Mooch

The Past

"Out of all the races to grace the surface, plumin merchants are known to use their low cunning as deftly as any master sorcerer." -from Corvin's Creatures, Volume 1

The chest was heavy as a flightless plumin. Well, all plumins were flightless. Wick grinned at the thought of the bird race littered throughout the continent.

If he hadn't been born and raised a dungeoneer, then Wick would have liked to have been born as a plumin. They knew what life was all about. They got things done, especially if they had to lie to do it. Dad never liked the birds and told Wick to stay away from them, but Wick had found a special kinship with the plumins.

"There are thieves. There are honest merchants," Dad had once ranted. "And then there are plumins. Those creepy little warblers would sell their mother's tail feather for a bent copper."

At the time, Wick was certain his dad had used that phrase exactly how he meant it, with actual tail feathers.

Wick's whole body was exhausted. Luckily, Lympha the naiad had left a little of her water behind, which Wick drank from. In normal circumstances, he would have taken the time to light a fire over the bone end of his spade with some water in the dip to purify it, but the Grey Forest loomed over like it was ready to swallow him any moment.

The tree kami he encountered before entering the dungeon uprooted itself. Wick's tracking skills told him the tree had moved at least a day earlier. That answered how long Wick had been in the dungeon. It was hard to tell time in the Grey Forest. The moonlight scattered oddly in the atmosphere.

His hunger was now a quiet thing. He liked the void in his stomach. It reminded him that enough was never enough.

That was why he dragged the chest through slick mud, over fat roots, and between grass as high as his head. If he'd had his full strength, the chest wouldn't have been such an issue, but he was tired.

Unlike his despair in the puzzle dungeon, the exhaustion he felt while dragging the chest with one hand and using his spade as a walking stick invigorated him. It was the languid fatigue he had only felt when earning spoils from the Sprawl. His muscles ached for rest, and it felt great.

The chest itself wasn't even the real issue. As soon as Wick was refreshed, he activated Forage. Picking up the chest proved an invaluable decision.

Grey Forest was an amnestic zone, where people lost their memories as soon as they entered. That meant most of the flora was untouched. Plus, the whole place was brimming with manna, giving birth to plants Wick had only ever read about.

He was sure he could have made it out of the forest within an hour. His sense of direction was uncanny, built from years in the Sprawl. Thymesia didn't help since he had been out cold when he drifted not-so-coincidentally into Lympha's stream.

Wick looked fondly at the chest nearly full with all the flowers and herbs he picked up with Forage. He had to be careful with how he treated them, not wanting to bruise them beyond recognition. The alchemists in Outlast would pay him handsomely, and Wick would bleed them dry.

With this stash, he would have more than enough to get out of Outlast and use the nearest wormhole to portal to Glimmerrest. After that, the world was his.

And yet.... the idea of it seemed too foreign to him. Just a day before, leaving Outlast to sign up as a Sprawler under his own license was all he wanted. But now, the idea of it just seemed so small.

He was born a Sprawler and he would always be a Spade, but why stop there? Outlast was a dunghole of a city, but opportunity could be found anywhere. Wherever plumins went, they seemed to build a comfortable nest of money for themselves. Why couldn't Wick?

Memories of the unforgettable beating he had taken from Pebbles and her gang came to him. Surprisingly, he wasn't filled with a hot anger. They were orphans. Worse yet, they were stupid, foolish enough to be the lap dogs of a guy Wick hadn't even known about until the beating.

Lanton. The mayor's son.

Wick was still angry. But it was a frigid hate, and he found himself smiling as plans of revenge took shape. First, he needed information. That was the basis of power.

Yet, information wouldn't be enough. Lanton was the mayor's son. Apparently that meant he had enough clout to send orphans to beat up another kid without the guards raising an eyebrow. Deep Hells, Pebbles even admitted the guards helped find Wick's location outside the city.

Wick didn't have that kind of power. But he wanted it. His heart flared and his grinned widened as he absently plucked a ferta flower with his spade shown in his vision by Forage, making sure the fifth root was pulled last. He didn't need to read the skill's descriptions anymore because Thymesia helped fill in the blanks quick as an open book.

"Revenge isn't enough," Wick schemed. "Lanton didn't matter before, and he only matters because he thinks I matter. But revenge is for kids. I can use him. But how?"

For the hundredth time since dragging the chest through the deep and darkened wood, Wick wondered what a plumin would do.

He felt the manna density begin to fall off. That probably meant he was near the edge of the forest. The chest was nearly full. But nearly wasn't enough.

Sure, sticking around the Grey Forest where monsters probably skulked was a stupid idea. But a fat sack of pennies was all he could think of.

Wick circled the area for more flowers to Forage. Once the chest was filled to the brim and the flowers tucked safely enough so they wouldn't bruise with too much movement, he latched the chest shut. It was then he noticed the entire area around him was clean of any signs of plants, even down to the most mundane. A haycopper was a haycopper.

Suddenly, Wick felt a shadow loom over him. He spun around and aimed a palm above, ready to summon as many Cuts as he could on a moment's notice. His SP was high enough to send out hundreds now.

He recalled the burning sensation in his body the last time he summoned more than three in a row. One hundred might bring several times more pain. But pain was better than death. If his aim was good, he could send them all out and possibly even injure a beast enough to scare it away.

Sitting in the trees was a black blanket. No, that wasn't right. It took him a moment to understand what he was looking at. It was the silhouette of a giant bat, the size of two adults.

He remembered Lympha's words of caution, the fear in her voice. Leathery wings, she had said.

Wick expected to fear for his own life, but he found himself planting a hard stance between the bat creature and his chest. The thing could attack him. That wouldn't be good. But taking his stash? That was unacceptable.

The bat's head poked out, and it wasn't the face of a bat at all. It was the face of an old man with an impatient look and mouth full of razors. It was not smiling. "Thief," it said.

When the creature spoke, its voice creaked like an old wooden floorboard. Wick wasn't sure if all these creatures sounded like that or if just this one did. At that thought, his eyes flicked to the other tree branches, but he found no movement or spots of leathery darkness. But that didn't say much. The books he read from the Guild library had no information on these creatures.

Wick pointed his spade at the beast. "Who in the Cursed Crawl are you calling a thief?"

The old man face of the giant beast craned out toward Wick, its neck so long that the creature's face was only a few steps away from Wick's own. Wick did not step back.

"You, little human," clarified the creature. "I, Zata of the great camazotz clan, name you thief of the mountain's splendors, thief of the forest's waters, and most grievous of all, thief of our sanctum, our safety from the broken world invaded by you."

Wick took the words in, noticed the pang of fear in his stomach wasn't just for his hoard, and then let his anger get the best of him. "And I, Wick of the Sprawler's Guild, name you liar and in need of a toothbrush."

Zata whipped its head erratically and snarled, spit spewing out in thick globs. "Insolence, the folly of your kind. Unchanged is your nature!"

Wick winced at the outlash and that was when the bat monster closed its wrinkled eyelids and drew in a long breath. Zata seemed to cool, collecting itself. Its eyes opened into thin slits. "But Zata is ancient and wise and will not stoop to your tier. I will not kill you. Release the stolen flora back to the mountain, unhinge your amulet, and I will guide your foolish miserable body to the edges."

"Uhh, no," Wick said. "I would ask how I could trust your word, but trust is for fools. You called me a fool and a thief, and I called you a liar. Only one of us is telling the truth."

He gulped. The words weren't calculated and had spilled out of him. His father had called him 'defensive' more than once. Wick found he was more irritated than afraid. No one took from him, not even a creature that could tear his head off.

Zata blinked at that, clearly not expecting Wick's response. It twisted its head as if caught off guard. Wick took that moment to recall Zata's words in his mind once more. He realized that this conversation wasn't a threat, it was a negotiation. The stakes were his life, but still a merchant's conversation.

The creature had snuck up on him without a sound. The old bat creature could have ripped Wick apart faster than he could summon all of his Cuts on it. But when it came to haggling? A plumin out of its nest would bleed the camazotz dry.

Wick wasn't quite there yet, not nearly by half, but this was his element. Zata's neck pulled its head back into its leathery body, the wings jerking. It said, "This is your last chance, little human. Take your life but leave the flora and your memories behind with the amulet."

It took all of Wick's control not to laugh at the bat creature. Zata didn't care about the plants. It cared about the amulet. Wick didn't care why. All that mattered was that Zata wanted it and Wick knew.

"I'll admit, that would be a fair offer on a normal day," Wick teased. "But today I just gained the inheritance of the Misonians."

He didn't know what dropping that information would do. Maybe it would make things work, but Wick had a hunch, and his hunches always led him into more trouble. If the past day in the dungeon had taught him anything, more trouble almost always meant better rewards.

Zata’s wings flicked back and forth at the mention of the ancient mice people. The gust from its movement nearly blew Wick off his feet. "I call you liar. Liar. Liar. Liar."

It paused as if remembering something and added with a sneer, "And thief."

Wick didn't argue with it. He was a liar. Any good haggler worth his salt lied as easily as a swordsman swung a blade. Everyone had their tools, and Wick always kept his sharp.

He made a show of expressing real hurt at Zata's comment. Wick was sure the performance didn't get past the old bat, but it helped Wick to put more blood in his head rather than let it drain to his feet. His hands stopped shaking.

"It's true," Wick assured it with the confidence of a seasoned street vendor. "The amulet was mine when I entered, inherited by me from my now-deceased father. Lympha the nymph confirmed my fate, saying she saw my threads tied with the dungeon...I mean the trials of the Misonians. I passed the first trial."

He planted his spade in the ground and kept his other palm faced toward the creature. His hand reached inside his leather jacket, unhitched the secured latch, and pulled out the iron ball. He jittered his eyebrows up and down for added effect. "See? Genuine Misonian artifact."

To Wick's dismay, Zata threw its head back and cackled. Its laughter was sharp as craggy rock. The blood warming Wick's body began to drain from his face. Still, he held the iron ball steady, his hands unshaken.

Zata leaned back, its entire frame in shadow. The only thing Wick could see of the creature was its night-black eyes. There was still humor in its voice when it spoke, but it was darker, more grave. "You did not conquer the dungeon, only the first trial. This Domain is not yours, not yet nor ever."

Wick gulped. The camazotz sat in the eerie silence, studying him with wide eyes, like a hungry bird. Wick slowly put the iron ball back in his pocket, securing the latch. He held the spade again in a defensive position. Even if he spent all of his SP to release every Cut he could manage, he wasn't sure it would actually do damage to this thing. The creature was too confident, too relaxed in its study.

Everything could change in a split second. His mind raced with a thousand different scenarios. Thymesia helped him visualize his best chance of survival. Unfortunately, most of them ended with him bleeding on the ground with the old man's face burying itself in his guts.

It seemed to Wick as if the world was holding its breath, waiting for Zata's answer. After what felt like an eternity, the creature spoke a single word with quiet reverence. "Crafter."

Wick perked up at the word. He hadn't told the camazotz the name of his Title. It knew. All of his muscles tensed, ready to spring into action. It pained him to admit it, but he'd have to leave the chest behind. Maybe he could come back for it later.

But Zata spoke again. "I see you tell the truth about your inheritance." There was no apology in its voice, just a statement of fact.

"Of course," Wick agreed cautiously.

"This means I cannot bargain with you for the amulet. Even after I plucked it from the meal of your corpse, its threads would never tie to me. The Weave would not allow it," Zata replied, a note of disappointment in its voice.

"Right," Wick told him, a little more forcefully than he intended it to come out.

"Never linger here again without the purpose of honoring your debt to the Misonians' legacy. If you pass into these woods without defeating the golem guardian, I will forget the kindness of the Misonians and be glad to pick the marrow from your bones." Zata turned halfway on the branch away from Wick, as if readying to leave.

The fear poured out of Wick like an ocean from a bucket. Despite what happened, he couldn't help but feel disappointed. No great bargain or battle of wits. No promise of grand rewards to add to his hoard. At least the old bat was leaving him alone and Wick got to keep his chest.

"Goodbye, boy," Zata said. "You will not see me again. But I will see you."

It turned completely, bent its bat-knees to launch into the air, and then paused. Its head turned curiously back toward Wick.

Wick himself wondered why, but then realized he had just said, "Wait."

"Is the Crafter so dense he must be explained things twice like the thick-necked yeren?" Zata sounded annoyed. "There is no bargain. Your life is your own to fool about and sunder. Leave before my patience dries, for it is a shallow well."

Wick didn't know what a yeren was, but he found himself getting a little offended regardless. As he spoke, he formed a plan. "Uhm. Since you're so chummy with, you know, the Misonians, and I'm their inheritor, could you do me a favor?"

Zata was a black blur. One moment, it was in the tree, fifty paces away. The next, its entire frame cased over Wick like a blackened prison with an old man's face for a door. The camazotz's eyes were wide with excitement. It said, "You seek bargain?"

Something about the creature's tone made it sound as if it was trying to hold back from calling Wick an idiot. Wick thought about Lanton, and how the mayor's son had enough power to keep the guards looking the other way.

Coming back alive nearly unscathed to Outlast wouldn't be enough. Wick needed to make a statement. He smiled back at the old man's face and said, "Could you give me a lift?"

--

Mooch sat outside the mayor's house watching dead rats float into the sewer drains. He didn't want to enter that stupid place anymore, even if the Lanton boy did give him scraps from his table. They never let him get past the door, but Mooch liked the outside just fine. Actually, Lanton only gave the food to Pebbles and it was she who split the scraps with everyone else.

From the very moment Mooch met Lanton, he didn't like the blond-haired kid. Sure, he wasn't an adult. Adults couldn't be trusted. But Lanton wasn't one of the orphans. The kid was too handsome and smiled too much. He pranced about town like he was the hero in the stories he liked to tell every night.

He always talked like he was one them, about how the people of Outlast had to stick together. Pebbles thought that meant that she was one of them, the kids with homes and parents. But if that was so, then why was she still eating out here and not in there?

And the stories. Lanton always had a story slipping out of his mouth like the sewers with their sludge. The other kids liked Lanton and his stories, loved them even. But Mooch knew the truth.

The stories were a problem, and that meant Lanton was a problem. The stories were never true. Lanton always talked about the old days when dragons soared the sky into floating magical cities. What a dummy, making things up just to be liked.

But the real danger of the stories was that it gave the other kids hope, and hope had no place on the streets of Outlast. Hope filled your belly with promises, but promises were nothing but farts that tasted good.

What was worse was Pebbles didn't just like Lanton. She liked liked him. Mooch couldn't believe it. Why Lanton? How could someone as strong as Pebbles who didn't take a fat fist from no one follow a spoiled kid like a lovesick puppy?

The only things dogs were good for were to get eaten. And that's what Pebbles was now, a dog. She still whipped the other kids into shape, still told them to keep the Deepest Hells away from Mooch or she'd stuff their mouths with piss-soaked socks.

When she said that, everybody believed it. But they also respected her. She did it because she protected them all from the adults, the big people with wandering hands and hungry eyes.

The funny thing was, when he first joined the gang on account of being the only greenhair around the streets besides Pebbles, he had been given the name Pooch. He was the gang's little puppy. But soon they learned real quick he had to take three times as many breaths to walk as a kid three years older. He also wasn't good on his legs or with his hands. No strength in him, they said.

So, Pooch turned to Mooch, feeding off their spoils. They couldn't kick someone out when they were already in the gang. Pebbles let the name change happen. She didn't fight it. Mooch respected that from her. She never lied and took him for what he was. But that just forced him to get real good at other things.

Mooch had eyes. Always did. Orphans always had eyes, could spot a mark or a bent penny real quick. They had to or they were rat meat. But Mooch had eyes. He could spot a threat five buildings away.

When the outsider named Wick had come into town, it was Mooch who told everyone the new kid was a threat. No one but Pebbles believed him. The Wick kid had come with his dad, then the dad died. Wick wasn't born an orphan, but he still was a kid on the streets.

Mooch saw how Wick moved, and it gripped something in Mooch that was both fear and wonder. The big kid from out of town lurked with the experience of an orphan who had been in Outlast his whole life, maybe even better. Wick never moved quickly. He was slow and smooth and slippery.

Their gang tried bringing him in. If the kid was dangerous, they wanted to make sure the danger was on their side, like their own personal wolf. But Wick turned them down.

Wick adapted to Outlast on his own. And most of all, Wick was quiet. He kept to himself and somehow stayed thick as bacon on pig. No one did that unless they were sharp, maybe even sharper than Pebbles.

Mooch had overheard Pebbles tell Lanton all about the new orphan with nice-smelling leather clothes and boots that didn't have holes in them. The things Mooch would do for boots without a hole in them were dark things, things that would bring him nightmares for the rest of his life.

A scraped knee was one thing, but a cut foot on a weak body? It was over. So, that just made Mooch slower in his steps. But it meant his eyes had to get quicker than his feet. His ears got real quick too.

He overheard Lanton yelling at his dad a couple times about why they didn't get rid of the outsider. First, Mooch thought they were talking about Wick. Why would a kid hate another kid who kept to himself?

But they weren't talking about Wick. They were arguing about Graves, the local crimelord. The man was a legend to the orphans, something they all secretly wanted to be but were too afraid to say out loud in case his goons came to find out why they'd want to bring him competition.

Word had it Graves strolled into Outlast ten years earlier. Outlast didn't even have the Docks back then, just a scrap of a town next to the ocean. The mayor was still the mayor, even back in those days. He made some dark deal with Graves.

After that, shady people came in and out. Graves had a hand in everything, still did. The city grew after that.

The sewers where the rats liked to pile up were a favorite of the orphans to hunt for food. Mooch was told by Slim that it was Graves who put in the sewers. After that, Mooch silently thanked Graves every day for the sewers. Rat meat was plentiful in Outlast these days, and sometimes, if his gang was lucky, they could corner a lost dog for a fat meal.

After Lanton's argument with his dad, Mooch saw him storm out. He found Pebbles at their usual spot, told her they needed to talk about Wick. Lanton couldn't have said anything better to make her fall in love with him in that moment. Wick had ruined their plan to steal from a young sailor that day, and Pebbles’ temper was mighty fierce.

Mooch with his sharp eyes saw the look on Lanton's face. It was anger and hate, but not for Wick. It was a blurry kind of hate, one that anybody that fit the right look could take on. It was a hate for outsiders, didn't matter the shape or skin or the hair on the guy. They just had to not be from Outlast.

Wick just happened to be the easiest target.

Mooch had followed Pebbles that day. It was the last time he ate from her scraps. After she told them Lanton's plan, Mooch told himself he'd never eat from the mayor's place every again.

Lanton wanted them to what? He told them to beat up a kid they didn't know? Sure, Pebbles had a reason, she had about a couple iron pennies as reasons. But Lanton? The kid didn't even know about Wick except for what Pebbles told him.

And they weren't just supposed to beat him. They were told to throw him in Grey Forest. That's where the monsters lived. Sure, there were monsters in the city. But they were the adults. If a kid was smart, he could stay away from them.

But the forest? It had real monsters, the kind Old Lady Jezebel warned about in her creepy nursery rhymes.

No one deserved that. Mooch told Pebbles so. But his voice was never strong, even when he yelled. He tried, but the wind in him couldn't push a sail in a storm like Pebbles' could. She called him a coward, and Mooch shrugged it off because it was true.

But Mooch didn't like the look on Pebbles’ face when she took everyone she could find at a moment's notice. It wasn't anger. It was the look of a lovesick puppy wanting to please her master. The look made Mooch sick. It was all he could think about when he waited for them to return.

They came back later that night. Trip was cut bad, but one of the alchemists stitched him up. Mooch's quick eyes told him the stitch wouldn't hold long, probably get red and green by week's end.

The others were no better. They were a hot mess, crying. They cried so hard and so loud that Pebbles had to stuff their mouths with dirty socks to shut them up. That didn't stop the crying.

Mooch had never seen crying like that. He'd heard about it. But orphans weren't supposed to cry. Orphans could have bodies made out of thin meat like Mooch, but they had to keep their hearts cold as steel.

Somehow, their crying made Mooch cry too. His chest tightened right quick like a man was squeezing his heart. He felt shame. That's all it was. Shame.

None of them were good kids. They'd all done bad things. But now they’d done something truly unforgivable. They took one of their own and threw him in the den of monsters just because Pebbles was in love.

Mooch prayed to the Deepest Hells in the Cursed Crawl that he would never fall in love like that, come devils or not. That had been the day before.

Now, he watched the dead rats pile up against the storm drain. He didn't pick any up. Wet rats were fine. So were dead ones. But wet and dead meant he would be wet and dead himself in a few days. Sickness came like that, all sneaky in the stomach.

Pebbles came out of the back of the mayor's house with an ugly smile on her face. She held a sack of food in her hand. Mooch's eyes narrowed at the sack, but his empty stomach tightened regardless of his hate for Lanton. When she saw Mooch hunched over, she snarled. "Why you look at me like that? You too good for food now, Mooch?"

Mooch could only give her a blank stare. He didn't recognize her anymore. The seagreen-haired girl with mighty fierce eyes and thick knuckles was gone. This girl was a floppy noodle. No spine. She'd only straighten and bend on Lanton's command.

He looked up in the night sky. The rain had stopped hours ago, around the same time the other kids stopped crying. Mooch had stopped crying the night before. He wasn't there when they tossed Wick in Grey Forest.

The ache was still in his chest. Mooch felt his forehead crease to try to get a better look into the night sky. It was clear as any other, and his eyes were sharp, probably the sharpest.

He just couldn't make out what he was seeing. A wide shadow like a blanket with sharp edges flapped over the city. Then it grew wider. Not wider. Closer.

Mooch stood up quick, eyes glued to the sky at the black creature with leather wings.

"Mooch?" Pebbles asked, the anger gone from her voice. She sounded concerned, but Mooch didn't care.

Mooch's sharp ears picked up the sounds in the town square. Only the orphans were there to see, maybe a few of Graves' men. They were always about, patrolling the city better than the guards ever could. Even Pebbles stopped talking. Mooch was certain he even saw Graves' men run out into the square, their hands glowing with sorcery.

A giant batlike creature flapped its terrifying wings just above the cobblestone town square. Its face... It was the face of an old man, attached to the bat's body on a neck half as long as its wings. Even though its giant leathery wings could scoop up two cows, it made no sound.

Mooch was sure he had fallen into a nightmare.

"Deepest Hells," Pebbles screeched.

But Mooch had stopped looking at the bat. His eyes, sharp and clear, were set on the person sitting the bat creature's back. It was a boy in an oiled leather jacket with tussled charcoal black hair. He looked scraped up, but not black and blue.

And the way he moved. By Etheria's might, Wick moved like a hero in one of Lanton's stories, the ones Lanton tried so hard to look like but could never be. Wick looked around the square with a confidence in his body Mooch had only ever dreamed about for himself.

Wick pushed a giant wooden chest off the back of the creature and hopped off. He bowed to the bat, and the creature whispered something back to him, then took off into the night back toward Grey Forest. It all happened so fast and so quietly that Mooch wondered if it happened at all.

Wick didn't seem to understand what kind of attention he had on him because he just bent over the wooden chest like the thing was made of gold instead of wood, inspected the contents inside, closed it, and stood up with a confident grin.

He turned in a full circle, slow and purposeful. Mooch recognized that look because he knew what it felt like. Mooch was getting measured. Wick's eyes were like Mooch's, sharp. No. Sharper. They were the sharpest eyes Mooch had ever seen. He shivered.

Finally, Wick's gaze passed from Mooch and set on Pebbles, who had collapsed to her knees, body trembling. Wick pointed the black end of his shovel at Pebbles and said, "It's time we talk."