Rain pelted down and puddled on the floor, a crumbling backdrop of noise. Sometime in the night, a deep set cold leaked into the room. The Guardian had never hated anything more than this shack. At least the rain made the usually dusty air fresh again. Al must’ve brought her back to the misty-eyed building after she passed out. A shame, really. Devi wanted to talk to him about the memory. Stuttering to her feet, she lurched off the bed - more of a cot, really - and managed to stabilize herself before she hit the ground. The walls shuddered. Wood creaked. Lightning boomed. Devi wobbled. Lumbering forward on achy legs, she moved towards the kitchen, careful to avoid the clothes strewn across the wood in haphazard piles. Drowning out the smell of wet earth was the stench of rotting food coming from the sink. She couldn't remember the last time she cleaned but brushed the thought to the side. Right now, she needed something to fix the ache in her stomach, not the lingering pain in her bones.
Sustenance was found in the form of an unopened, if slightly crumpled, bag of dried fruits. They were unopened for a reason. Sitting in the only empty nook of the house, she allowed her mind to wander to the mess around her. To the pots on the counter, to the clothes on the floor, to the rafters covered with dust, to the cracks in the windows. Maybe that was why she hated this place. It was a visual representation of her lack of control, showing just how far her life had spiralled out of her hands. She wanted to laugh and cry and shake and drink and burn this place to the ground. She couldn't clean it. Devi couldn't clean it. The Guardian settled on a drink. At least that'd get her out of this hell hole.
The walk to the bar was a brisk one; she hated being out in the daylight. Too many dragons in the street - and even more of them flying above her head. Just another item on the list of hated things. At least she could put a why to this one; seeing the others hanging in the sky so easily made her oldest wounds feel fresh and red again. They were another reminder of how trapped she was without her wing, of the patheticness of her vulnerability. She stopped looking at them. Salem should’ve left her for dead, but the beast was too smart for that. Why slaughter Devi alongside BloodMagic when she was the perfect poster child for what happened if you tried to fight back? In the daylight, the alleys only seemed narrower. They skimmed her wing where she held it high, and wisped against the other, held close to her side. Turning the corner, she slipped into the crowd, surrounded by rolling noise and the general din of the market.
Ahava’s clinic was along this stretch of road and sat there comfortably as an anomaly. But sitting opposite from The Blind Owl, not one dragon would ever argue against having the two facilities so close together. They were placed that way for a reason, after all. The number of dragons who enjoyed the pleasurable company of liquor and ended up injured was too great for the walk to be any farther. A drunken Quereven was still a Quereven - full of teeth and rage and spite. The tavern served all manner of customers, from street rats like herself to members of the High Court. Ethereal, the Head of the Royal Guard and Salem’s personal henchman was a notable frequent, probably because one of her adoptive children was the barkeep. Devi knew four people who wanted her dead and twelve who were angling for her position, but unless the offending party was inside, idle gossip about a government official had no place muddling her thinly-stretched mind. She pushed through the swamp of dragons to the door, enjoying the soft creak of hinges older than her.
The bar was always a strange place to be. It seemed to exist outside of time itself, dark and dank and damp even while lightning lit the sky. No noise came through the roof, not the patter of rain or the roar of thunder. But as disconcerting as that was, it wasn’t wet, either. Chatter shifted through the air, as the patrons hummed like mayflies. Not one met her gaze. Clips of conversation fluttered against the Guardian's ears as the ancient floorboards fell soft under her feet. She moved towards the counter and a nostalgic sense of familiarity washed over Devi. Hoard, the bartender, blinked with a start and turned to watch her approach, scanning her over. They’d always been too perceptive for their own good, but it meant they knew what to do when she got in a state. Back facing Devi, they began to fuss over the bottles on the wall, trying to find her usual gin, and began to make light conversation, “Got into another fight?” they turned to her briefly, a somewhat mocking look lighting their features.
“You care?” the jibe was probably unwarranted, but so was a judgy bartender. She didn’t have time for them.
“Perhaps not. But you’re limping - more than’s usual for you, and,” they shot her a dirty look, “You’re in a mood,” A sneer crawled over their face, “Can’t have you starting anything, Bronze.” Bronze was an ugly word to be throwing around and another reminder of the class system in place. Tiered from bronze up to platinum, every hierarchical level had a specific prefix, each lovingly created by Salem. Bronze was the lowest, it marked her as a criminal and a delinquent. And god if she’d had a choice she’d still be up in the coliseum duking it out alongside Barachiel and BloodMagic. The ignorance in those days had been bliss. In short, it did nothing to better her mood.
“Give me the booze, barkeep, before I get tired of waiting,” the Skydancer turned back to their work, huffing, but knowing better than to risk losing a customer. Devi had no such boundaries and sense of proper manned. “And to think I’ve heard you’re supposed to be fast.”
That got their attention. The glass came down against with a hard thunk against the countertop, and she was almost proud of the deep-set glare on the barkeeper's face. She would’ve said they were fiery, but they were glacial and cold in a deep-set glare. “And may I ask,” they paused, for dramatic effect, tilting their head so it was illuminated by the fireplace, “Who exactly said that?” The kid had flare, she’d give them that, and the shift in tone told her they knew what kind of gossip they were speaking with.
It was her turn to be a drama queen, and tilting her head, she responded, “I’m guessing someone doesn’t want one of the exes tattling to mommy? A real shame, this one had quite the mouth,” She took some time to smile at them, knowing she was holding all the cards. It was their fault, really, they shouldn’t have gone after her like that, “Why don’t you make it worth my while?” The Guardian loved it when she could play this part.
They reached beneath the bar, muttering several unsavoury things under their breath before producing a good sized bottle of champagne - High Court level stuff. Now they were talking. Voice hushed, she told her story, “Undertow was by the Cognac last… Tuesday, was it? Late at the night, mind you -”
“I take it you were heading home to lick your wounds, hmm?” This kid had been raised too high-class to know an ounce of respect. But no time for that, she had a tale and a bottle of booze on the line. Priorities must be set. Devi compromised and snarled rather than ripping their tongue out.
“He was with Beachcomber and Sythys. Talk to them.” She beamed at Hoard, and they released her prize, setting it down on the table. Gathering it up she whipped around, moving to leave before someone of authority caught her with something beyond her ranking. The weather outside had turned pleasant, and she was just as pleased with that as she was to have something go right today.
One last thing. She shot a glance over her shoulder, “And if you feel like dumping him in the river,” she laughed, “Be discrete with it, kid. I don’t want it pinned on me!”
Hoard grimaced at that, “Well you know all dead bodies anyway!” They hollered at her retreating back.
