I wake up feeling a bit strange, tingley is the word. I stare up at the wooden ceiling above my head.

My back itches, but I can't find the will to scratch. I just lay here in this bed, staring.

I feel a wrenching in my chest, stomach flipping, like when running in the rooftops and hitting a wet patch, the panic and sense of doom. But I'm not running on rooftops.

There's a lit candle on a stand next to my bed, the light from the flickering flame casts the shadows in the room into turmoil.

I shift my head to look around, but I'm not interested enough to get up, I feel like a bystander in my body, unfeeling, uncaring, and unbiased, other than that incessant itching. There's some red drapes covering what must be a window, but no light comes through. The information comes in lazily and dispassionately, like the faint wisps of smoke from the candle.

The details float around in my head for a while as I stare blankly at the dancing shadows.

Eventually the thoughts drift together and I come to the conclusion that it's nighttime.

“Hey, uh, you awake?” a rough voice asks hesitantly.

The voice came from the other side of the room.

I slowly turn my head in that direction, I can't muster enough energy to care that there's a stranger in a room that I was sleeping in.

There's a big, well built man sitting on a wooden chair a few feet away.

He's looking at me with something that I think might be concern in his eyes.

I stare blankly at him.

“… you alright?”, He looks at me with clear discomfort.

“There's no need for tears, I ain't going to do nothing. You’re perfectly safe.”

I continue to stare at him.

He grimaces a little, “Ah, I'll just go get someone.”

The man stands up and almost rushes out my sight.

“I ain't that ugly.” I just barely catch him mutter as he leaves.

I hear a door open and the man's heavy footsteps fading away.

What did he mean crying?

I snake my hand out from under the soft blanket and touch my face. My fingertips come away wet, but I don't understand why.

I don't feel particularly sad. I feel like a cloud. I turn my head back to stare at the ceiling while my eyes keep pouring out tears, my vision goes blurry, but I don't bother wiping my face as the tears stream down.

The sound of footsteps comes back, though a bit different. These footsteps are perfectly measured, steadily closing in.

There are two knocks on the open door and the footsteps are in the room.

“I hear you are feeling unwell, are you?”

The footsteps belong to a tall man. He looks in my eyes, matching my uncaring gaze with his cold swirling pools of black, eyes, if you wanted to be technical.

I flinch back and look away from his eyes, back to staring at the ceiling. I ignore his question, not for any other reason than just not wanting to answer.

The man waits for a minute before finally losing his patience, he sighs as if about to do something distasteful.

“I’ll ask again, are you unwell?”

My eyes gravitate back towards him, not of my will. A pressure of sorts settles on me, forcing me to acknowledge him and his question.

A burning ember ignites in my chest. A slow burning fury at the pressure, forcing me to do something I do not wish to do. I try to resist the compulsion to acknowledge the man and his question, but the pressure is unrelenting and even through my anger I can’t disregard the man.

In a small measure of defiance, I keep my mouth shut and only acknowledge the man with a small shake of my head. It seems that was enough and the pressure disappears.

“What is your name?” the tall man asks.

I rally up the shreds of my will in preparation to resist the compulsion, but there’s no pressure this time. So I ignore him.

“Can you tell me about what you saw in the Abyss?”

Still I ignore him.

“Where is Nikolai?”

The question struck like a bolt of lightning. This time I can feel the tears welling up, I pull up the covers over my head and curl up into a ball, silently weeping.

The man sighs and I hear footsteps receding. I hear the click of the door closing, but I pay no mind to it, focusing on the question “Where is Nikolai?” while tears stream down my face.

The tall man’s silky voice makes its way into my room from behind the door, answering a question that was not spoken.

“She will be alright, you may leave her alone.”

I woke to the sun filtering through the drapes and hunger gnawing at my stomach. Motes of dust slowly drift in the rays of light.

The candle has long since burned down to a nub.

I raise my hand to feel the sunlight on my skin. It's warm. That's not at all how I should feel. I should be cold and damp and hungry. I should be with Nikolai, dead or dying. I shouldn't be relieved to be alive, but I am.

My hand drops to the covers and I ball my hands up into fists, strangling the covers. I sigh shakily and release the covers from my death-grip. I smooth the wrinkles out in reconciliation. No sense in murdering innocent bedding.

As I slip out of bed I feel an uncomfortable tightness across my entire back. Mute horror creeps up on me as I awkwardly bend my arms over my shoulders to touch my back with my fingertips. It feels as if it were crumpled paper that was half-heartedly smoothed. I choke a strangled sob down before it escapes.

Not only did the Abyss take Nikolai, it took what little beauty I had.

The horror turns into cold revulsion as a shiver racks my entire body, I can’t stand to touch my own skin anymore, so I don't. I look at my trembling pale hands and resist the urge to wipe them. It would be of no use anyway.

I remember tripping, falling, then a flash of that horrible red light, and the heat. I couldn't see it, but I knew what was coming, and then it came, and the horrible pain with it. And it was over so fast, too fast. It came and it took. And it was all over in an instant.

My stomach grumbles, breaking the cycle of disgust that I was caught in. I look around for something to dress into, only dimly recognizing that someone must have undressed and washed me while I was unconscious. The chair next to the bed, the one where the man was sitting, has some folded clothes, presumably for my use.

How nice.

A look over the clothes reveals that it's just a normal white shirt and ordinary pants, neither of which belonged to me. I wonder if someone bought these for me. I suppose that's why they are in this room.

I dress quickly, though a shiver of revulsion runs through my entire body as I lift my arms to get the shirt on and the scarring stretches uncomfortably. I tug at the shirt to settle it on my unnaturally thin frame. The shirt is a tad big on me, but I guess that's because they don't make shirts in size: starved. I brush my hand through my hair to straighten it as best I can and realize it's far shorter than it should be. It doesn't even clear my shoulders in length.

Of course. It was burnt along with my back; someone had to have cut my hair. I wish that I could see it. I resignedly feel the undoubtedly ugly haircut. Though I wouldn't have done a much better job, it still rankles me that someone other than me took blade to my hair, no matter how necessary.

Enough lamenting on things that won't change. I open the door into a hallway. I peek my head out, though I'm not sure what I would do if someone was around.

Now that I think about it peeking just my head out really does nothing. I sheepishly walk out into the hall and close the door. Luckily there is no one in the hall to have seen me.

To my right I can see one other door, presumably to another room, and the end of the hallway after that. To my left there are more doors and the hallway makes a turn.

I'm not about to even try to peek in any of these rooms, tall, dark, and scary might be in one of them after all.

I creep along the hallway feeling extremely uncomfortable, I still don't know where I am.

I feel the soft carpeting on my bare feet as I walk and realize how outclassed I am here, is this even in the Grimes? The paint on the walls doesn't flake off, there are no stains, the oil lamps are hung evenly and there is no smell of shit.

I turn the corner and more hallway greets my eyes. This time there are no rooms on the left side, just wall and and a staircase. The right side has a few doors though. The hall makes another turn to the right at the very end.

I pad over to the staircase and decide might as well go down, hopefully I can find some food and maybe figure out where I am, knowing how I got here would be nice too.

The cool wooden staircase kisses my feet as I walk down.

The room is large and filled with tables, some occupied with pockets of people, most nursing drinks and quietly conversing. The room is well lit with the same kind of oil lamps as in the hall. I take note of a door, it's probably the exit considering it's larger than any other doors I've seen here.

I also take note of the floor, it's wooden, which is fairly uncommon for what I think this building is. Why spend money on flooring if it's going to be covered in filth, unless you spend an ungodly amount of time cleaning it, or even less likely, people don't vomit and piss all over it. I gingerly step onto the floor, looking out for any weird stains, or possibly piles of shit, but to my surprise the floor is clear of any defecate.

I wish I had shoes in any case.

As I stand there at the bottom of the staircase I notice a strange trick of the light. The room is clearly well lit, but this small corner of the room with the staircase is…. not, even with an oil lamp right next to the staircase. And no one even glances over to me, not that I expect to grab attention, but still, my movement should at least draw a few looks. Weird. Must be some sort of Aether thing. Probably Tall, Dark, and Gloomys’ doing.

I decide to take advantage of the situation to listen in on the nearest conversation.

“... become shit soon.” I catch the last part of a sentence from a bald man with red eyebrows.

The man's companion, an ugly brown-haired man with a big nose waves his hand, “This place is already shit.”

“Yea, but you know, it's gonna be even more shit with all them Delvers roaming the streets, sightseeing.” The man with the red eyebrows says bitterly, practically spitting the last word.

The ugly guy shrugs, “I don't think it can get much worse, we just havta be careful who we mess with, so nothing different. ‘Sides with all them moneybags walking ‘round, who's to say we won't get lucky?”

The man raises his red eyebrows, “I didn't think you were a fuckin idiot.” He wheezes out a dry laugh, “You try and take a single speck of dust off a Delver and you'll find yourself whooped up and down the Grimes. They'll beat the living shit outta ya, and then let you live cause you aint worth the effort of killing.”

The ugly man scowls, “I didn't mean the Delvers, you dumb bag’a rocks, I meant the merchants, those bastard bloodhounds can smell money to be skiffed ten thousand leagues away. They'll be following after the Delvers, mark my words”

The red-browed man grunts and stares into his cup in contemplation. After a moment, “Ey, you might be right.” He gives ugly a scrutinizing look, “I didn't think there was a brain small enough to fit behind that big ass nose or yers.”

“You are both stupid.” A man from another table of three calls out.

Red-brows stands up and glares at the man, “What's it to you bastard.”

“Nothin, just want you to keep it down or your stupidity will spread.”

Red-brows bristles and grips his cup tighter. Before anything could happen, the tension is cut apart by the sound of glass being put down on a counter with perhaps more force than necessary. The sound echos unnaturally and all the conversations die, everyone secretly, but not so secretly, glances over at the bartender, who I didn't even notice before now.

Oh hey. It's Tall, Dark, and Gloomy.

He continues to wipe down the table as if nothing happened.

Red-brows sits down with a grumble.

The guy from the other table continues, though more subdued than before, “The merchants won't be in this shit hole, they gonna cozy up behind the walls, in the Fringes and the Upper City. The guards won't touch the Delvers when they need to go up to the merchants, but us? Nah, we won't ever see them.” The man takes a drink and the conversation takes a turn into the territory of boring, another fight happened and people died or some such.

I scuttle around to the counter, still keeping an eye out for shit. I find one of those really tall chairs in a corner next to the counter and sit down. By then I'm pretty sure people noticed me, the atmosphere changed a little, though I'm not really sure to what it changed to.

The bartender looks up at me.

“You are Hermione.”

I nod sheepishly, I remember the awkward interrogation.

“What's your name? I ask him.

Calling him Tall, Dark, and Gloomy is fine and all, but it's kind of a mouthful.

The room noticeably decreases in volume. Now I feel like I must have asked something stupid.

“I am called Maximus. Though that is a little bit of a mouthful, you may call me Max.” He smiles a little as he says that but with the vibes he gives off I don't think the smile fooled anyone.

Oh. Oh.

I smile a little out of nervousness, “Maximus as in, Lord Maximus?”

“Goodness no, though I may have some blood ties to nobility they are not nearly enough to give such a title. No, the Lords and Ladies reside in the Upper City. I'm just the humble owner of this establishment.” He flashes another fake smile and waits for me to process what he just said.

“Ah, okay.”

He's definitely a Grime Lord. I haven't heard of anyone else by the name of Maximus.

“Thank you, you know, for healing me.”

“Ah, that was not me. The one who healed you was… a colleague. I will relay your thanks when we next meet.” He says.

“Still, thank you for letting me stay here.”

He nods, “It was entirely my pleasure. Ah, my apologies, you must be hungry.”

“Ah, N-no, I'm alright. I think it's time for me to go.”

I start standing from my seat, I really should leave while I still haven't messed anything up.

“Oh no, I must insist you stay for something to eat. I cannot in good conscious let you leave my care hungry.” I can hear a bit of danger in his voice now.

I sit back down. Now I can't leave. Well, I can, but that would infringe on his ‘good conscious’ and I would rather not.

“Besides,” He continues. “I haven't given you your boots yet.” This time his smile does look genuinely amused.

I can't help the flash of heat that crawls up my neck.

He noticed my caution with his floors. How embarrassing.

I try to recover, “My boots made it out of the… fire?

Maximus calls out to the door behind him, “ Derek! Food for Hermione.”

Then he turns to address me, “No, your boots did not make it out whole, unfortunately. I took the liberty of disposing of them and ordering a new pair made for you, I hope that won't be an issue?

I'm pretty sure my mouth is open right now as I struggle to wrap my head around the situation. There's just too much going on - is it normal to order boots for people you don't even know?

“Ah, no, that's not an issue” I squeak out after I regain control of my mouth.

A boy, Derek I think, comes out the door behind Maximus carrying a tray of food. He sets down the tray in front of me and flees back behind the door.

I look down and realize there's food I haven't ever seen before, crisp golden wedges that I intellectually know must be potatoes, but are so different than what I had come to know of such a food they can't possibly be the same thing. There's a bowl with steam wafting off filled with a golden liquid with chunks of something floating around. Some kind of green plant, and a good chunk of perfectly browned meat. And the smell… like heaven.

I dig in with no shame. I haven't eaten in days after all.

As I'm eating the last of the potatoes Maximus reaches under the counter and pulls out a bundled form. He moves my ravaged tray of food over and places the bundle in front of me.

“I nearly forgot.” He lies, “This is yours.” A sword is revealed as he unbundles it.

“Henry wanted to put it in your room, but changed his mind as he didn't want to be stabbed again. We decided it was best to give it to you when you were more lucid.”

Who's Henry? And I don't recall stabbing anyone. I hadn't even seen, much less held, the sword before the Abyss

But before I could so much as voice my questions he moved on.

His demeanor changed subtly, I wouldn't say it became serious - he is always serious from what I've seen - but it became more. Just… more.

“Would you like to accept my tutelage?” His smile is a mere shadow of his previous ones, but this is perhaps the most genuine expression I have seen yet from him.

And for what seemed like the thousandth time today, my brain quits.

In the end what brought me back into reality was the sound of an alcoholic beverage spewing forth from Red-brows’ mouth and the verbally expressed outrage from Ugly as he took the brunt of it.

Red-brows tried to muffle his violet coughing as his lungs tried to expel the liquid. He managed to wrangle it down to repeated throat clearing - alcohol still dripping down his chin and table - and pretended that he wasn't listening in on our conversation… along with everyone else.

I say the only thing that comes to mind.

“Yea. I would.”

This might be my only chance to find Nikolai, if he's even still alive, but I can't imagine him in any other state of being.