Rickley Ravenbrook.
***
"Oh yeah?" Reluctantly, I turned to face the ridiculously unsettling man, smiling in a charming way. In that scary way. Like he saw me as a piece of meat. In an act of defiance- or maybe protection- I crossed my arms, standing as tall as a halfling could. "This boss of yours got a name?"
"Huh?" His eyes bulged like a bearbug caught in someone's barn. But the open hole was a mouth and the thing that tapped at it was a slim finger. "You know… I never thought to ask.
'You can't be fucking serious. Fucking shit stain.' I gave him the finger and stormed off. But not before he could toy with my emotions once more.
"He's an elf with dark skin, though!"
I froze in place, charmed by his taunting words. Words I dared not believe. 'It couldn't be.'
"And a devil!"
"Thought so," I murmured, storming off for good this time. Even another shout came.
"And a God!"
'Now that's just ridiculous!' I mentally spat. Yet, the possibility of it being true was all but made apparent as I fell from the Pink Moon to the ground in the blink of an eye. Perhaps it was the other part that wasn't true. But even then… "doesn't exactly help!"
I kicked the dirt, leaving a pitiful trough in the ground. Not that anyone cared to see. I distanced myself from the wagons and horses coming in and would do so going out. I distanced myself from everyone. From everything. All because of some fucking thief.
I refused to believe that an act of kindness served as the start of a bad luck streak. After all, we halflings were said to have luck on our side. Nor did I believe it was my own foolishness that brought this about. I spent my gold wisely, as anyone would. Only buying the necessities and using the rest to work and rise. I even kept the playing field as level as I could. Using only the drums I got as a reward for helping Amun and refusing to buy another instrument.
No. There was no difference between my actions and the actions of anyone else. No, the only difference was found in our difference in social standing. They were protected by knights, guards, and court officials. If not by blood, then by throwing about gold. I was protected by no one. And my sudden fortune threatened to cause knights, guards, and perhaps court officials to fall into my pockets. Not that I wanted them.
Not that it mattered what I wanted.
"Rickley fuckin' Ravenbrook, the biggest joke in Chor- ough! Ugh!"
I couldn't even lament properly. Let alone live. At least I had the clothes on my back, however. I had a hole to sleep in. And perhaps most importantly, I still had my drums. So perhaps there was still a chance. But oh, were they heavy. And the walk was long.
The walk was made longer by the occasional dizziness. From the coughs. From the snores that befell my lungs while I waddled and walked while wide awake. The walk took all day. And by sunset, I returned to a ghost town in the making. Or rather, I returned to a new town altogether.
The proud and ever-watchful guards of Smith Gate stood beyond their post with their weapons out of reach, either gazing into the distance with perplexed expressions or engaged in some type of mundane activity while I waltzed past them. The standing blocks lining the Galza strip were free of dust and dirt and boot for the first time in my life. I could for once see the cracks and indentions created by years of young bards hopping atop to spread the latest gossip to all who cared to listen.
The cacophony of songs and cheers ever-echoing through the Strip had been commandeered by the crickets, street cats, wild dogs, and night birds. Not even shouting could be heard echoing through the back streets. Only murmurs of conversations flowing from kitchens and restaurants, somehow made peaceful and posh in ways not seen in generations.
"Where is everyone?"
I saw no orphan mother chasing delinquents through the square. There were no kids pickpocketing tourists near the gates. No impromptu sessions were picked up in the alleys. No rich types were guided towards shady basements owned by thieving shit stains. It was like someone came in and swooped the bottom feeders up.
Except me.
I was… alone. Stuck in the slums of my youth. A hole in the wall that'd been refilled and excavated and said to be cursed and exorcised a dozen times in the span of nearly as many centuries. A hole of white, fibrous stone expanded with reclaimed wood, floored with shitty jokes, and bolted shut with an iron plate.
At least all the kitchen scraps went to me. I ate like a queen for the first time in months. A queen in a silent court, feasting on half-eaten bones, sour cheeses, rotten fruits, and moldy bread; all seasoned with fresh tears, paired with hacked-up spit, mucus, and blood. All my needs were met, for the time being. I still had a chance to rise.
Still, I was… trapped. Indentured into being the sole joke of the Lords and the Ladies and the high-class bards and that fucking merchant in a city that threw the curtains over those like me whenever the tourist came. I supposed, in that regard, I achieved my dream.
"Rickley Ravenbrook. The greatest comedian in Chor."
At some point, the words that were once a daily mantra of strength became a nightly curse of pity that left me sobbing atop a pile of crumpled parchment like the peasant I was. Forever lamenting and resenting my nameless father for impregnating my missing mother and resenting and lamenting my mother for not having a miscarriage. Whoever the fuck they were.
Thoughts of rage turned to thoughts of relief upon realizing no one would hear my pleas. Not that anyone cared of me crying until I was drawn to sleep. Only to worry and hope the walls absorbed enough heat from the sun to keep me warm throughout the night. Warmth. How I craved it. How similar it was to my frustration and hate for the thieving snake who called himself a merchant.
I went to sleep crying like every night in the few months past; dreaming of enacting my revenge, stealing back what was mine, and making the perfect escape to fame. But that night, my dreams were fantastic beyond belief.
I saw myself, baton in hand, conducting a score that brought a waving plateau of bodies to tears of joyous sorrow. I saw myself dressed dazzling, airing an aura of a richly powerful, strong, and intelligent queen lounging atop a mountain of trinkets and gold. I saw myself armed with the finest rapier and the most dazzling crossbow, riding atop the most fantastic creatures through realms far and wide, being recognized by the natives of a culture I'd never even read about.
I saw myself falling into a niche no one ever thought to look into.
I fell into a dream and saw the path to fame in all its splendor. And somehow, in that dream that granted dreams, I decided to chase it. Because fuck comedy. Rickley Ravenbrook had been there, I'd done that. Now, there was one thing left to do before my new dream could come true.
I fell into a dream. But when I stirred awake, I saw not fibrous stone with a slight hue of cream. But a field of darkness that seemed to writhe and glean.
It seemed almost… monstrous, as it swirled around me; taking shape into a colossus as large as could be. Below me, clenched talons; beside me, flexing claws; above me, small horns, paired with a fiendish visage. Eyes of malice filled with countless points of light looked down on my soul in wicked delight.
Before that cosmic being, I was less than insignificant. Akin to an ant admiring a giant's magnificence. With one mountainous hand, it held out my dream. And for the fingers of the other, nothing sat in between. It only opened its abyssal maw infinitely wide, then demanded my prized possession to be thrown inside.
I complied without thinking. For it seemed impossible to form a thought. My soul then began drinking; with no intentions or thoughts to stop. I couldn't not give up my drums; my pride, sake, and joy. I couldn't not watch that empty hand sweep over its new toy.
But if 'toy' were plural, that would be more true. For the Devil of Elves took a halfling girl. And a small drum too. Through corrupted death and wicked darkness, I would pass to reach the setting sun. Thus bringing about the day of Rickley's Requiem.