Chapter 3: Muck to the Shins. Continued...

In his mind Salvic was already onto finer things. His grumbles of misfortune and self pity had finally abated into something brinking on happy. Thoughts of his home- such as it was; a moderately furnished shit hole in the best part of Lower Ripple, pushed him to the point of contentment. Salvic wasn’t a mean person, or so he told himself, he just wished people would leave him be.

He had been fortunate enough get quarters away from the Hightower. His Uncle was Cerus Vodjec, a well respected member of the high council. His stature allowed ample reach to pull the right levers to move the proper gears. If not for the connection, he would have been discharged long ago. His ‘superiors’ saw him as lazy, undisciplined, weak minded- but none of them dared to do anything about it. Salvic instead moved up the ranks. In fact, until tonight, he had made a comfortable living by avoiding expectations and consequences.

Salvic enjoyed his solitude for the most part. Pangs of his need to gamble would occasionally cause him to amble down to the nearest pissing pot and waste an evening with others. Mostly though, he enjoyed a good steak after shift, six or seven swigs of mid-shelf whisky, and would often spend an hour or two drawing sketches in charcoal before sleep. It was a talent he kept hidden, and one that had grown over recent years into a true art form. Creatures that he’d make in his mind would unearth themselves in dark and colored streaks on the large parchment. Pigment for the charcoal was not easy to come by, and cost him a week’s pay whenever the merchant would come through town; but it was worth it for the array of hues he could work in.

As he walked, he was forming a creature with his inner eye- a giant bird with a wolf’s head. The feathers on its chest were a bright crimson, and at the shoulders the plumage gave way to leathery bat wings.

He stretched his neck from side to side causing a few inaudible ‘cricks’. Better.

It wasn’t until he was halfway down the steps that he looked down at his feet and noticed his missing armor.

“Fuck!”

And like that, the wolf-bat-bird disappeared from his mind. Armor provided by the Guardians was taken seriously. The uniform was theirs; you were merely just renting it and plodding about in their colors. Salvic was not looking for another tongue-lashing from his turd of a commander and he certainly wasn’t going to be docked pay as punishment for losing track of his uniform either.

“Of all the shit.”

He turned on his heels and stomped back up to the loathed tower.

“Of course…”

The grumbling continued.

~~~

The Dragonborne’s stoney expression mirrored his focused resolve. He stood in a small room on the fourth floor of the tower sifting through piles of papers. Orders and correspondence to and from the Guardians of High Ripple, and the beauracratic puppet masters that controlled them, were strewn in a fashion that indicated a futile attempt at organization. Some piles were clearly no longer relevant and were shoved in wooden boxes that lined the room. He stood at a desk, eyes blazing, looking through the unsorted recent papers. When he found relevant looking documents, he tucked them in a leather folder one by one. Letters authorizing the use of police force by the Mayor’s private security force were of particular interest. Anything with names of the high council, of those on the security force themselves. There wasn’t much here, but what he found he tucked quickly away for safe keeping.

Bill was dismayed to have left the rest of his party to fend for themselves. He hunkered down to his task though, and doubled his efforts to search the chest of drawers on the south side of the room. The water was already spreading into this room from the latrine down the hallway, but Bill paid it no mind.

Ah-ha. Here it was. The original prisoner processing order, filled out by a one 'Vodjec Salvic'. The name sounded familiar.

He pulled a sheet of yellowed paper out of his stash, an order with a barely legible signature at the bottom. ‘Cerus Vodjec.’ It was scribed to an document that outlined the Mayor’s taskforce, and their ability to move with impunity through Lower-Ripple.

The water level was dissipating as it was cascading from the fourth floor, down the stairwells, to the levels below. His time was short; he needed to return to the first level to rejoin his fellowship. He hurredly shoved the remaining sheets into his pack, and took a second handful for good measure, choosing them at random.

Bill would have to walk. His mind was weary from teleporting himself twice already in one night. Plus, it occurred to him, he could use the exercise, and the descent into the lower levels would increase his opportunity to create panic and chaos on each floor. There were other spells mulling in his reptilian mind that took little effort or concentration; spells that would leave bedlam in their wake.

~~~

Clop clop clop.

His naked boots splashed up murky water as he ascended the staircase.

The Sergeant had acknowledged the wetness of the situation with barely a grunt before quickening his pace to retrieve the missing armor. He moved quickly, but quietly- hastened by his mulish resolve to avoid any detection, and therefore any further responsibilities.

Up the stairs he went, down the corridor, and to the room where he had lost his gold in cards.

It was when he was a few meters away that he saw something glint in the water. It was something red. It was blood. He let out a subconscious yelp that sounded like a startled raccoon, then pounded on the door.

“ Lomin! Theo!”

He rattled the handle, but to no avail. He pounded again. Nothing. Familiar expletives spewed from his lips as he shoved his shoulder against the door. Again, nothing. Taking a few steps back he threw his whole body weight into a strong kick. There was a slight splintering sound.

On the third try the door swung open. Salvic threw more expletives when he saw Theo’s corpse, head caved in like a rotten pumpkin.

Thud

A loud noise startled Salvic from a trance; he stiffened up, and drew his sword.

“Who’s there?”

He shouted at the door of the bathroom.

A muffled moan responded, followed by an obstructed shout. It was Lomin.

Salvic forced the door open, revealing a teary eyed soldier sitting in the rising water. The stench was immense. With some effort, he managed to untwine the sharp wire from Lomin’s mouth.

He rubbed at the cuts that had developed in the corners of his lips, then he spat a gob of mucus, blood, and shredded gum tissue.

“Oh thank all the fucking gods it was you. I thought he’d come back to finish me off.”

“Who? Who was it?”

Salvic’s eyes sparkled with a newfound fury. It was the fury of someone who had finally found something, or someone, worth raging against.

“That guy… that…shit herder.”

Lomin picked himself out of his own excrement, and wobbled to his feet.

Salvic nearly lost it. Jaw clenched and teeth grinding, he hissed his displeasure. His mind burned one thought- the prisoners. This was all for them, and it would be Salvic that would face the brunt of the consequences if they escaped. He knew that. Even his Uncle's status, his chair at the big table, couldn’t save his rank from a failure of this magnitude.

Salvic left the room without a word, sword in hand, kicking water as he jogged. He was going to have to see to this thing himself. Better to kill those responsible and keep his job, then to have to find something else to do with himself. How else would he pay for his gambling? Poor soldiering was all he knew, and Salvic entertained no notions to take up poor baking, or poor smithing, or something worse to pay for his gambling habit. Sergeant Salvic would have to face the lute; this song was for him to play.

So he descended the stairs one final time. His legs burned from the repeated and tedious motion, from the endless cycle of stairs and doors. His armor was a forgone memory.