With his back pressed against the wall, the nolthrir could hear her coming. He could hear the liquid slosh about her ankles and her awkward breathing. She wasn’t used to climbing down into the filth of course, not her. She stank of charmflowers, sweet perfume. It somehow overpowered the stench of everything. He choked and curled his fingers, nails slicing into the muck and grime which smeared the wall behind him. His back was wedged against it, the thin cloak he wore doing little to keep the rough stone from scratching him.

“Don’t tire me so with your hiding, little broken one.’’ Her voice was music. Irresistible, though he knew it was just a trick of the mind. He couldn’t tell where it was coming from, and against the wall the nolthrir sighed, his body going limp and slipping down. He sank against the damp stone and sat there shivering, arms clutching his knees to himself as she came into view. “You are already mine, little starving clacker.” She spat into the channel at her side and he whined as though she had struck him. “How dare you hide? Did you forget what I will do if you fail me? Hmm?” She reached out a hand, almost touching his face. “But then it’s not hard for you to forget things, is it?”

“No… I… Please… No more forgetfulness. I will…”

“You will be quiet. You will obey me. I am all that is holding you together and if you hide away down here without my approval again, you will lose everything. Do you understand?”

The nolthrir met her eyes mutely. She was demorian of course. He’d had a history with demorians, so it was fitting. He opened his mouth awkwardly, about to gasp a name, but stopped himself.

“Good,” she breathed and he started to cough and splutter as she leaned toward him. “You will begin your task now. You will move as I say.  At the blacksmith not so far along the streets above, some people have gathered.” She pushed a small pouch into his unresponsive hands. “You will… Be creative there. Small steps first, but make an impact.”

The demorian straightened herself abruptly, her expression rooting him in place. The small pouch of coins slid from his grasp and landed on the filthy stones beside him as she turned and walked away, calling back in a quiet voice that echoed between the narrow walls, “you have to earn your freedom if you want it little clacker.”

Trembling, the nolthrir sat in the darkness. Eventually, he wrapped his fingers around the pouch, pushed himself to his feet and, lost in the fog of his injured mind, he went hunting the way back up to the surface. It had been a while since he had held any coins. Upending them into one hand, he remembered how the last ones had been taken from him. At the time, the nolthrir had willed death and fury on the thief and that the coins would bite them…

---

It was late. This was good. He preferred the shadows. They were less intrusive than the crystal’s light. His skin felt dry despite the damp he’d been lurking in. He scratched at it. His feet dragged. At the blacksmith’s someone was working the anvil. The steady clang of it struck around the insides of his skull.

He stopped, just out of sight of the workers. Such insects they seemed. Shaking his head from side to side, his thoughts began to clarify. Yes, she was granting him some escape from forgetfulness after all. This felt good. He pulled his hood up over his face. Hiding mattered. This was one of the oldest of the lessons he had learned when he had still been whole and strong. His face was already smeared with grime; he stooped and sank his hands into the dirt, then raised them, adding lines of watery mud.  Shadow would do the rest. If anyone saw beneath the hood he would appear diseased, or as an embarrassed victim of the recent plague, still recovering and hesitant to show their scars. He bunched his cloak around himself tightly. It would be hard to tell even his species if he was careful and kept his accent flat. His right hand curled tightly about the coins. It was hard to think with that horrible endless clanging.

So target the noise maker. The thought was simple. He strode forward boldly, raised a hand and greeted the diaboli, Herihi, at the anvil. She worked a dagger blade. She worked it well. As she looked at him questioningly he pointed a finger at the half finished weapon and asked “one of those… One finished. Maybe not so good as this one. How much?”

 â€śTwo circles,” Herihi told him after looking him over carefully. “But it won’t be as good as this one.”

“Two…” The nolthrir struggled with the word and started to count out coins. “So long since I… Yes, two. Two is fine.”

Herihi eyed him again, but passed him the weapon in return. With a smile beneath his hood that she couldn’t see, he clutched at it, turned and moved slowly away.

By the time the coins came alive and twisted in her hands to bite her, he had already slipped around the corner, vanished into the night beyond reach of her rage.

[Ongoing. More to come.]