. It wouldn't be too favourable an event, not when he stood there, a possibly trained and dangerous drunk without inhibition. Very messy.
He made to speak, so Victoria spoke first.
"Say, did you see who happened to stuff me into that barrel?" She took a step towards said barrel – a step away from him – to better point at it with her unloaded arm.
"Hol- no, I didn't." He walked forward in an ungraceful gait although she realised that he didn't seem half as drunk as he had only a moment before.
"Fortunate I came around when I did, though, tha' couldn't have been comfort'able I take it?"
He stepped closer again, only two feet away.
"Being stuffed into barrel like that Lady Chen," he loomed, "what with the lack of air an' all."
He was reaching for something, slowly- something tucked into his belt.
She took a step towards him, closing the gap and he tensed so slightly she scarcely noticed, fingers flexing, tremor in his jaw.
She held his gaze.
"You must have made a mistake, you have been drinking, Sampson, I fell out from behind the barrel – I had been resting against it, see?" And something relaxed, and something pulled.
The tension left him, twitching fingers going lax, if only by an increment.
"It sure as Divine looked like you fell out from it; you're all damp, aren't you?" But Victoria just shrugged, continuing.
"I was splashed besides, and at any rate, it is late, you must be tired. One should sleep and sleep well or there'll be no energy for tomorrow, surely?" Something relaxed, and something pulled.
Victoria's face lit up. "Do you need some company in returning home, Sampson?" To, perchance, be of some use, stranger?
"I've know'er t' stay, lady- was just evicted." He relaxed ever so slightly again before he continued.
"Truthfully, can't help a fu-" he winced- "spirited soul in this city without someone else try'n to do you in for it."
He tried for a grand gesture, motioning about their dock, to the ships and the buildings. "Here's the city of rats."
Yet his expression betrayed him; he was clearly unbothered, only shrugging before continuing. "Through your right; Its late. You ought to be getting on."
He made for the wharf, on wobbling steps, then stopped suddenly, shuddering. Then going still, before turning and perhaps taking in her appearance more fully. The sodden well-tailored black blouse, powder blue pencil skirt, oiled leather flats and her thicker woven grey coat. Her watch, her necklace, her earrings, and rings.
"Ought to be get'n on" he echoed himself. Eyes lingering on her more expensive jewellery for only a moment, yet so opaquely the gears of his mind could be seen to work.
"Though you should have some company, t' cities not kindly in the dark, Lady Chen, and escort's only proper." She could see some concern in his eyes – perhaps it was even genuine. "Wouldn't be right to just leave you".
Victoria sighed and considered him, then eyed the marvellous city surrounding them, and decided she could use a guide if nothing else. "Few things are, in the dark, Sampson," she lightly retorted.
Still, I can pick his brain at least, get a handle on what's going on. She smiled, spirits lifting at the prospect of leaving the docks and the stench-mess of pickled eggs. "Alright then, Sampson, you're on."
He seemed relieved, relaxing the last increment, almost falling back into his stooped posture before straightening himself out again.
Victoria closed the gap between them and held out her arm for him to take. "Say, where could I buy accommodation for the night?"
His response was rapid as he immediately began to lead her off the clattering planks, onto the street, and into the night. His lips even twitched to form something almost akin to a boyish smirk: well, if not for the stubble and the dirt. What a grotty young man.
"There's a pub not too far from here – they don't ask t' much in the way of questions. Good folk keep 'n eye to it, also". The black thing shadowing his eyes began to lift as they entered into the residual and merchant like holdings that flanked the body of water they walked besides, over from their street. Victoria couldn't help a smile.
Leave it to a pub to merry an Englishman – and she supposed that's what he was; an Englishman.
Yet she'd never heard of Kirkwall before… The smile tugged, trying to cut her face into a grin, as her mood lifted.
Kirkwall…
Most curious.
She'd have visited it if she had heard of it – the city really was breath taking. Although cities change names easily enough, their geography, this gorgeous-bold geography, could not be altered so easily. It would take a massive amount of time and power, and what's more; such change could surely not escape historical record.
So, stuffed not though time, but maybe space? Into some alternative world? Or another planet or another galaxy? Was one even more probable than the other? It's all inconclusive. Extraordinary theories required extraordinary evidence. So, what could be the clearest evidence for this hypothesis?
Sampson pulled her gently out of the way of a hooded and clocked figure moving down their hewn stone path. They were traveling up a slight incline now, turning away from the docks, into the city, passing warehouses.
Hm. Something like an unfamiliar species – a dragon? Or wyvern? Or different celestial bodies – Two moons?- Chen looked up quickly – nope.
If it was another galaxy it could say a lot about what shape sentient creatures tended to take, after all, Sampson seemed to be human, and seemed to speak English. What could that mean? Besides, nothing took the form of something like a dragon aside from insects in her homelands – that's why such an animal would make a good litmus test as it were: forelimbs, hindlimbs, and wings, oh my.
Still, Victoria supposed she'd know her evidence when she saw it, and that, until such a time, she'd best assume she'd either moved through time or been tricked into thinking so.
Yet with every step and sight the 'trick' hypotheses seemed more and more unlikely. There was simply too much happening, too much going on to indicate the requisite degree of falsehood.
It was all too real. She needed information.
"Sampson, dear, I must ask, since I'm new to this city and all, could you tell me about it?"
He looked down to her, not slowing his pace. "What would you like to know?" His fermented breath wafting closer with every word.
Victoria discreetly turned her nose away before asking. "How old is it?"
He grunted, before turning his head forward again. "Been here 'bout thousand and two hundred years, but tha's discounting the tribes who cleared the plains maybe a thousand years before. They'd have been here years before, long before this was ever a quarry linked to th' sea."
Old then, if true. Would that make the channel leading out of this stone bawl artificial then? Victoria rather doubted they'd been able to manage that at their current technologies – but then all it would require was time. Still. Ignoring the lands predecessors struck a chord.
"Don't we always discount the tribes who cleared the plains?" The greater commonwealth certainly had.
He hummed. "S'pose histories like that," he waved his hand in a drunken bid at grace, "To the victors the annals and such rot."
"Still, Sampson, it's an older city than I would have expected."
"Hm. Been through several cultures of course, but we're – Kirkwaller's, that is – we're about its independence and freedom as a city state. We have been since the slave revolution back in twen'y five Ancient" His eyes shone, the darkness defeated and his pride clear to see. "Not since tha–" He cleared his throat "–that revolution, back when this was the centre for slave trade in the imperium, has Kirkwall truly been a colony of another power."
"That's impressive – most states can't last like that, not without serious external support."
"Ah, well, we have the aid of the other city states abou' us – and trade here is and has always been exceptional. Of course, there have been – moments? – of occupation from foreign powers, but we always throw 'em out, quicker than you can blink. Better yet; not been a single slave made here since the Qunari occupation several decades back." His tone took a darker quality. "Though they wouldn't call it slavery."
Qunari? "What are the Qunari like?"
He made a face, a conflict marching plain across his features, then he sighed a chest heaving 'huff' and answered.
"I've never seen one myself, but they follow this text, some scripture 'bout 'submission' and 'one's place' within the Qun – it's a lot of tosh." He sighed roughly again. "And they aim to invade the lot of us t' spread it. The Qun… It's supposed to be a philosophy, I think – but they call their leaders priests… Never heard a kind thing 'bout 'em."
The conflict cleared into a frown. "Godless heathens, what's more. Savage like; worse than the most uncivilised Dalish cutthroat."
Dalish? "Do you have many interactions with the Dalish?"
His face calmed as he left the drunken fervour, then turned a cherry red. "With their hunters and some merchants – truth be told they're fine enough." He coughed awkwardly, "Even if they've turned their back to the Maker." Coughed again, this time it seemed to clear his throat.
He became ridged in posture and smoothed his face of any tells in a disciplined manner – smoothed as well he could in his current state, at least. "Forget wha' I said earlier, my Lady, their civilised in their own ways – can be reasoned with, too. These is a people beyond questioning as to their peopleness – ah, peoplehood."
He frowned muttering, "Personhood," sighed and drew them to a stop turning her to face him directly.
"But th' Qunari, they're not; so, you avoid them, or be enslaved, Lady Chen. It isn- it's not right, what they do."
The darkness seemed to have come back to him. Curious. "I'll keep that in mind, then. Nowe, onwards to accommodation?" She gave his arm a light tug to get him moving again. Rather curious.
It seemed odd to her, that such a clearly passionate and – assuming she was reading the environment correctly – educated man to be in his downtrodden situation. Educated for this time and technology, rather. Granted, she knew little beyond his inhibition and homelessness, but the sense remained. She needed to know more.
"Would you tell me more about the city? About her districts, Sampson?"
He took a moment to think, as they walked. Victoria had to stifle a laugh too- she could clearly see the machinations as his eyes clouded over becoming squinted, and the beginnings of crow's feet clung to his young unkept face.
"Low-town, Dark-town, High-town." He said at last. "The docks, the gallows. The keep and the chantry monastery- but there're in high town."
Lovely. "We met at the docks?"
"Nah, in low town, on a dock. You would have seen it, as you came into the city, that there're canals leading into Kirkwall that wound 'bout through the districts." He seemed thoughtful again "not sure how long they've been here – but they're old."
"SO, low town – is that the largest district?"
"Tis. It's all this, before the city rises there by Th' Stair. At an' 'round and underneath Th' Stair is Dark-town- it's in th' tunnels throughout th' whole city, really, but its concen – tat – concentratred-" he heaved an explosive sigh, more a whistle through his blocked nose. "Concentrated close to The Stair. Up The Stair is High-town." He was speaking faster, his tone become light.
One does love human creativity and its application to names.
"So where are the docks?"
"Along the coastline of the city – s'not really a coast though – just where the buildings end and the bay into the sea's channel begins. The Gallows' along it, just off the coast to the edge of the cliffs wall – connected t' the reast of Kirkwall by a tunnel under the bay – the tunnel can be sunk if the prisoners there escape, doesn't give them anywhere t' escape to but the sea, then." His voice had become monotone. "Not a fun place, but then the name gives it away."
He rolled his eyes. "Still, the docks' an old and sturdy place – mostly – some stones there are literally from every over the old Tevinter empire. Anderfels to Orlais" Tevinter? Anderfels? Orlais? "That's where the largest of the merchant ships access the city. Also, where the viscount's fleet sits – not that we need one really. Bays defended well enough," he trailed off. "Only really threat is a blockade."
Viscount? Isn't that French? It would imply nobility – but he said this was a free city? So… free how and free for whom? Victoria gestured towards the canal."And how is trade with Orlais and Anderfels? – some of these ships seem, well, antiquated."
He scoffed and smiled boyishly again. "Course; there not for th' open water, are they? But surely you knew that, so how do you mean?" His eyes almost twinkled in curiosity.
She groaned internally, suddenly regretting that she never let her cousin teach her about his stupid boats. "I'm not entirely sure how to tell you, but they lacked some technology I would have expected."
"Did you come by Rivain then?" Worry flooded his expression, "I'm telling you, Lady, don't go near th' Qunari – it's all just a front, yeh can't trust it. If you get in, they won't ever let you out again. Sure, there ships are big an' fast an' dam complex, but you'd be giving your soul away to them: don't."
"I won't Sampson – if there's one thing you've talked me into this night it's that the Qunari are to be avoided."
His expression was incredulous. "I should think so."
They moved in silence for an entire street before she began badgering him again.
"This is an awful lot of tents, Sampson; what's happened here?"
He groaned; his exasperation childlike. "Why even come here if you knew nothing about it all, Lady? They're refugees from th' Blight 'cross Ferelden." he scoffed through a laugh. "Honestly."
She couldn't hold back the absurdity and so laughed with him; at least the drunk would continue to be the drunk, regardless of time and space shenanigans. Nothing new there.
She took a moment to recover, feeling lighter at the release of tension, then continued. "You seemed to be enjoying yourself, taking pride in your city. I didn't want to spoil it."
They smiled at each other, until his smile took a cheeky edge. "Well, you know what they say – 'how do you know someone's from Kirkwall?'"
She narrowed her eyes. "How" drawing the word out.
He was grinning "'They'll tell you.'"
Sampson continued to relax as they meandered, beginning to talk about the inanest things and engaging with Victoria in an increasingly cutting and meaningless dialogue, street by street, block by block and bridge by bridge.
By the time they had walked forty streets from dock they were both laughing like fools.
But still it came, in their breathless silences, the haunting to his eyes.
Victoria had come to realise that this was a lonely young man, desperate for an understanding ear and a break from their social isolation.
She recognised the signs.
His enthusiasm had allowed him to, with the lack of inhibition, act more his age at least.
She found that she wanted to desperately to ask about it but couldn't for fear of closing him to their conversation. So, she tried to push it from her mind and let herself wonder at the city.
Into the tightly packed homes and hovels they danced at pace. Fast then languid then halting than fast again, beholden to the guides drunkenness. An unspoken choreography entirely unrehearsed. Her drying clothes not hampering her movements in the least.
And the city, their stage, was wondrous.
Enchanting for its meaning and potential and novelty and grime…
Filth really… Victoria could look past the literal shit lining the street in their dance, but that didn't mean its stench suddenly vanished. Sampson didn't mind, clearly. So, it was a common and unremarkable thing to the Kirkwaller's, to live in their own filth.
Even in his state Sampson deftly avoided suspect stains.
The living standards of this Low-town must be horrific. Cholera must be epidemic, let alone malaria; it wasn't exactly cold even at this hour after all.
Fuck, medicine could literally be medieval- do they have germ theory or theory of the four humors?! This is going to be a nightmare – NO, think of the research opportunities. You're in another world- maybe- surly that's going to count for something?
She looked up towards what could only be high town, realising in the dawning way, that their shit must literally rain down onto these people below them.
What if the society is feudal? What if the aristocracy is the ruling class? Have they separated their church from state? She reflected on Sampson's earlier passion. Perhaps not. A caste system she could handle, she was familiar with its trappings, but a state fully integrated with its religion was something new.
It was distressing, the relentless realisations. The quality of living would be vastly inequitable. The accepted cultural norms could be lethal. The death rate: Overwhelming. Shit… Maternal mortality would be through the roof…
Oh, fuck that…
It might not be so bad! no evidence for it yet but my understanding of history – from a world possibly separate from this one – Sampson's drunken rambling, and the literal shit in the street…
–Shit in the streets is not a good sign, Victoria! One could say it's literally animal sign!
She missed the salt-brine of the docks, the view, and the wonder-lust it bred. Still, with her feet beneath her she did not stop their dance for the sake of her panic.
Though the homes and street did become less inviting and more claustrophobic; deep blood red sheets spread above them, between the buildings, for shade during the days heat maybe?
Sampson tried to rase their tempo, his eyes darting about; it was getting difficult for him to maintain their banter.
And more, Sampson was slowing, trying to hide clear exhaustion, to mask his panting for breath and the bite of his stich.
Evidently, whatever substances he had ingested that night were coming to take their toll. His behaviour was certainly growing strange. Formal and stiff but packaged within his drunkenness and all the smoother for it.
When someone cloaked by cloth and shadows, lounging by the entrance to one of these twisting streets, coughed; he smoothly reached for that which he kept hidden in the waist of his tunic, positioning himself ahead of her just slightly so as to be in the way of the stranger.
It brought an odd comfort to her, his chivalry. Regardless of whatever he had seen in her to trigger it, whatever construct he'd developed of her in his mind, he was being kind and pleasant company. For one in his state, it was rather impressive.
Did that indicate that it was a habit?
Victoria wasn't naive, nor was she without her own teeth, as might be said. Yet the present of a young man, a helping hand, seemingly willing to bleed a stranger at slight provocation brought to mind her past, warm, encounters with the Sealgair.
It was curious – although, not ten minutes after passing the coughing stranger his willingness to violence proved to be quite practical as the two were abruptly threatened by a small pack of young thieves.
And Victoria was stunned – simply shocked stupid by these thieves.
They weren't all human.
One of them was clearly not human – just, the horns! And – the ears!
What the hell body modifi – no, this was it: the proof. This was another world. Had to be – well… she could be in the future? Far enough that body modification was this seamless and that the society had reverted into this odd amalgamation of past, historic, societies?
Or perhaps she was in some strange comma in which she remained an active brain state… Regardless, metaphysical scepticism wouldn't help now.
Not her world, at least that was clear.
That's cool.
Real cool.
Sampson jostled her roughly.
"Steal yourself, Chen!"
I – I need to analyse their genetics, that would provide some clarity – no! That wouldn't clear up the time travel interdimensional travel issue. No Clarity! Can't go home without clarity! Need clarity!
Horns's mouth was moving – she's tall! – gesturing to Victoria, then her ears and wrist, horns moving with every twitch of her skull. And… rings? in her horns? I– oneteothreefourandthe- Ireallynee-otherfivethenextonesixseven–
Sampson stepped in front of her, re-drawing her attention. He'd let go of her arm at some point.
They, the youths, had scoped Victoria as being of some wealth, then- to be looking at her watch and jewellery like that. Fortunately, Sampson was more present in the moment, and having none of it. she wondered how the two of them looked- her drenched in tailored clothes and he dry in rough spun linens.
He'd extended his arm back, trying to cover her from there sight, or to keep her back, she wasn't sure.
Sampson looked over his shoulder quickly, trying to catch her eye, Victoria tried to listen.
"That is an expensive looking time peace, la demoiselle."
Horns is French? Victoria tore her eyes away, staring at the youth with the lengthened ears.
"Gentlemen, ladies, can we not do this tonight?" Sampson's voice was strained and harsh. At least he wasn't slurring.
One of the kids with pointed ears had an intricate tattoo woven about his features – between his eyes, along the bridge of his nose, over his brow and down his temples to the edge of his lips it coiled slyly.
French Horns was smirking lazily. I can't believe the French are here.
The youth began to look timid, almost pleading; "is that a white jewel, miss? Just sat in your ear? And rubies too miss?"
"ENOUGH!" Sampson was panting now, almost harshly. Jess… what that blood pressure looking like?
French horns scoffed "You will be beaten, battu sanglant, if you don't 'and them over. After that – et tu peux passer. Understand?"
Not really, but, if we intimidate them, then maybe – "Sampson, darling friend, please tell me you're armed?"
He drew a blade, Flat and sharp, wicked looking in its simplicity, to answer. A ten-inch dagger tapered to the point yet thick in its circumference. He clenched it in his fist.
Pointy face smiled and raised his fists with the rest of them, singing out to them in a calm voice~
"Bluffs the drunk".
Yet, she could see it in their eyes; they didn't want to fight, not with someone armed and clearly willing to resist. For all Sampson had opened up to her like a wall flower throughout their dance, he was still an intimidating silhouette.
Tall, strength clear in his shoulders and arms.
Indeed, Pointy ears one and two seemed uncomfortable; two tried to deescalate.
"How 'bout you just give's one, and we'll go? Now that's fair, yeah? We get a white, an' red gem – so we're happy – you go home with most of your treasures and without having bled – so your happy."
For all that they were threatening her, she could appreciate the sentiment. She didn't want anyone to die. Victoria looked to number two, meeting his eyes. "Give your word?" She swept her gaze over them all, stopping at French horns. "All of you? Your word?" They're very young still.
The eclectic lot surveyed each other before French horns answered, "of cor-"
And then Sampson was just there, plunging a hole in her chest.
Damit.
Things blurred.
Victoria dashed to the closest, anticipating their punch, going to duck into his side.
Sampson threw the dagger.
The punch never came.
The dagger missed, sliding but-to-tip along the stone street.
The surviving youths had run.
Ah.
She relaxed and straitened from her half-lowered stance, looking to Samson, then French horns – too much blood; that was her heart that was gouged, then. She's gone. I suppose that works.
Sampson 'huh'd' before bending over at the waist, supporting himself with his arms on his knees and sucking air in before furiously blowing it out. "Consider them dealt with, my lady." He coughed.
She tried to smile at their little resolution, but her face felt wooden. "Indeed – well done you". He grimaced at her, waved his hand off his knee.
Then collapsed with a hoarse cry.
Victoria rushed to his side, assessing his condition before calling out to him for some sign of attentiveness.
Sampson didn't respond.
She moved him onto his back, raising his knees and tried again, slapping on his bicep. This time he opened his eyes.
"Sampson! C'mon buddy." Assessing his posterior tibial pulse, she felt his heart racing.
"Aw." His face scrunched up as hers lit up.
"Good start, now, what's your name?" She didn't know what other substances he was taking, aside from the alcohol, she ought to be thorough.
"Sampson."
"What city are we in?"
"Kirkwall."
"What district?"
"Low-town – I'm fine!"
"You sure?"
He groaned. "Not the first time. I just need to rest." He took a deep breath before sitting up, Chen's arms supporting him along the way. "We need to get you to the inn- I'll be fine" She searched his face for some indication he was in pain, that he wasn't all there.
Still…
"OK – happened before. Do you know why it happened last time Sampson?"
He stood and she tried not to stop him, remaining close in case he fell again. Although he did seem stable. "I do. I don't wa– It's fine." He waved her away, agitated again.
When they got to the inn maybe she could force him to rest?
Or this was a false, pleading, mask and he's trying to– no. It doesn't read like that. No indication of hostility.
"When we get to it, you're going to rest for a while, just until I'm sure you're ok to leave, alright? In that vein, how far away are we Sampson?"
He held her gaze for a moment, before wiping his brow– now glistening with sweat– and pointing to where the youths has run. "Just a short walk. There's a main road maybe half a mile that way, it's just before then. The back of it's on the main road. I can make that."
And so, they walked, stooped and shaken and pulled from their dance, the last stretch to their hopeful refuge.
When they made it to their inn – the "Hanged Man" – they bartered with the keep for a room. She was amazed that it was open, truthfully. It was close to three fifty or so in the morning. Yet still, people drank quietly in the booths and at tables. A rough looking lot.
The trade of her diamond studs won her a room for next five nights at full bord, on the condition that the proprietor would allow her to buy them back before the end of those five nights.
It could have been a room for two weeks had she just traded them outright. She might be without money or a fallback, but those earrings had been a gift – her aunt had only ever given her three pieces of jewellery in her life, for all that the woman had raised her.
The room was pleasant at least. Clean and large enough for a dresser, desk, bed, and pair of chairs – even if the space they formed all together was a cramped one. Although she was a little worried about the oil lamp sitting on the edge of the desk. It was upstairs away from the smells of the street while also remarkably soundproof, almost like magic. She said as much to Sampson and he laughed, settling into his chair.
"Yeah, they pull some apostate mages here, people don't report 'em to the templars." He frowned and continued under his breath "with all the other activities here its unsurprising."
Victoria's brow arched. What. "What do you mean?"
He looked unsure, suddenly.
"Not a place of honesty… I hope it doesn't make you feel unsafe, lady. It's just how things are done here – I should have brought you somewhere of higher repute." He cursed, before making to rise – but she stopped him with a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"I'm just surprised. Now, so I don't end up overstepping here, would you tell me about the apostates?" He couldn't possibly mean it… could he?
"Not much t' say, Lady Chen. The Templars have greatly increased restrictions in the past years. Thrown those who spoke out t' the curb. Anyone found to be a mage is going to suffer. Some apostates came into town, a brave lot, seeking shelter and smuggle anyone who's much as fondles magic." He exhaled hard, tone starting to wobble, "s' that the Templars became and become harsher still." He was crying, lips trembling in spasms as he began to weep slowly and quietly.
"Sorry." He whispered.
Victoria gently rubbed his shoulder, softly hushing him. Drunk? Or too personal? Both? Well, that, and he's exhausted. Eh.
"They're not even lenient for the children anymore." He whispered, voice cracking and becoming hoarse.
"You're going to stay the night, ok? You need to rest, somewhere safe and comfortable tonight." Mages, Is that what they were called here? But he talked about them as if they were weak. Seemed very odd. Questions on questions.
Can't let him go yet…
He was standing in the time it took her to blink, wiping at his face. "I couldn't, it wouldn't be proper."
"No buts – top and belt off, and in the bed with you. I'll take a chair – I need to think for a while regardless. And you will. Be. Staying. For. Breakfast. Is that understood?" He looked sufficiently cowed.
"Yes mam."
He really was only just out of boyhood, and asleep only moments after the scent of the extinguished oil lamp had wafted through the room. She tucked him in.
Victoria Chen quietly sat, the dark room bright to her, alight with opportunities.
SO.
What to do?
Krikwall. She was in Krikwall, somewhere seemingly akin to a city-state.
And she spoke the language of the Kirkwaller's here. Which was English. Somehow.
And she'd just… what? Come into existence spontaneously? Still, that's potential evidence of preternatural phenomenon – maybe even the manifestation of some form of magic? If mages are here what they were supposed to be back home…
She frowned. But that would mean finding a way back… While there was so much to learn here?
When Sampson had talked of magic as if it were a common phenomenon, instead of a long-lost and dead-forgotten mysticism? A mythic legend.
Well, she knows of no natural phenomenon that could move a person from one world, or time, to another so, she would be looking into magic one way or another. Can't go back without clarity, so hoard knowledge greedily and investigate with passion, she supposed.
Which leaves the meantime. What to do?
She had to manage living in a city where she had no contacts aside from the homeless man sleeping in her bed… She'd need to rectify that – tomorrow morning she'd go make some friends; this was an inn, after all.
She had some jewels, and the clothes on her back and her coat. What skill could she sell? Well, she had been a doctor. There had to be somewhere she could volunteer at to demonstrate her ability – that would come to bring in cash… Or was it coin here?
She had no idea how technologically advanced these people were.
And what the hell was with Sampson's fear of the Qunari? That they're more worrying than actual magic? But then I don't know how magic's viewed here – it could be a sign of evil as much as a mundanity, a sign of weakness, not power.
She could fight, if pushed. She knew how to sneak and how to deceive – how could she not, growing up as she did.
But how would that work around magic…
Speculation is worthless right now, focus… Well, information and income now that shelter is solved for. And I want those studs back dammit.
I'll scout tonight, I could probably stick to the rooftops – they didn't seem too hard to climb up. Observe everything till the sun begins to rise and then integrate myself with the people downstairs.
Sampson moaned, turning in his sleep. She blinked. Or, maybe, I'll watch him and make sure he was safe.
All on its face, her situation was as panic inducing as it was fascinating– and by the gift was she fascinated.
A noise drew her back to look on Sampson. He was almost talking in his sleep; 'barrel lady' was possibly mumbled.
To think, this night had started in such a fashion – stuffed across worlds into a barrel…
…::…
::';';';';';';';';';';';'::
~::~
Now, being suddenly stuffed instantaneously – with all the pressure differentials that come with such realities – into a roughly meter squared space packed – functionally packed – with caustic preservatives, eggs, and no air, should be something that simply ruins one's day. Indeed, 'ruins' is too polite a word; all dressed up- so, let's speak plain. This should have killed her in more ways than to be bothered with counting.
Fortunately, Victoria had been murdered by her uncle six decades prier.
As such,
Everything.
Was.
Fine.
…
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